Page 40 of Nuts

“He’s fine. And guess what else?”

“What?”

“He’s marrying the chick that wrecked him. Long story. I’ll tell you later.” He looked at his plate and then at me. “Can we eat?”

“Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

He cut the corner off his lasagna and lifted the fork to his mouth. I looked at my plate, hoping to seem uninterested in his expression, although nothing at that moment was more important than his opinion about what I had prepared.

“Dear fucking God,” he gasped.

I looked up. “Too hot?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed. “This shit’s the fucking bomb.”

“You like it?”

“Best fucking lasagna I ever ate.” He cut off another huge bite. “Better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her that.”

I grinned. “I won’t.”

He pointed his fork toward a tomato. “What’s in this salad?”

“Mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, basil, balsamic vinegar--”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not.”

He pierced a mozzarella ball and a tomato in one stab, lifted them to his mouth, and took a bite. “Jesus fuck.”

“Bad?”

He swallowed what was in his mouth and then shook his head. “Why are you working at the Harley dealer? You ought to have a fucking restaurant.”

His compliments filled me with pride.

“Thank you.”

He reached for a piece of the bread and chuckled. “Probably made the bread, too, huh?”

“Actually, I did. It sucks kneading it by hand, but I didn’t get all that stuff from the house when I left.”

“What stuff?”

“My mom’s cooking stuff. Sorry, my cooking stuff.”

“I’ll get it,” he said.

He took a bite of the bread, looked at the uneaten portion he held, and then stuffed it into his mouth. “You can sure cook, Smudge.”

“Thank you.”

It was awfully nice to have someone appreciate what I’d done. I didn’t have self-esteem issues – other than my leg – but receiving praise was something I sure enjoyed.