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Chapter twenty-six

Mike

I’d never had dinner with just Mrs. H and me.

She was in full battle mode.

I’d barely stepped through her door before she was shooing me to the table, muttering something about how I was looking “too damn thin” and that I needed real food before I wasted away. I didn’t argue—I never won those fights as a kid—but I also knew that eating her cooking came at a price.

A very embarrassing, soul-crushing price.

She moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring something thick in a cast-iron pot while humming an old tune. The scent of onions, beef drippings, and something vaguely buttery filled the tiny apartment, making my stomach grumble.

She shot me a look over her shoulder. “Aye, that’s right, boy. You should be hungry. I don’t know what kind of rubbish you’ve been eating, but it sure as hell wasn’t anything proper.”

I sighed, settling into the chair she’d practically shoved me into. “I eat fine.”

She snorted. “No, you eat whatever slop is easiest to shove in your mouth while grading papers. I see you, boy. That’s not fine. That’s pitiful.” She grabbed a wooden spoon and pointed it at me, putting on her thickest Scottish accent, “And dinnae even try to argue with me.”

I held my hands up in surrender and stifled a laugh.

“What are you making?” I asked, desperate to shift the spotlight off my seat.

“ Stovies ,” she declared proudly, lifting the spoon so I could see the thick, golden mixture clinging to it. “A proper Scottish meal, none of that sad microwave rubbish you call food.”

I stood and leaned over her shoulder, peering into the pot. It looked like a mess of stewed potatoes, onions, and some kind of meat, all coated in a glossy, rich broth.

“You sure you didn’t just throw everything in your fridge into a pot and call it a dish?” I teased.

She shot me a look that could’ve peeled paint. “Watch yourself, boy, or I’ll cook you next time, toss you right into the damned pot.”

I held up my hands in surrender, smothering a grin. “All right, all right. I take it back.”

She huffed and turned back to the stove, her spoon clanking against the pot. “It’s tradition. Stovies are what my grandmother used to make when there wasn’t much to go around. It’s all about stretching what you have—using the drippings from last night’s roast, adding potatoes, onions, whatever you can find.” She gave the mixture one last turn before grabbing two flat bowls from the cupboard. “It’s what we ate back in Scotland when times were lean.”

I blinked. “I didn’t know you grew up in Scotland.”

She paused for a fraction of a second, her face coloring brightly, then let out a wry chuckle. “That’s because I didn’t.”

I frowned. “Wait—what?”

She ladled dinner into the bowls, then carried them to the table, setting one in front of me before taking her seat. “Never even stepped foot there.”

I stared at her. “But . . . you talk about Scotland all the time. Your whole house is decorated in a highland theme. You have the accent—”

“Och, that’s just good genetics.” She waved a hand, then winked. “And maybe a bit of theatrics. I’m old. Let me have my fun.”

I shook my head and stared in wonder.

She ignored me, scooping a bite of stovies onto her spoon, then chewing slowly before continuing. “My great-grandparents were from Scotland. My grandmother was first-generation American, but she raised us on stories of the Highlands, of the lochs, of old family castles that probably don’t even exist.”

I was still trying to wrap my head around it. “So . . . all those times you talked about missing Scotland—”

She let out a wistful sigh. “I miss the idea of Scotland, I suppose. The food, the music, the way my grandmother talked about it, it felt real to me, even though I was never there.” She stabbed at her potatoes. “I used to dream about it when I was a little girl, thought I’d move there one day, marry a handsome Scotsman, live in some stone cottage by the sea.”

I smiled. “What happened?”

“Life happened. I married an Irishman instead.” She scoffed. And let me tell you, they are not the same! He was handsome enough, with broad shoulders, a bright smile, and the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.”

“Mrs. H!”

“Pshaw, you wish you could take a dick like his, boy. Don’t mock me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, lowering my chastised head.

“He was also an arse most days. Not that all Irishmen are, just that he was. Dumbass. Didn’t know what a lovely piece of puss he’d landed.”

I laughed, shaking my head.

“So, no, I never actually lived in Scotland.” She gave me a pointed look. “But I’ll tell you what, boy—I can cook like I did.”

I took a bite, letting the flavors sink in. The potatoes were creamy, almost melting in my mouth, the onions perfectly caramelized. The beef had soaked up all the drippings, tender and packed with flavor. It tasted rich, even though it was probably made from scraps.

“Oh, God.” I let out a low groan. “I’ll admit it—this is really good.”

She beamed. “Damn right it is.”

I took another bite. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to us this whole time.”

“Lying? Me? Lying?” She gasped, hand over her heart. “Boy, I am Scottish. Just because I wasn’t born there doesn’t mean it’s not in my blood.”

I snorted. “Uh-huh. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that you’ve never actually worn a kilt.”

“Of course I have.” She huffed. “Not properly, mind you, but I did convince my late husband to wear one once. And let me tell you—” She cackled, wiggling her eyebrows. “That man took the ‘no underwear’ rule a little too seriously. And Lord, if he didn’t hang below—”

I choked, barely catching myself before I spewed potatoes across the table.

She thumped my back, laughing the entire time. “Oh, lad, you make it too easy.”

I groaned. “I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“Now,” she said conversationally, “tell me about Elliot.”

I froze.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t bring Him into it,” she said breezily. “I doubt He wants to hear about what you’ve been doing to that poor lineman either. Or should I say, what he’s been doing to you? That is how it works between you two, isn’t it? You’re the power bottom? The catcher? The receiver of all things splooge?”

My entire body caught fire. “Mrs. H!”

“Oh, come on, lad.” She turned, looking at me like a cat with a cornered mouse. “A woman needs to live vicariously where she can. You think I get any action these days? My puss dried out a dozen years ago. It’s like the Mojave Desert down there. I need you and Elliot to keep me young, get the oil in the motor again, if you get my meaning. The only thing keeping me warm at night is my electric blanket—and an occasional fling with that rabbit thing, which you should try sometime. Would you like to borrow it? Take it home after dinner and give it a ride?”

“Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.” I groaned, dragging my hands over my face. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Eat, boy. And talk.” She laughed, setting a plate in front of me. “You can fuck yourself silly later. Did I mention it vibrates in the nicest way?”

I looked down at the food, recognizing . . . well, not much. It looked like potatoes and meat, all mushed together in a thick, savory heap.

“What is this?”

“We already went over this.” She gave me a stern look. “It’s stovies , you ignorant child. Potatoes, onions, beef drippings. A proper Scottish meal, not that processed shite you Americans call food.”

I took another bite, and—okay, fine—it was ridiculously good. Warm, rich, hearty, the perfect comfort food.

But I wasn’t going to tell her that again. She’d find some way to turn a soup compliment sexual. Instead, I just nodded and kept eating, hoping—praying—she’d let the subject of Elliot drop.

She did not.

“So,” she said, settling in across from me, resting her chin on her folded hands. “How was it?”

“How was what?” I asked reluctantly.

“His cock. The sex. The way he opened you up like a can of beans.”

I choked. Right there. Nearly died on a bite of potatoes.

Mrs. H reached over and thumped me on the back, laughing the entire time. “Oh, lad, we really do need to work on your swallowing skills, especially if you plan on taking Elliot’s monster cock down your throat.”

“You can’t just ask me . . . that,” I gasped, coughing.

“Why not?” she asked innocently. “I was young once, too, you know.”

“Yeah, I gathered from the fact that you’re alive.”

She smacked my arm.

“I’ll have you know I was quite the slut in my day. Men from all over came to sample my wares. Hell, I had to take weekends off just to knit things back together. Men don’t like it when you let things get too loose down there. You should remember that for Elliot.”

I groaned, shaking my head. “Mrs. H, I am not discussing my sex life with you.”

“Ach, fine.” She leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Ruin my fun, why don’t you?”

I kept eating, waiting for the next attack. When it didn’t come, I glanced up and found her watching me with something softer in her gaze.

I swallowed my bite. “What?”

She tilted her head. “How is he?”

The question hit differently. It wasn’t a tease or sexual innuendo. There was no sarcasm or sass. Only concern.

I set my fork down, exhaling slowly. “He’s in Florida right now. The storm cleanup.”

Her expression shifted, concern deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. “Right,” she murmured. “That’s hard work.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied me for a long moment, then said, “And you’re worried about him.”

It wasn’t a question.

I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. “I know he’s tough. I know he’s done this a hundred times before. But still . . . I can’t help it. I haven’t done this before, haven’t seen someone I . . . well . . . a friend go off to the middle of a disaster.” I hesitated, then added, “And I feel stupid for worrying this much when we’ve only known each other for a few weeks.”

Mrs. H made a low, disapproving sound. “Now, that’s shite, and you know it.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She pointed her spoon at me. She was good at wielding kitchen utensils as weapons. I made a mental note to never hand her a knife. “Lad, you don’t get to choose when you care about someone. It just happens. Whether it’s been weeks, months, or years, doesn’t matter. If he’s gotten under your skin, then he’s there, and that’s that.”

I swallowed hard, looking down at my plate.

“Love doesn’t wait for permission,” she added gently. “It finds you when it’s ready, not when you are.”

I sat there, struggling to breathe past the lump in my throat.

Love.

I hadn’t let myself think about that word. Hadn’t let myself go there.

But she had. With barely a thought.

And if I was being honest with myself, if I stripped away all the overthinking and second-guessing . . .

I missed him.

Missed him more than I should for how short a time we’d had together.

Missed him in a way that hurt.

Mrs. H must’ve seen the conflict on my face, because she reached across the table and patted my hand. “Let yourself feel it, lad. If it’s real, it won’t go away just because you try to ignore it.”

I exhaled slowly, gripping her gnarled hand. “Thanks, Mrs. H.”

She gave me a warm, knowing smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a long moment before she abruptly pulled her hand back, her face twisting into something far more mischievous.

“Oh, and next time,” she said brightly, “take a picture of his cock for me, would you? It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen one in the flesh, and I feel I should keep up with the times.”

I dropped my fork.

“MRS. H!”

She cackled as I scrambled to clean up the mess, wheezing like she’d never been more entertained in her entire life.

I grabbed my jacket, practically running for the door.

“Goodnight, my dear!” she called after me. “Give that lineman a kiss for me! And take the bloody picture! Assholes work, too. I love a good pucker.”

I slammed the door behind me, my entire body burning with embarrassment.

And yet, somehow, I left her house feeling a little lighter.