Page 67 of Salty Pickle

“Oh! I thought those were green onions on steroids.”

I laugh again. “It’s the same family of plants. They’re easy to grow.”

“Have you? Grown them?”

“Sure. Colorado has great growing seasons. I raise potatoes, parsley, tomatoes, watermelon, radishes, beets.”

“You eat beets?”

“You don’t?”

He sniffs at the casserole. “I might eat your beets.”

I absolutely shiver at the words. If he’d been some other man, and I wasn’t in such a vulnerable, precarious situation, I would have let the sexual banter begin.

But I simply say, “That’s a great compliment for someone who hasn’t even tried my cooking yet.”

“I have faith.” He opens several drawers before finding a serving spoon. He’s clearly unfamiliar with his own kitchen. He does at least know the location of the silverware, proving he doesn’t rely on disposable plastic forks.

He fills two glasses with filtered water while I serve up the casserole and salad.

“I bought bread. It’s somewhere.” He opens the pantry and sorts through the shelves.

“It’s in the bread box.”

He leans out of the pantry. “I have a breadbox?”

I laugh again. “It’s the pretty wood box about shoulder high on the right.”

He brings the whole thing out. “Huh. I wondered what this was for. The decorator bought it.” He lifts the front panel. “It looked like a tiny roll-top desk for a cat or something.”

Now I’m giggling hard enough to get on a roll. I hold my belly, picturing a cat jotting his memoirs beside the bread box.

Court shakes his head at me and takes our plates to the table. “You laugh a lot.”

I squeak out, “You laugh too little.”

“Probably so.”

We sit down opposite each other, and everything feels so comfortable, so right, that I am momentarily disoriented, like I’ve stepped into some other life.

I wait anxiously as Court stabs a forkful of the casserole. “I didn’t ask if you were allergic to anything, or disliked it,” I say. “There are mushrooms.”

“I’m good with anything. And I didn’t ask you either.”

“You knew I was vegetarian.”

He grins, and his face is so transformed that I feel like I’ve gone underwater.

He takes a bite and closes his eyes.

I slowly slide my fork through the potatoes, waiting for his verdict.

Finally, he groans and says, “This is heavenly.”

I let out a long rush of air. Thank goodness. My appetite comes roaring forward, and I shovel a hefty forkful into my mouth. “Ooooh, yes,” I say, then blush because I’m afraid that the way it sounded is all too similar to my tone with him on New Year’s Eve. In bed. During orgasm.

He doesn’t notice. “I’m going to eat all of this and more.”

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