Page 23 of Eight Steps to Alpha

“And?” She lifted the lid of a pot, not waiting for his response.

“Mashed potatoes, corn on the cob.” He slapped her hand away. “I also got those movies you told me about.” He lifted his chin toward the living room, where a stack of DVD’s waited on the coffee table. “I thought maybe we could do more work on the plan?” But he cleaned his throat, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to call it.

Following his line of vision, she nodded. “You’ve really never seen a John Wayne movie before?”

He flipped a leg of chicken with his tongs and glanced up. “I told you, I’ve seen bits and pieces, but never anything from beginning to end.”

“And here I thought you were a southern boy. Raised on gravy and biscuits, and watching John Wayne films like they were gospel.”

He laughed. “You also thought I had a horse.”

“Yeah, well,” Her nose wrinkled with the memory. “That was a long time ago.” Hiding the blush that had spread like rose colored ink over her face, she plucked a piece of crispy goodness from the plate and popped it into her mouth. The morsel melted on her tongue, a mixture of savory and spices too simple, yet complex to explain.

“I told you, it’ll be ready in a minute.” He swatted her hand again. “Why don’t you set the table?”

Deciding to do his bidding, she took the two plates and silverware from the counter and carried them to the dining room. It was a simple task, but it was more than welcomed after the day she had. Standing at the side of the table, she proceeded to fold the cloth napkins neatly, smoothing each fold with her palm before folding it again.

“How was your day?” he called over to her.

She set each napkin in their respective spots and frowned. Susie Baker’s tear streaked face entered her mind for the hundredth time. “Don’t ask.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Well, it wasn’t good.” She plopped down on a chair and began setting out the silverware. “Remind me never to plan an experiment with a living creature again. Especially cute ones.”

He made a face. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say, I think I may have scared half a dozen sixth graders for life.”

“Tragic,” he drawled.

“It was.”

He turned off the range, and carried two steaming plates to the table. One piled high with fried chicken, and the other with steaming hot mashed potatoes. Her mouth began to salivate, and she sat up straighter in her seat. “Is this your grandmother’s recipe?” But she didn’t wait for an answer before reaching across the table and grabbing a piece. “Mmmm…” she moaned. Because as far as she was concerned, Elliot’s chicken was the culinary version on a multiple orgasm.

All of her senses were igniting like fireworks on the fourth of July. The taste, the smell, the sound it made when it crunched. This was exactly what she needed. A warm, made with love, southern meal that only Elliot was capable of. But when she opened her eyes, finally conscious enough to realize what she was doing, Elliot was staring at her.

He cleared his throat as he reached across the table for a leg of chicken. “That good, huh?”

Wiping over her face with a napkin, she nodded and set the half-eaten piece back on her plate. She felt slightly embarrassed, but who could blame her? Elliot’s chicken was juicy, liberally seasoned, yet so crunchy she could barely hear herself think while eating it. Which was perfect, because she didn’t want to think anymore. About Mrs. King, or how Susie’s tear streaked face would forever haunt her dreams, or the classroom that would never be. She took another bite and sighed, knowing without a doubt that fried chicken was her ultimate comfort food.

They ate in silence for a good ten minutes before she stopped long enough to take a breath, and reach for her glass of tea. It had been years since she discovered Elliot’s cooking, but to this day, every time he made this, she swore it was better than the last. “This was so good, thank you.”

He was staring at her, so she wiped over her mouth again, and cleared her throat. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He shook his head, a relaxed grin crawling up the side of his mouth. “I just like watching you, I guess.”

She made a face, setting her napkin on the table. But her stomach turned in terrible knots. He liked watching her? What the hell did that mean? “How’s your tattoo?” she asked, clearing her throat again. “Is it healing okay?”

He cupped his left shoulder, shrugged, then reached across the table for a helping of mashed potatoes. “A little tender, I guess. But that’s to be expected after being stuck with a needle a couple million times.”

With her fork halfway to her mouth, she stopped, because in an instant her mind was filled with tattoo horror stories. When she said she’d done her research, she wasn’t joking. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes— “Do you think it’s infected?” She set the fork down and rose to her feet. “Maybe you’re allergic to the ink.”

He laughed, grabbed a couple pieces of chicken and shook his head. “Eat your dinner, Fe. My shoulder is fine.”

But she came closer anyway, because what did he know? He could be dying, poisoned, in septic shock. “Guys are notorious for ignoring infections. I got mine at the same time as you, and it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Because yours is the size of a peanut.”

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