Page 39 of Nuts

He stepped inside, tilted his head back, and inhaled a long breath through his nose.

“God damn,” he said.

Good god damn, or bad god damn?

“What?”

“Something smells good as fuck. Did you order Italian? I’m starved.”

“I uhhm. I cooked Italian.”

“With what?” His brow wrinkled. “There’s nothing here to cook.”

“I bought some stuff.”

“You bought stuff and cooked dinner?”

I did a half-assed curtsy. “I did.”

He looked at the food I’d placed on the countertop. “What is it?”

“Lasagna, homemade bread, a tomato and mozzarella salad, and some sautéed broccoli.”

“Is it ready to eat?”

“Yes, it is.”

He rubbed his hands together. “What are we waiting for?”

Having him express such excitement over a meal was fantastic. Even if he hated my cooking, his eagerness to at least try it was reward enough.

I opened the cupboard and handed him a plate. “Here.”

“You first.”

I grabbed another plate and filled it. He followed right behind me.

I set the plate down at the table and glanced over my shoulder. “What would you like to drink?”

“Beer’s fine with me.”

I poured myself a glass of water, and grabbed him a beer. When I returned to the table, he was sitting across from me with a plate filled to the point it was spilling over the sides.

Wow.

I smiled and handed him the bottle of beer. “Long day?”

“Ran all over southern California. Chula Vista, San Diego, then Vista. Shit, rode about 200 miles, splitting traffic the whole way.”

“Does that make you nervous?”

“Does now.”

“Since when?”

“Since one of the fellas was going 80 down the 5, and some chick flung her door open and crashed his bagger.”

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “Is he okay?”