Page 45 of Regards, Mia

“I’ve been here almost two years. Why?”

“This place reminds me of a hotel suite.”

She laughs. “Coming from a man whose apartment smells like sweaty gym socks, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I step around her to unpack the ingredients for our chicken marsala dinner. “Can you chop this?” I ask, handing her the onion.

It’s a small kitchen, but we manage to work together toprepare dinner. Mia chops while I sauté, and in no time dinner is ready.

I’m no master chef, but Mia praises my humble chicken dinner as if she’s never tasted anything so good in her life. “This is amazing.”

I take another bite. She’s right, it’s pretty damn good. “It’s one of the few things I can make,” I admit. “I don’t have a lot of time to cook.”

“Me neither.” She sips her wine. “Most nights I end up getting take-out at the office with Jordan.”

I can’t help the wave of jealousy that ripples through me. “You two are pretty close?”

“Not really. Jordan isn’t a friend. He’s my boss.”

“He’s obviously worried about you.”

“Jordan doesn’t really care about anyone but himself.”

Mia doesn’t know it, but Jordan is the one paying my bills. I consider telling her, but it isn’t my place to interfere.

She finishes off her meal and lays down her fork. “I shouldn’t have eaten all that. I have a dress to fit into. Fucking Chelsea ordered me the wrong size, and I’ve been dieting for a month trying to fit into it.”

Whatever size she is, she’s perfect. “Couldn’t they get you another dress?”

Mia puts her chin in her hand. “You’d think so, right? But it won’t get here in time, so I had to lose seven pounds.”

“I know how you feel. I had to lose thirty pounds for a fight once.”

“Thirty pounds?” Mia’s eyes widen. “How did you do it?”

“Protein and veggies. No alcohol. Miles of running.”

“Sounds horrible.”

I laugh and finish my wine. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Mia leans forward on her elbows, looking at me intently. “Tell me about Champion’s Corner.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What made you start it?”

I plan on giving her the usual story about how I saw a need in the community and blah, blah, blah, but something makes me change my mind.

“I grew up pretty rough,” I say.

Mia tilts her head at me, listening intently.

“I used to get beat up a lot when I was a kid.” They made fun of my clothes, my accent, and most of all my address.

“Hard to believe.”

We are sitting close together at the dining room table, our plates empty and forgotten, our fingers brushing occasionally. It’s almost like we are on a real date.

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