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Tris shrugged. “I had a yen for some marinara. Maybe pizza.”

Rand opened the drawer beside the fridge. “Mangino’s is usually our go-to pizza.”

“I had a yen,” Tris repeated.

“Want me to cho—”

“Christ, no. You don’t do them uniformly.”

“Snob.”

“Chef Snob, thanks. I wouldn’t say no to wine.”

“That I can handle.” Randy went over to the rack. “Pizza so red, yeah?”

“You’ve raised yourself from peasant status to possible groundling.”

“Asshole.”

“Melbac would be good. I have a few bottles on the bottom left.”

“Would I like it?”

“Smoky and a little bit of spice.”

“Eh. Maybe.” Rand reached for a couple of glasses and brought the bottle to the island. “So you haven’t seen her?”

Rand was trying to sound casual, so Tris would do the same. “Nah. Work.”

Rand reached above them for the little corkscrew magnetized to the overhead pot rack. “You’ve made room for chicks before.”

“She’s not exactly a chick.”

Rand chewed the inside of his cheek and concentrated on his task. When the cork was freed, he finally nodded. “Truth.” He poured and took a sip.

Tris winced, but didn’t say a word. Training as a sommelier during a summer in Napa left him far exacting about wine than most of his circle. He didn’t really dig hanging out with pretentious chefs like some of his counterparts, but he didn’t really attract the foodie crowd either.

So…yeah, he had his own peasant roots. But at least he tried different shit, unlike some of his friends who preferred a world full of jarred sauce and dehydrated pasta. Or whatever food truck happened to be in the area. He got most of his satisfaction from work, but sometimes he wanted to just cook for the joy of it. Not worry if a reviewer was in the restaurant, or if someone tweeted that their food wasn’t perfect. Just cook because he loved getting his hands into the acidy fruit of a tomato, or the fresh snap of a pepper.

“It’s good,” Randy decided. “Better than that dry shit you had me try last month. Fuck, I’d rather drink Bud.”

“Get out of my kitchen.”

Randy grinned and took another sip. “Really good, actually. You can buy more of this.” He moved to perch on the barstool in the corner of the room.

“Nice to know.” Especially at forty bucks a bottle.

He diced an onion and put it in a pan with some olive oil, herbs, and garlic. “Where’d you get off to this week?”

“Went out to San Fran to do a gig for some friends. Their lighting guy came down with a case of fatherhood.”

“Man. Sorry.”

Randy grinned. “Yeah, no thanks. Kids aren’t really my bag. Being the favorite uncle is just fine with me. I see the munchkin at family shit and then hand her back.”

Tris grinned. “All you, man.” One of the few perks of being an only child to a miserable old man who couldn’t pay a woman to pump out another kid.

He moved the blanched tomatoes into the food processor for a pulse then transferred the chunks into the pan. Simmer for a bit and it’d be great for a pizza.

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