Page 22 of Tommy

“Let me know when you’re out so I can start plating,” Hardin’s voice boomed.

“Give me five minutes!”

I got dressed in the clothes I’d been wearing, only the first layer of pants, my sweatpants, and t-shirt made it back on. I wasn’t going to be getting that layered again, especially since I still ended up cold and bruised. But the pain in my thighs wasn’t too bad anymore.

Meeting Hardin in the kitchen, he smiled at me, brows furrowed slightly. “You smell great.”

“Don’t seem so surprised. I used your stuff.”

“That’s not my stuff in there,” he said. “It’s whatever the owner left. The shampoo is a growth stimulating thing with stuff that encourages growth, it’s all herbal, don’t worry.”

I walked around the kitchen to where the biscuits were resting in a tray. “At least it wasn’t dog shampoo or something,”

“Oh no, that stuff isn’t in there. And hands off,” he said. “Sit at the table. I’m almost done.”

I only caught a brief look at the chicken steaks bubbling on the griddle pan, but the smell was divine. “If being a cowboy doesn’t work out, you could open up a restaurant,” I told him.

“And interact with more people?” he let out a single laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I like to cook for myself. Cooking for others isn’t for me.”

“You do a good job at it,” I said, sitting at the table where he’d already set a place with cutlery and a glass. “You should take the compliment.”

“Compliment taken,” he said. “And I’m still cooking for me, you’re just an extra plate.”

I’d accept that. “Thankful for letting me have a bath here, by the way. I was worried about the whole thing. I’ve never had to do the whole heating and settings thing.”

“You’ll have to get used to it.”

“And the towel,” I said.

“You have towels,” he said.

“I know, and the bubble bath stuff.”

“Please, take it back with you.”

He wasn’t going to let me back in that tub again.

Hardin was focused in on the food. He brought the chicken steaks over to the table, still in the griddle. He set one on my plate and another on his.

“You make these yourself?” I asked.

He didn’t say a word, focused still on the food. He brought the tray of biscuits and dished out two each.

“Are these your own recipe as well?” I continued.

“I’m not ignoring you,” he grumbled, coming back to the table a third time with a creamy white gravy in a small gravy boat. “I’m just focused on putting the meal together. But yeah,most of this is recipes I’ve adapted from other things. And there’s more gravy in the pan.”

“But like, you breaded the chicken and everything too?”

He nodded, sitting across from me. “Yeah. Well, not today, but it’s from one of the chickens. The bread was pounded out, breaded, then frozen. The biscuits and gravy, from scratch. And if you have anything bad to say about them—”

“I’ll just add them to my review.”

Hardin smirked, hiding his face as he picked his cutlery up in one hand. “Or just keep it to yourself.”

“Or, I guess I could do that.”

“I’ll let you add the gravy yourself.”

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