Page 8

Chapter eight

Mike

I don’t know what stupid, delusional part of me thought that cooking dinner for Elliot was a good idea, but I would like to formally file a complaint with my past self.

Because, despite my deep, unwavering belief that I am a man of many talents, there was one undeniable truth in this world—

I could not cook to save my goddamn life.

This didn’t stop me from thinking I could cook. Oh no, in my head, I was a domestic god, whipping up elegant, restaurant-quality meals while wearing an apron and holding a glass of wine like some kind of attractive, culinary genius. Hell, I’d watched every episode of Chopped , MasterChef , Next Level Chef , and Top Chef ever filmed. I’d even taken notes like Simon Majumdar on Tournament of Champions , evaluating each dish in my best snooty judge voice while glued to the screen.

But in reality?

Reality was me standing in the middle of my smoke-filled kitchen, frantically waving a dish towel at my screeching smoke detector, while my traitorous dog darted between my legs like a furry missile, chasing a rogue onion I had dropped on the floor.

“Homer! STOP!” I yelped, stumbling as the dog zoomed past me, nearly taking out my ankle.

Homer ignored me, snatching up the onion and racing in victory laps around the kitchen.

I had no time to deal with this because something was burning.

Deeply.

Aggressively.

I turned back to the stove, my heart dropping straight into my stomach.

The sauce I had so confidently attempted—a “classic reduction,” according to the YouTube chef I had blindly trusted—was now a bubbling, charred monstrosity, filling the kitchen with smoke and regret.

“Oh, my God.”

I lunged for the pan, grabbed it off the burner, and immediately dropped it back down with a yelp because apparently, pans get hot when you put them on fire.

Great.

Fan- fucking -tastic.

I was five minutes away from serving Elliot a meal of broken dreams and carbon.

I had been so confident.

I had envisioned a cozy, intimate dinner, where Elliot would walk in, inhale the delicious scents of my perfectly cooked meal, and think, Damn, Mike Albert is not only intelligent and devastatingly handsome but also a gifted chef. What a catch.

I had set the table. Lit some casual, non-romantic candles. Poured myself a glass of wine because, in my mind, real chefs drank wine while cooking.

Then, the cooking began.

Mistake One: Attempting a meal with more than three ingredients.

Mistake Two: Believing that just because I had watched one Gordon Ramsay video, I was now a qualified chef.

Mistake Three: Everything else.

I grabbed a potholder this time (learning from my mistakes!) and yanked the ruined pan off the stove, glaring at it as if sheer hatred would reverse the charring.

Homer, sensing chaos, finally dropped the onion and trotted over, tail wagging.

“Oh, sure, now you listen,” I muttered, stepping over him to assess the rest of the meal.

The garlic bread in the oven?

Fuck me. I had garlic bread in the oven, didn’t I?

It was burned beyond recognition.

The pasta?

Overcooked to the point of mush. Who pulverizes boxed pasta? How was that even possible?

The chicken?

Still raw in the center, because of course it was.

Somewhere out there, Gordon was shaking his head and calling me a donut.

I was a disaster.

I glanced at the clock. Elliot would be here in ten minutes. There was nothing edible except the wine—and wine wasn’t an eating thing. Of that, I was fairly certain.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

I whirled into action, grabbing anything remotely salvageable.

The salad!

The salad was fine—mostly because I hadn’t made it. It was pre-packaged from the store. Thank God.

Homer, sensing my panic, stuck his nose into the salad bowl before I could stop him.

“DUDE!” I yanked it away, too late.

One slimy piece of lettuce hung from his mouth as he stared at me with zero remorse.

I grabbed my phone, frantically typing.

Me : Are you running late? Feel free to run late. Like, an hour. Or two.

A knock came from the front of the house.

“OH, COME ON.” My arms flew into the air.

Homer lost his ever-loving mind, barking and racing toward the front of the house like the Pope had arrived with a bowl of bacon-flavored holy water.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Took a deep breath. Wiped my hands on my shirt, realized my shirt had sauce on it, panicked, and ripped it off, yanking on a clean one from the laundry pile before rushing to the door. At least, it looked clean. I smelled it for good measure. Fuck me. It was clean enough.

I opened the door to find Elliot standing there, all broad shoulders and smug amusement, watching as Homer danced at his feet like he had been waiting his whole life for this reunion.

“Hey, neighbor,” Elliot said, eyes flicking down to my still slightly damp shirt before flicking back up to meet my eyes.

I cleared my throat, attempting to channel a man who had his life together.

“Hey,” I said casually, leaning on one arm against the doorframe before promptly slipping and tumbling sideways into the door.

Then, from the kitchen—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I froze.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Is that . . . your smoke alarm?”

I did not blink. I did not falter.

“Absolutely not.”

More beeping.

Elliot’s eyes widened in recognition, then his lips tugged into a knowing smirk. “Right. So, uh . . . you gonna let me in, or are we having dinner out here, on the porch?”

I opened the door wider, stepping aside as Homer lost his mind again, pawing at Elliot like he was trying to climb a tree.

Elliot stepped in, immediately sniffing the air. Then he frowned. “You cooking?”

“Define cooking.”

He turned to me fully now, arms crossed, head tilted. “Mike?”

I exhaled dramatically. “I am an ambitious man, Elliot. I have dreams. I had plans. As it turns out, plans are dumb, and I should never be allowed near a stove or a burner or a campfire. Hell, I shouldn’t be allowed inside a kitchen, let alone allowed to operate machinery within.”

Elliot chuckled, stepping past me and walking toward the kitchen.

“Wait!” I yelped, rushing to block his path, desperate to preserve some illusion of dignity.

Too late.

He peered in, taking in the disaster zone—burned garlic bread, tragic pasta, a half-murdered chicken—and laughed.

“Jesus, Albert,” he muttered. “What the hell were you making? A human sacrifice?”

I groaned, rubbing my face. “It was supposed to be pasta with chicken in a garlic butter sauce. But instead, it’s . . . whatever this is.”

Elliot turned to me, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement. “You were really trying to impress me, huh?”

I crossed my arms, embarrassed but defiant. “I’ll have you know I am a man of many talents.”

“Cooking is not one of them.”

I scowled. “Obviously.”

Elliot smirked, stepping closer. “Well,” he said, voice a little lower, a little more amused, “you get points for effort.”

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. “And how many points do I lose for trying to kill us both with my cooking?”

Elliot tilted his head. “I’d say you break even.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re just being nice because you feel bad for me.”

He grinned. “Nah, I’m being nice because you’re cute when you’re panicked.”

I sputtered, my panic peaking.

“C’mon, Mikey. Let’s order a pizza before you burn the house down.” He laughed again, patting my shoulder as he passed. Turning back, he asked, “Is there anything still on in there? Do you need help turning off the stove?”

“Uh, no, thank you. I can work the knobs just fine.”

Elliot snorted. “I bet you can.”

Homer barked in agreement.

I nearly stumbled over the innuendo.

Thirty minutes later, an over-acned teen with disheveled brown hair and a hat that read, “Let them eat pie,” delivered our dinner. I paid him, added a fat tip for coming quickly, then stalked into the den to deposit two boxes onto the coffee table.

“Ta da! Dinner.”

“You say that like you made it.”

I snarled. “I made the call. Same thing.”

Elliot chuckled, then turned his attention to the boxes, opening each and inspecting the toppings. One was plain pepperoni, while the other was a combo of Canadian bacon and pineapple, the pizza of the gods.

“Pineapple?” He said the word like he was passing a gallstone.

“Trust me. You’ll love it.”

“Like I loved your garlic bread?”

“Fuck you, Elliot Hart. Fuck the fuck off.”

His grin couldn’t have grown any wider, and I felt my self-control begin to slip. This man, this hulking beast, was too damn handsome for his own good—hell, for my own good.

I looked from the pizza boxes to the mismatched plates to the Atlanta Braves pint glasses filled with boxed wine, and my heart sagged.

I had dreamed of this dinner going perfectly, pictured myself in full control, dazzling Elliot with my sharp wit and charm while effortlessly serving a delicious homemade meal that would make him think, Wow, this man is a domestic god. I must have him immediately.

Instead, I was sitting beside him on my couch, eating pepperoni pizza out of the box, because I had set my kitchen on fire with garlic bread.

And honestly? The strangest part was that I wasn’t even mad about it.

Elliot looked delicious, even in my very humble, slightly chaotic dining room. He was calm and easygoing, taking a slow sip of his wine while I tried not to let my eyes linger on the way his forearm flexed as he set his glass back down.

“All right, Mike,” Elliot said, grabbing another slice. “Since we’ve already established you shouldn’t be allowed near a stove, tell me something you actually are good at.”

I took a sip of fortification—because I felt classy drinking wine with pizza out of a stadium glass—and thought about it.

“Well,” I said, “I’m an excellent bullshitter.”

Elliot smirked. “Oh?”

I nodded, completely serious. “I once convinced an entire freshman English class that Shakespeare didn’t actually write Hamlet but instead stole the entire thing from a time-traveling wizard named Greg.”

Elliot choked on his wine. “Greg?”

“Greg,” I confirmed solemnly. “And you’d be surprised how long fifteen-year-olds will argue with you about historical accuracy when they think they’ve caught their teacher in a lie.”

Elliot wiped his mouth, still grinning. “And how long did they believe this nonsense?”

“Oh, a solid twenty minutes. Until one of them actually Googled it and yelled, ‘MR. ALBERT IS A LIAR,’ in the middle of class.”

Elliot laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus. You’re an agent of chaos in the classroom, too?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Gotta keep the kids entertained; otherwise, they start testing you.”

Elliot took another sip, studying me with those warm brown eyes that made my brain short-circuit. “So, you always wanted to teach?”

I hesitated, thinking about how to answer.

“Yeah,” I finally said, shrugging. “I mean, I loved books, always have. I liked the idea of helping kids find stories that actually meant something to them.”

Elliot nodded, setting his glass down. “That’s cool. I feel like half the people I know just fell into their jobs accidentally.”

I smirked. “And you? Did you grow up dreaming of climbing power poles for a living?”

Elliot huffed a quiet laugh. “Not exactly.” He leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. “My dad was a lineman. So was my grandfather. Guess I just followed the family tradition.”

I tilted my head, trying to imagine a young Elliot Hart watching his dad work, probably standing in the yard with that same serious, steady expression he had now.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

Elliot nodded. “Yeah. It can be tough work, but it’s good. I like fixing things, seeing a problem, solving it. It feels, I don’t know, solid.”

I tried not to overanalyze how attractive that answer was, because of course Elliot was the kind of guy who liked tangible, no-nonsense problem-solving. Meanwhile, my entire approach to life was guessing and hoping for the best—like with dinner—and that worked out with raw chicken and my dog holding an onion hostage.

“So your family is into hands-on, tough jobs?” I asked.

Elliot gave a wry smile. “Mostly. My dad’s retired now. My brother’s a mechanic. My sister’s a teacher, though, so you two have something in common.”

I perked up. “Really? What does she teach?”

“High school science,” Elliot said. “She’s scary smart.”

I grinned. “You’re already trying to set me up with your sister? Bold move for a first date.”

Elliot chuckled, shaking his head. “No chance. She’d eat you alive, a hell of a lot faster than those kids you talk about.”

I snorted. “Noted.”

He grabbed another slice and sat back, eyeing me thoughtfully. “What about your family?”

I exhaled. “Ah, the dreaded turn of conversation.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “What, bad relationship with your family?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I said quickly. “I love them. They’re just . . . a lot.”

Elliot smirked. “Define a lot.”

“Well,” I said. “I have two older sisters. Both are brilliant and terrifying in equal measure. My mother is a human hurricane of energy and unsolicited advice, and my dad is a quiet man who has mastered the art of nodding and staying out of the chaos.”

Elliot chuckled. “Sounds like you grew up in a sitcom.”

“Basically.” I sighed. “Family dinners were like a verbal Hunger Games . If you didn’t speak fast, you didn’t speak at all, and you might not eat, either.”

Elliot shook his head, clearly amused. “I’d pay money to see you at one of those dinners.”

I pointed at him with my pizza slice. “Oh, no. You’d get eaten alive.”

“I’d hold my own.”

“Oh? You good at quick-fire family combat?”

He shrugged, washing down his pizza with the last of his wine. I reached across and refilled his glass. “I got Matty, Sisi, and Omar. They keep me on my toes. Think of them as Family Interrogation Training.”

I perked up. There it was. The perfect opening.

I wiped my hands on a napkin and stretched an arm over the back of the sofa, almost enough to touch his arm with my fingertips. “All right. Tell me about them.”

Elliot gave me a look, like he knew I was digging but wasn’t mad about it.

“Well,” he said, leaning back, “Matty is . . . a force of nature.”

I grinned. “Go on.”

Elliot smirked. “He’s dramatic. Loud. Overly invested in my personal life.”

“Sounds like my sisters,” I said, nodding.

“Probably. He also has expensive taste and no sense of volume control.”

“I love him already.”

Elliot set his plate atop the boxes. I wasn’t sure if he was finished or giving himself a break before another round. “Sisi is the queen of brutal honesty.”

“Oh, I need one of those in my life.”

Elliot chuckled. “Yeah. She’s blunt, hilarious, and terrifying in the best way.”

“And Omar?”

“He’s Matty’s better half. Hell, he’s the better half to all of us.” Elliot smirked. “Omar is the most infuriatingly composed man on the planet.”

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “More than you?”

Elliot nodded. “While the rest of us are being idiots, he just sits there, drinking wine or some god-awful fruity concoction he claims is sophisticated, silently judging us.”

I grinned. “Sounds like he’s the group’s therapist.”

“Or creeper.” Elliot chuckled. “But, you know, he’s our therapist in a way where he never actually offers advice—just lets you spiral while he watches.”

I laughed into my drink. “God, I love that.”

Elliot gave me an amused, thoughtful look.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re dangerously close to passing the friend test.”

I set my glass down. “Oh? And what happens if I pass?”

Elliot’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Something warm. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”