“Well, like I said.” She pulls back, humor restored and eyes gleaming again. “I cooked.”
She takes my hand and pulls me toward the dining room table. It’s set beautifully with dishes I’ve never seen before, and lit with candles I know I didn’t buy.
“What’s the occasion?” I take the seat beside hers.
“Us.” She leans down to kiss me. “Us is the occasion.”
“I like the sound of that.” I pull her into my lap, ignoring the hunger pains. She wiggles, which does not soften my dick any, until she squirms free.
“Dinner first.” She’s practically beaming.
“And
what’s for dinner?”
“Collard greens. Like the ones your mother made.”
Her grin stretches across her face, and I don’t have the heart to tell her how hard they are to get as good as my mom’s. It’s a start.
“Oh. Great.” My mouth is already watering. Even knowing how other-abled Bristol is in the kitchen, I’m sure something turned out edible. “And what else?”
“Um . . .” Her face falls. “Else?”
“Yeah, you know. Like meat, potatoes, or whatever. I’m really not picky, just hungry.”
“I spent a lot of time on these collard greens.” She bites her lip. “I wanted to cook something I knew you liked, and they were so good at dinner that Sunday. And I think they turned out great.”
“Are you telling me you only cooked greens?” My stomach howls like a coyote.
“But it’s a lot of them.” She grimaces and shifts from one bare foot to the other. “I guess I didn’t think this through.”
“Babe, it’s okay.” I stroke one cheekbone, tracing the few almost undetectable freckles scattered over her nose. “I can’t believe you went to the trouble of making one of my favorite dishes. Let’s eat.”
How bad could it be? I mean, they’re greens, not escargots.
Can I just say . . . damn.
At least now I know how bad they could be. I run my fork through the leathery green leaves on the pretty plates Bristol set. They also taste like I imagine leather would taste . . . but not as well seasoned. Meanwhile, my stomach is at my back. I should have eaten the Craft service on set today. I will suffer in silence because there is no way I’m telling her how bad these greens are.
“They’re not great, huh?” she asks.
“They’re the worst,” I say before I can stop myself.
We consider each other across the table and the steaming crap pile of collard greens and laugh together. She gets up and climbs into my lap, sliding her hand into my jeans pocket to get my cell phone.
“Pizza?” She rests her forehead against my chin.
“With every meat known to man and some that haven’t been FDA approved.”
Once the pizza is ordered, she doesn’t leave my lap, which is fine with me.
“I really wanted to make dinner special for you,” she whispers into my neck, dotting kisses into the edge of my shirt and across my collarbone. “Those greens at your mom’s were so good.”
“It’s taken her a long time to get those right. She used her mother’s recipe, and her mother used her mother’s recipe. They can taste really awful if not done right.”
“So I discovered.” She shakes against me with laughter.
“Maybe my mom can share her recipe one day,” I venture softly. I know the things Bristol overheard my mom say hurt her, but she hasn’t brought it up.