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He liked the heat betweenthem.
Clearing his throat, he sliced more chicken.“If there’s enough beer to take the sting away, sure.”He smiled as a memory surfaced.“I remember when I was a teenager.Thought I was real hot shit, wanted to eat spicy food like my old man.He can probably still eat whole jalapenos.He’s hardcore.Anyway, we’d had some kinda fight.I forget what it was about, and I wanted him to know I was all grown and I didn’t need his advice.”
Maddie chuckled.“What did you do?”
“I upended three tablespoons of habanero sauce on my dinner.Fuckme,” he added, shaking his head.“Don’t think I tasted anythin’ for at least three days.”
She sent him a warm smile.“You were a little tearaway as a kid, I bet.”
“Theworst.My mom despaired of me.Still does.Jenny’s the golden girl in our family.”Rick set the chicken he’d carved on to a beautiful slate serving plate, unearthed and cleaned especially for today.
He’d pulled out all the stops, wanting to show Maddie how much she’d come to mean to him.
* * *
Maddie
Chicken carved, Rick opened the oven again and slid out the carrots, parsnips and potatoes.Delicious steam wafted towards me, and I breathed in hungrily.Who knew that a man serving a simple home-cooked meal would be such a turn-on?
No man had ever just made me this simple, warm-hearted home fare.It was refreshing.Just like Rick.
Rather like Rick himself.He had not an ounce of artifice, he was honest, open, and he respected me.I pushed last night out of my mind, closing the door on that chapter of my life.I didn’t plan on opening it again.
Today, I was dedicating all my time to Rick, and Rick only.
“It smellssogood,” I moaned.
Rick glanced over his shoulder.“Woman, don’t be makin’ those noises at me before we eat.I can’t take it, and I don’t want to waste this food.”
I grinned, drawing my bottom lip between my teeth, and I feltverygratified when he followed the movement.“Sorry.”
“You damn should be.”But he was smiling, shaking his head as he removed the vegetables from the oven.
A few minutes later, he set a heavily loaded plate in front of me.Thinly sliced chicken, bathed in caramel-gold gravy, nestled in next to a mound of parsnips, carrots and golden, crisp potatoes.
I’d only eaten a very light lunch, and so my stomach practically sat up and begged.
“Rick.This looksridiculouslygood.”
He sat before his own plate.“Yeah?Well, let’s hope it is.Roast chicken ain’t one of the three things I do well.I got this recipe from a cookbook.”
I lifted my glass.“Well, here’s to you mining the rest of that book for ideas on what to cook for me.”
He clinked my glass with his own.
I eagerly started on the food.
The wine, an oaked Chilean chardonnay, was a perfect foil for the meltingly tender poultry.
For a few moments, we ate in companionable silence.The flavors exploded on my tongue and I felt a pang for my home country and its frequent roast dinners.
“Rick, this isdelicious.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.Thank you.I haven’t been cooked for, like this, I mean, by someone who isn’t my mum, for a long time.”
His brow furrowed as he sliced off a sliver of chicken.“Like this?”
