“Thanks.” I accepted it, then took a careful sip before putting the glass down on the island, settling on one of the stools. “And no, I guess not,” I said in answer to his question.
He smiled at me, but the expression was… a little mischievous.
“What?” I asked him.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I’m just… excited to start moving you, that’s all.”
“You know this is the exact same thing you cooked for me when I first moved out here,” I said, nodding toward the stove as he poured the beans into a serving dish.
He smiled. “Exactly?”
“I don’t think you made me bread that time, but the beans, the potatoes, the chicken, yeah.”
His smile widened. “It’s my favorite—the chicken,” he said. “I wanted to share that with you.”
“It’s good,” I replied. “You can share it with me anytime you want.”
“I’m also pretty good at roasting potatoes and green beans, and I knew I wasn’t going to fuck those up.”
I leaned forward on my elbows. “Did you go shopping when I slept?” I asked him. “I feel like I hadn’t been asleep for that long.”
His lips quirked. “I—planned ahead,” he replied, and I saw color flushing the coppery skin of his cheeks. “You’d asked if I meant it. I thought—Ihopedthat maybe you really would come out. And I wanted to have good food for you—to make something you could eat and that you’d be impressed by.”
“Well, you impressed me,” I told him. “Although I’m pretty sure I was far from impressive in return.”
He leaned on the opposite side of the island, taking my hands in his. “You drove halfway across the country for me,” he said softly. “Even though I was being the world’s biggest dumbass about it.” He lifted one of my hands and kissed my cold fingers. “You impressed me. You keep impressing me. I don’t know how you do what you do every day—but I’m so proud of you for doing it.”
My neck and face caught on fire.
“I love you, baby,” he said, kissing my knuckles again. “Even if the best I can do is make you food after an absolutely horrific shift.”
“That’s the best kind of best,” I told him, scowling a little when the words made less sense coming out of my mouth than I’d thought they would.
He laughed, then turned back to the oven, taking a steaming pan of bubbling chicken out and setting it on the surface beside the pan of potatoes. “Come make yourself a plate.”
Something I’d learned in my almost-six months in Wisconsin—up here, food is love. I’d put it together slowly, piece by piece. Every time Elliot wanted me to know he loved me, he made me food. Special dinners. Brunch when I got home in the morning after an overnight call. Fresh cookies or brownies. Fresh bread. Driving to Green Bay just to get me Thai food.
It was how he’d told me he wanted to date me.
How he’d wished me a happy birthday.
And how he’d shown that he cared about me even before he knew himself. And if I’d known that back in July, I might have understood that he did care, he just needed time.
And, sure, I made him food, too, but there was something different about the way he did it. Something deliberate and thoughtful.
I’d always heard the phrasebaked with love, but it had taken me until Elliot Crane to understand what that really meant.
You really can taste it.
EPILOGUE
Elliot Crane
Place your order for KFC.
Seth Mays
All the nuggets.
