Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Elliot

I should have known better than to accept a dinner invitation from Mrs. Henderson without asking what she was serving first, because now, I was sitting at her worn kitchen table staring down at a plate of something that looked like mashed potatoes that had lost a fight.

I poked at it cautiously with my fork. “Uh . . . Mrs. H? What exactly are we eating?”

She plopped into the chair across from me, beaming with entirely too much pride. “ Rumbledethumps .”

I blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

She snorted. “Don’t look at me like that, Elliot. It’s a real dish. Potatoes, cabbage, onions, cheese—mashed up and baked together. A proper Scottish meal.”

I picked up a forkful, giving it a suspicious look. “And you eat this willingly?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be a baby. It’s good for you. Sticks to your ribs.”

I sighed. “Mrs. H, I carry power lines for a living. I have plenty sticking to my ribs.”

She scoffed. “Not enough. You could use a few more pounds. What happens if you fall off one of those poles? You need some cushion.”

I huffed a laugh, finally taking a bite.

Okay . . . It wasn’t bad.

Actually, it was good.

Mrs. H smirked. “Told you.”

I pointed my fork at her. “I will give you this one.”

“You’d better. I slaved over this.”

I gave her a look. “It’s mashed potatoes with cabbage. You mashed, and you baked. I don’t think we can call it ‘slaving.’”

She scoffed. “You ungrateful little sh—”

I held up a hand. “I take it back. You worked so hard. This is a culinary masterpiece.”

She sniffed. “Damn right, it is.”

I chuckled, shaking my head.

For a few minutes, we ate in peace, the familiar sounds of her ancient kitchen filling the space—the quiet hum of the fridge, the occasional clink of utensils against plates.

As many times as I’d been inside Mrs. H’s house, I’d never really taken the time to look around the place. Her kitchen was a shrine to her Scottish roots, a cluttered, lived-in space that smelled of butter, tea, and a lifetime of stubborn traditions. The walls were a faded, warm yellow, decorated with a collection of old tin signs and framed Scottish proverbs, the kind that seemed wisdom filled and vaguely threatening at the same time. A faded tartan tea towel hung from the handle of the oven, and a cast iron skillet sat permanently on the stovetop.

The cabinets were old oak, well worn and darkened with age, their handles a mix of original brass and whatever replacement knobs Mrs. H had found over the years. The countertops were crowded with things she actually used—a heavy stone mortar and pestle, a ceramic jar labeled “For the Love of God, Don’t Touch My Shortbread,” and an ancient-looking spice rack filled with herbs in mismatched glass jars, half of which had labels that’d been worn away decades ago.

The fridge was covered in clutter, but not with typical grocery lists or takeout menus. Instead, it was a chaotic scrapbook of Scottish pride—clippings from a newspaper about some distant cousin who’d won a fishing contest, a map of the Scottish Highlands, an old rugby ticket from a match that took place in the eighties—one she still ranted about.

And at the center of it all was the table—a massive, old oak beast, scratched and scuffed, covered in the battle scars of countless meals and heated arguments. The edges were worn smooth from decades of elbows resting on them, and one leg had a permanent wobble that Mrs. H had “fixed” with a folded-up Scottish tourism pamphlet. Her chairs were all mismatched, some older than others, and one of them—a heavy, carved thing with a Celtic knot design on the back—was her designated seat.

This was not a quiet kitchen, I soon realized.

The cabinets creaked, the clock above the doorway ticked just slightly out of sync, and every surface carried the weight of a thousand meals and stories shared over strong tea and stronger opinions. It was the kind of place where you sat down, got fed whether you wanted it or not, and left knowing more about your own love life even if you never intended to share.

It felt somehow foreign and distant—and homey—all at once.

Mrs. H, as expected, took it upon herself to ruin the moment.

“So, how’s work?” she asked, casually scooping up another bite.

I shrugged. “Same as always. Busy. Weather’s been good, so we haven’t had too many issues.”

She nodded. “And the guys? Still giving you hell?”

I huffed a laugh. “Always.”

“Still have that one co-worker who calls you ‘Big Stick’?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

She cackled. “Oh, I love that.”

I groaned. “I don’t. I told him to cut it out.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re doomed now. The minute a nickname like that sticks, you’re stuck with it for life.”

I scowled, stabbing my Rumbledethumps . “I know.”

Mrs. H grinned, entirely too pleased. “Could be worse. They could call you Sparky.”

I shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re too easy to mess with, Elliot.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You say that, but you’re the only one who actually succeeds.”

She patted my hand. “That’s because I’ve had years of practice.”

I sighed. This was true.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence, finishing our plates, until—

“Speaking of things you could use more of . . .”

I groaned, immediately regretting every choice that had led me to that moment.

Mrs. H spooned a bite of gray death into her mouth, watching me with beady, knowing eyes.

“So,” she said, voice casual. Too casual. “How was your date?”

I took a very slow, strategic bite, hoping if I chewed long enough, she’d forget she asked.

Spoiler: She did not.

She waited patiently, sipping her tea, watching me like a hungry tiger watching prey.

I sighed. “It went fine.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just fine?”

I nodded. “Good conversation, good food, good time.”

A wicked look spread across her face. “And how was the sex?”

I choked violently on my beer.

“Jesus Christ, Mrs. H!” I coughed, pounding my chest.

She shrugged, unbothered. “What? It’s a valid question. Please tell me you saw his pecker. I’ve been dying to know what it’s like. I bet he has a big, fluffy one.”

I gawked at her. “It was our first date!”

“So? Is he uncut? Nothing gets me wet like a snake with a sweater.”

I dragged a hand down my face. “I am not discussing this with you.”

Mrs. H ignored me entirely. “What about his ass? Does he have a nice ass? It looked all perky in those jeans he was wearing the other day.”

I choked again.

Mrs. H tutted. “You really need to work on your lung capacity, sweetheart. You’ll never survive in bed with those weak-ass airways.”

I groaned into my hands. “I hate you.”

She grinned. “No, you don’t. Now, tell me—he’s got a good build, right? Sturdy legs? Broad shoulders? A nice, tight, perfectly pink little hole?”

“Mrs. H!”

“What? I just want to know if he’s proportionate! Some men are all chest, no thighs, and that’s just a damn shame.”

I took a long, slow sip of beer, praying for the sweet release of death.

She smirked. “So?”

I sighed. “He looks good.”

She grinned triumphantly. “That’s what I thought. Now, did you top or bottom? You big boys act like tops, but I know too many whose legs fly in the air in a stiff breeze. You’re not a screamer, are you? I couldn’t handle it if you melted into some whiney thing the moment a giant cock found your hole.”

I nearly knocked my beer over. “OH MY GOD!”

Mrs. H shrugged, completely unfazed. “I bet you’re all top. One of those ‘slam him against the car and fuck his brains out’ tops. But who knows? I don’t know how you boys work. Is it always the same, or do you switch? Is it like with straight couples, where some women prefer to be on top?”

I stared at her, horrified, suddenly realizing the food wasn’t the most horrifying thing at this dinner.

Without giving me a chance to answer one of her dozen or so questions, she continued, her voice completely casual, like she was discussing the weather.

“Or is it like a logistical thing? Like, do you have to make a schedule? Take turns? Does he have to use his fingers to loosen you up, or are you always ready, winking up with that one good eye?”

“Kill me now. Right here. God, please, just take me.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Do you douche?”

I dropped my head onto the table.

“Keeping clean is very important, you know. The last thing you want in the middle of a sexy moment is splatter butt. It’s impossible to get out of sheets and off the walls.”

“Mrs. H. I am begging you.”

She patted my arm, cackling. “Oh, relax, sweetheart. I’m just a curious old woman whose puss hasn’t seen the light of day since the seventies.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

She grinned. “And you, my dear, are smitten.”

I groaned. “I am not smitten. It was one date.”

She pointed her fork at me. “Lies.”

“Okay, fine, I might like him, a little. But there was no hanky-panky. We didn’t even kiss.”

“What?” she screeched, as though I’d just told her the President had been shot.

“I tried,” I admitted. “But Homer decided he needed more lovin’ from my leg.”

Mrs. H’s howl was both amusing and terrifying.

“Mike’s a terrible cook,” I said, unsure why I was giving my enemy ammunition.

“Oh?” She perked up. “Maybe I need to get the boy into my kitchen for a lesson or two.”

I chuckled. “Not if you want your house to stand the day after. I think he could burn water.”

She waved and grinned. The brash, sassy woman vanished, and a caring, sweet grandmother appeared, her voice filled with sincerity and hope. “You really like this one, don’t you?”

I sighed, accepting my fate.

“I . . . I think I do, Mrs. H.”

She was relentless. She always won.

And the worst part?

She was rarely wrong.