Page 8 of Rose and the Grouch Next Door

Rose looks defeated and her cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson. "Well, I- I... I mean, I thought you might be lonely, and I assume you’re working a lot, and I just..."

Taking pity on her, I try taking an edge off my usual gruffness and uncross my arms. "It's alright, Rose. I'm just surprised." Likely because I can’t remember the last time someone cared enough to cook for me, let alone a beautiful woman like Rose.

"Well, I-I should probably be going," she tries to pass off the dish.

Before I can stop myself, I bark, "Come in."

As she steps inside, the scent of her perfume, something like wildflowers and lemon, wafts through the entryway, immediately brightening the large space.

"Wow, your house is... um, big," Rose remarks, glancing around the cavernous foyer.

I grunt something in response as Rose gushes, setting the tray down on the island in the kitchen. "It's absolutely lovely, I’m sure, once it's... lived in." Realizing what she’s said, she quickly corrects herself. “I mean, it just still has that smell of a new house.”

Raising an eyebrow once again at her choice of words, I don’t comment. Instead, I watch, transfixed, as she bustles around my kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets as if she belongs. To my surprise, I don’t mind. Which is odd, because I hate people inmy private space. With Rose, it seems different. I find myself enjoying the domestic scene of the moment so much, I’m already wondering how to prolong her visit. Keep her here. Not let her leave.

What the hell is wrong with me?Now I’m thinking of holding her captive just so I can selfishly keep her to myself. She’s driving me so mad, I’m sounding like the villain in one of my crime novels.

Great. Now I’m having dirty thoughts of Rose tied to my bed.

Get a grip on yourself, man.If she knew what I was thinking right now, her ass would be out the door and she’d send her devil dog to eat me, then have me arrested.

She sets one place at the large bar in front of me, then sits beside me, not eating. Our knees are almost touching, the air between us crackling with tension. Stealing a glance at her, I can’t help but admire her. Her dainty feet in her leather flip-flops are dangling freely from the tall barstool, and it’s adorable.

“Are you not joining me?” I ask her because my mother instilled some manners in me.

Just thinking of eating some of her cooking with her witnessing my reaction makes me feel guilty. I’m going to have to sell this. Make it look like it’s okay for human consumption.

“Oh no, I ate earlier at Salty’s. I just thought you might enjoy some home cooking. Please eat.” She seems so earnest, so excited about feeding me. She spoons a large helping onto my plate.

I watch in dismay at the size of the serving. Again, remembering my manners, I say gruffly, “By the way, thank you for the other meals and baked goods. It was very thoughtful. People where I'm from don’t leave meals for strangers.”

She glows with pride when she responds, waving me off. “No problem. I’m a Southerner. We always cook. I’m not great at it but I thought, I’m going to go out on a lamb and try it."

She laughs.

I stare at her a moment, confused by the messed up idiom, then realize she’s serious when she doesn’t clarify. I don’t correct her.

"So tell me, Rose," I clear my throat as I take a bite, moving the conversation forward like a socialized person would, and ask, "Aside from being an amazing cook,”Okay, I may be overselling it.“What do you do for fun around here?”

As the first bite of what appears to be some sort of casserole hits my tongue, I’m unable to control my reaction. Immediately, my eyes widen and I stop chewing, my face cringing.

“Oh, no! Are you okay?” Alarmed, she jumps down. “I didn’t even think to ask about allergies! You aren’t allergic to egg or dairy, are you? Or nuts? Or are you vegan? If you are, it should be fine because there’s shrimp and oysters in there.” She assures me. “Oh, and tater tots, but no meat.”

Wringing her hands, Rose has tears in her eyes. “But what if you are allergic to shellfish? Or nuts? Oh, mother-of-pearl! I may have just killed you! Do you have an epipen?”

Choking down the bite with a drink of water, I hold up my hand to stop her bumbling meltdown. “I’m fine. No allergies.” I hate that she's so upset. “It’s really … um…good. Delicious, see?” Cramming another forkful in my mouth, I rub my stomach in appreciation. “Sooo good!” I mumble, trying to swallow what may be my last meal.

It is hands down the most atrocious thing I have ever put in my mouth. Did she saynuts? With shrimp and oysters? Tater tots? That definitely explains the crunch and the fishy taste, but there is something else I can’t identify is creating an odd texture. Eyeballing my next bite, I see what appears to be something small and green and determine it must be peas.

Damn, this is nasty, but I’m going to eat every last bit of it, even if it kills me. Because this sweet, innocent angel made itjust for me. No way will I let her know Honeybun wouldn’t even touch this meal, or would have to be rushed to the vet if he did.

“Oh, thank you. It’s my grandma’s recipe.” She smiles, her relief palpable. At that moment, all I can think of is that I've made her happy. I also think of her poor fucking grandfather. If he was subjected to these meals, I’m assuming he was utterly devoted to her grandmother. One would have to be to tolerate these meals on a regular basis and live through it.

“Your grandfather was a lucky man,” I mumble, forcing the rest of the meal down with more water, praying I make it through the night without any side effects involving my bathroom or an emergency room visit.

Laughing, she says, “He was a shrimp boat captain, so he appreciated anything she came up with that had shrimp.”

Rose's laughter fills the room, and I actually find myself smiling in return, a feeling so foreign yet intoxicating.

---