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I whip my eyes away, hoping he doesn’t notice how I bite my lip as my brain cartwheels off to places that are way more serious—and filthier—than any dad joke.
“What do you get when you cross a pig and a cactus?” he says without skipping a beat.
I stare at him blankly.
“Do I want to know?”
“A porky-pine,” he answers flatly.
So. It was nice knowing you.
Because if Weston Idiot McKnight’s devilish looks don’t bury me first, his atrocious sense of humor surely will.
* * *
We’re still laughing and ribbing each other ten minutes later when we walk into Amelia’s.
Naturally, I make him repeat his painful jokes for Gram and Aunt Faye. They demand to know why we’re laughing until we can’t see.
The jokes make them double over in their seats, cackling like witches at the end of the world.
When I ask if they’re ready for food, Gram starts to get up to help.
Weston kindly urges her to stay put, insisting she and Faye are both guests tonight, and he’ll help me fix dinner.
After mulling over our options, we settle on soup and sandwiches.
My eyes stare too long at his broad shoulders as he raids the fridge for fixings while I go to work on the chicken wild rice soup, pausing to turn on the oven so I can get one more batch of cookies going for any late-night pop-ins.
Oatmeal raisin this time because I know Creepy Carson hates them.
Yeah, that’s rude of me, but if he’s been carelessly throwing his trash around our property...I’m not inclined to do him any favors.
The littering habit makes me wonder if he’s the spiteful kind of prick who retaliates when a woman rejects him.
There’s no shortage of royal asshats in the dating world like that.
Luckily, Weston pulls my mind off those worries as we prep everything together. Chopping, stirring, chattering, and trading memories comes too easy.
We fall into this relaxed routine, teasing each other like we did years ago.
“Are you some sort of celebrity chef? I’m not sure if Gram’s ever seen a sandwich like that in all her years.” I gesture to the skyscraper clubs he’s assembling with every sliced meat, cheese, and savory sauce on hand.
“What? Did you just want a slice of ham slapped between two pieces of bread with a dab of mayo?” he swipes at the air.
“No, but I wasn’t expecting masterpieces. You make ’sandwich artist’ seem like more than a corporate-y rebranded job title.”
“Nothing but the finest for Amelia’s kitchen, right?” He tosses a lettuce leaf at me.
I catch it and giggle while dropping it in the bowl for Hercules before I turn to stir the soup. “Seriously, where’d you learn to make sandwiches like that?”
“Uncle Grady’s bar, mostly.” He gestures at himself with the knife he’s using to cut the ingredients. “I can do more than sling drinks and patch up cars. Putting in the extra hours there has made me a better cook. Billman, the cook, loves to show off whenever he’s got an audience, and I try to learn what I can.”
“You don’t say?” I tease. “That’s great. I learned a few things from roommates, but nothing like your skills.”
“You live, you learn. And don’t count yourself short, that goat-milk caramel or whatever it was made those pancakes bomb,” he says, picking up two plates. “I’ll take these to the dining room and tell them to come get it since the soup’s almost done.”
I ladle out four bowls of piping hot wild rice soup, and follow along with the bowls balanced on an old silver tray.
