Instead of pointing out that he sounds awfully full of himself and having him say something ridiculously cringe like, “Would you like to be full of me?” I make the very mature choice to change the subject and save us both.
“What’s in the box?” I ask, very non-flirtingly.
“Crabs.”
“I don’t want your crabs, Elliott Grant.” That was the last one; I swear.
His chuckle is totally worth it. “I bought them for us the other day, so technically they’reourcrabs. They’re going to go bad if someone doesn’t eat them. Since I don’t know how to cook, I figured someone might as well enjoy seafood this weekend.”
As much as I’d love to have crab for dinner, this doesn’t feel like a line I should be crossing, and taking this food from him without paying for it feels like theft.
What to do? What to do?
Suddenly his brow furrows, and he takes a step back. “Are you sick or something?”
“No. Why?” Do I look sick? I mean, I’ve lost most of my tan but didn’t think I looked that bad tonight.
Elliott drags the sleeve of his blue henley across his forehead. “I can feel the heat pumping out of your apartment all the way out here. It must be like an oven in there.”
That’s an understatement. Before he knocked, I was this close to stripping completely. “My heating is broken, and the twins have an aversion to fixing it.”
“Want me to take a look?”
“That depends? Do you fix HVACs for a living?”
“No, but the office where I work had a thermostat that was all out of whack, and I figured out how to fix that.”
It would be nice to sleep without the window open, especially given the recent snowfall. There’s no harm in letting him take a look, is there?
“Give me two minutes.” I close the door in his face and proceed to sweep all the random clothes sprinkling my floor into the hamper. The good part about having an apartment the size of a matchbox car is that it’s easy to clean—mold in the bathroom notwithstanding.
When I open the door once more, Elliott carries the box of crab into my apartment. He turns in a circle, his eyes wide and jaw hanging.
I wave him in with a formal bow. “Welcome to Chateau Piper.”
“More like the Den of Chaos.”
He’s a den of freaking chaos. “I’d give you a tour but, as you can see, that’s not necessary.”
“You’re not kidding. This place is like a fucking closet.”
“Pretty sure it was. See that old door right there? I think it’s meant to connect to your place, but it’s been boarded up.”
He sets the box onto the counter next to my empty fruit bowl. “Good thing, too. Wouldn’t want you breaking in to stare at me while I sleep.”
“Since that’s something I do.”
“You can never be too careful these days. Where’s your thermostat?”
“Through that door, next to the toilet.”
“Can you legally have a thermostat in a bathroom?”
“Why are you asking me?” I don’t know anything about thermostats or HVAC units besides the fact that you’re supposed to be able to set the temperature and the air in your apartment is meant to then become that temperature.
With nothing better to do, I snag the box of crab and head into my meager kitchen-living-dining-bedroom. I still have all the ingredients from the last time I cooked crab cakes, along with my secret ingredient that isn’t really a secret if you’re from Maryland.
While Elliott fiddles with my thermostat, I take out my pan and start cooking. When he finally emerges some time later, I feel it: the sweetest breeze—and not from the open window.
