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Cal’s portion of stew is gone. In its place is a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. But…they’re probably not for me, right? Someone must have given them to him, and these are the leftovers. Maybe Delilah had samples for him to try.
A small piece of paper catches my eye—a folded note beside the plate.
Feeling like a hummingbird is trapped in my belly, I open the note and read.
If you want more of my homemade goodies, I suggest not breeding hair elastics on my coffee table.
Forget a lone hummingbird. A flock of them erupts, fluttering through me. I know for a fact Cal’s been working extra-long hours. Townsfolk have gossiped about his busy schedule. Jake has mentioned it a few times, but Cal took the time to make me a treat.
Was he excited for me to see his surprise? Did he make these because he remembered I love chocolate-covered strawberries?
Or my conversation with Larkin has me reading too much into everything.
I lift one from the plate and bite into it slowly, trying to picture the look on Cal’s face when dipping them into the chocolate sauce, but I quickly shake my head. He’s just being his generous self. Reading into his actions is a dangerous path I don’t need to follow. But I should cook again for him tomorrow. Return his thoughtfulness since that’s all this is. Two friends leaving each other tasty gifts.
chapterseventeen
Callahan
I jiggle my key impatiently in the lock, then shove my door open. I don’t take stock of Jolene’s unruly mess. I don’t remove my boots or unpack the groceries I bought. I march for the fridge and yank on the handle, smiling the second I see another Tupperware container.
It’s not normal how excited I was to get home—this burbling anticipation pushing my foot harder onto the gas pedal. It’s just food. Jolene is grateful I’ve let her crash in my place. This is her way of thanking me. I’m getting worked up over a simple kindness.
Still, I snatch the note and read greedily, laughing by the time I get to the end.
This recipe is from that Middle Eastern cookbook my dad got. It’s one of my favorites.
PS: I was clipping my nails. Super sorry if some landed in here.
She’s too damn cute for her own good.
I store the note in my shoebox with the others, then shower off the day’s grime. As much as I want to scarf down her delicious meal, I eat more slowly, picturing Jo mixing together the cumin, coriander, and cardamom teasing my tongue. It feels special that she used a recipe from the book I sent her dad, that she’s sharing something she loves with me.
The second I’m done, I get cooking. Jolene loves mint and chocolate together. At least she used to. I whip up a batch of mint chocolate Rice Krispies treats, grinning as I write her a note.
Contains healthy, organic ingredients. Not suitable for those with an allergy to cleanliness. FYI—cleaning is that thing people do when they pick up after themselves and put recycling in the recycling bin.
chaptereighteen
Jolene
Callahan should be an illegal substance. His face is a study in brute masculinity. His body belongs on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine. His generous heart overflows with kindness, and he loves to challenge me by prodding my competitive nature.
Now he’s playing cute food games with me.
Yesterday, I made him a pot of chicken soup, hoping each spoonful felt like a hug. The note I left him read:
I’ve been told chicken soup is good for the soul. And for curing men of mansplaining.
He retaliated by leaving me a mini pickle sandwich, similar to the snacks I made him after I saw the guy practically naked. His answering note read:
Soup ingested. Not sure it worked. Can’t resist reiterating that this is a pickle SNACK. Without the bread, it can’t be a sandwich.
Such a smartass.
Today, I’m upping my game. Or, more specifically, my “mansplaining” revenge.
Callahan loves Delilah’s homemade cinnamon buns, as he should. They’re little pieces of sugary heaven. I buy one of those beauties and take it home, then proceed to eat the entire thing except one tiny bite.
