Page 30

Chapter thirty

Mike

Mrs. H was trying to kill me . . . again.

At least, that’s what I assumed as I stared down at my plate, fork hovering over the strange, lumpy mass she’d plopped in front of me. It smelled . . . interesting. Not bad, exactly, but not quite like food either. The texture was questionable at best.

She sat across from me, her sharp eyes twinkling with mischief as she watched me hesitate. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, lad, it’s skirlie .”

I arched a brow. “That sounds like something you name a stray cat.”

She let out a sharp tsk and waved her wooden spoon at me. “It’s oats, suet , and onions, all fried up in a pan. A proper Scottish dish.”

Why was everything this woman made "a proper Scottish dish?" I frowned at the word suet . “Wait . . . suet . . . that’s beef fat, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” she said proudly. “It’s good for you.”

I gave her a skeptical look. “We have very different definitions of ‘good for you.’”

“Oh, hush,” she huffed, spearing her spoon at me like it was a weapon. “It fills your belly, and it keeps you warm in the winter. What more do you need?”

“I don’t know . . . vitamins?”

“Ach, you’re worse than my niece. She married one of those health nuts—won’t eat a thing unless it’s been blessed by kale.”

I bit back a laugh, shaking my head. “Fine. I’ll eat it, but if I die, I’m haunting you.”

She smirked. “Lad, I’d love the company.”

I sighed, bracing myself before finally taking a bite. And of course—it wasn’t bad. It was rich and buttery, the onions adding just enough sweetness to keep the fried oats from feeling too heavy.

Mrs. H watched me like a hawk. “Well?”

I swallowed and set my fork down with exaggerated care. “Tastes like you fried up a bowl of oatmeal and called it dinner.”

She threw her head back and laughed, slapping the table. “Now you’re getting it! That’s exactly what it is.”

I snorted. “So you’re admitting that this is just porridge with a few extra steps?”

“Aye,” she said, grinning. “But it’s Scottish porridge, and that makes it superior.”

I shook my head, laughing despite myself. For all her relentless teasing and questionable food choices, there was something easy about sitting in her warm, cluttered kitchen, surrounded by the smell of butter and onions. It felt like home, even though it wasn’t mine.

“Hey, I have an idea,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table. “Would you teach me how to cook?”

She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. She set it down slowly and folded her arms, squinting at me like I’d just sprouted a second head. “What the hell happened?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You, asking to learn how to cook? At your age?” She tilted her head, suspicion thick in her voice. “Did something happen? Did you almost poison yourself?”

I groaned. “No.”

She grinned. “Did you poison someone else?”

“No!”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Did you burn something?”

I hesitated.

Her grin turned downright wicked. “Oh, you did. Was it the kitchen? Did you blow the back of your house? Do tell. Inquiring minds and all . . .”

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “It wasn’t that bad—”

She sat back in her chair, smiling like she had just won the lottery. “Go on, lad. Tell me what culinary disaster led you to this moment of humility.”

“I may have . . .” I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “ . . . set a lasagna on fire.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mrs. H cackled.

Not just a laugh—a full-body, head-thrown-back, tears-in-her-eyes kind of laugh.

“Oh, lad,” she wheezed, clutching her side. “A lasagna? That’s just layers and an oven. How in God’s name did you manage to set it on fire?”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t know. I followed the recipe.”

She wiped at her eyes, still shaking with laughter. “Clearly, you didn’t!”

I scowled. “The cheese burned and then just . . . ignited. The whole kitchen was black with . . . well, shit. It was black until I used the extinguisher. Then it was kind of gray and gooey.”

She snorted. “You know you’re supposed to watch dishes you’re cooking, aye? Maybe lower the heat if things start looking a bit fiery?”

I groaned, slumping back in my chair. “Okay, yes, I get that now. Which is why I’m asking you for help. Will you teach me or not? I really want to be able to cook Elliot a proper meal, and as it stands, he’s afraid to let me order takeout.”

She grinned, wagging her spoon at me. “Oh, I’ll teach you, all right. But I’m never letting you live this down.”

I sighed. “Figured as much.”

She let me eat in peace for a few minutes before she set down her spoon, folded her hands under her chin, and gave me a long, knowing look.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

I didn’t even pretend not to know who she meant. “Yeah.”

She nodded, her expression soft. “A good man will do that to you.”

I dragged a hand through my hair. “I know it’s stupid. We haven’t been together that long. I mean, we’re not even together together. You know? I shouldn’t—”

Her spoon came down on my knuckles before I could finish.

“Don’t say shouldn’t to me,” she scolded. “You feel what you feel, lad. There’s no right or wrong to it.”

I sighed while rubbing my now-sore knuckles. “I just . . . I didn’t think I’d care this much. Certainly not this fast.”

She nodded again, taking a sip of her tea. “That’s because he’s worth it.”

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “Yeah. I think he is.”

Before she could say anything else, my phone buzzed.

I grabbed it, my pulse picking up as Elliot’s name flashed on the screen.

Pole Dude : Where are you?

I frowned. He wasn’t much for small talk, and he definitely wasn’t the kind of guy to text just to chat. Still, this was terse, even for him.

Me : Having dinner with Mrs. H. You okay?

A pause. Then—

Pole Dude : Yeah. Just checking.

I stared at the message, something about it making my gut twist.

Just checking.

That was weird.

“What’s that face for?” Mrs. H asked, peering over her teacup.

I shook my head. “It was Elliot. He just—”

Before I could finish, there was a knock on the door.

My stomach dropped.

I shoved back from the table, my heart hammering as I hurried down the hall. I barely hesitated before yanking the door open—Mrs. H’s door. She trailed behind, keeping a safe distance in the hallway.

And there he was.

Standing there, on the porch, looking wrecked.

His duffel bag was slung over his shoulder, his boots were badly scuffed, and his skin was burned and dried out from too many days working in the Florida sun. His hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it, and his clothes were wrinkled, like he’d driven straight here without stopping.

God, he looked good.

Before I could think, I reached for him.

Elliot let out a quiet grunt as I yanked him inside, wrapping my arms around him in a tight, desperate hug. His hands came up immediately, gripping me just as hard, his face pressing into the crook of my neck.

I breathed him in—warm skin, sun-drenched cotton, and the faintest trace of grease.

Every part of me wanted to burst into tears, to let out all the pent-up whatever that I’d bottled up over the past couple of weeks.

But I held it together. Barely.

“Elliot Fucking Hart, I missed you,” I murmured, my voice rough.

Elliot exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Me, too.”

Behind us, Mrs. H cleared her throat loudly.

I pulled back, just enough to see Elliot smirking over my shoulder.

“Oh, finally,” Mrs. H drawled from the kitchen doorway. “I was about to set a place for you at this table permanently, lad. The boy’s been pining.”

I groaned, pressing my forehead against Elliot’s shoulder. “I hate you.”

She smiled. “No, you don’t.”

Elliot chuckled, shaking his head as he set down his bag. “Good to see you, too, Mrs. H.”

She gestured toward the table. “Well, come on then. If you’re staying, you’re eating.”

Elliot shot me a wary look. “What am I eating?”

I grinned. “You don’t want to know.”

He blinked. “Oh, boy.”

Mrs. H gasped. “Oh, hell no. Not you, too! First, this one complains, and now you? Fine, fine. You boys don’t know how to appreciate real food.”

I grinned. “We really don’t.”

She grumbled something about “weak American stomachs” before moving back to the kitchen.

Elliot turned to me, studying my face. “You okay?”

I nodded, smiling softly. “Better now.”

He let out a slow breath and reached up to brush his fingers against my cheek.

“Me, too.”

Mrs. H returned, plopping down a bowl of something lumpy on the table, and insisted we sit.

“Here,” she said. “Eat your damn dessert and shut up about the skirlie .”

Elliot stared down at the bowl. “What is this?”

“Clootie dumpling,” she said, like that explained anything.

Elliot looked at me. “Should I be scared?”

I patted his arm. “Terrified.”

Mrs. H smacked the back of my head with her spoon.

I laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, everything felt right.