I crossed my tiny living room and stepped into the kitchen, drawing his attention.
“Hi,” I said, feeling strangely awkward in my own kitchen.
“Hey,” he replied, glancing over and giving me a quick, crooked smile. “Better?”
I nodded, my neck a little warm. “Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for this.” I gestured.
“Don’t think me yet,” he said. “I believe I royally fucked up this gravy.”
I looked at the pan. “Gravy?” I repeated.
“It was supposed to be. I’m pretty sure it’s burnt paste now, though.” He sighed. “I was going for southern-style biscuits and gravy. At least I have the biscuits.” He offered half a crooked smile. “They’re vegan and everything. No buttermilk.” His cheeks colored a little. “I did try one to make sure they weren’t horrible.”
The biscuits were cooling on a rack just to the side of the stove, andtheysmelled amazing. “I’m sure they’re great,” I replied, my neck warming even more.
Then I noticed the pan of sausages.
“You didn’t put the sausage in the gravy?” I asked him.
“What?” Elliot looked startled.
I gestured to the pan. “The sausage. It’s sausage gravy.”
“You put it in the gravy? But gravy is just stock and flour…”
“Not southern gravy,” I told him. “But since you didn’t use the sausage, I can do it.”
Elliot stepped to the side, that small half-smile back on his lips. “I suppose if you’re going to learn how to do southern biscuits and gravy properly, who better to teach you than a southerner?”
I snorted, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt and sweater. “Probably a lot of people,” I told him. “But this is one of Noah’s favorite things, so I do make a decent sausage gravy.” I glanced over at the rack of biscuits. “I use store-bought biscuits, though.”
“Heresy!” Elliot mock-gasped.
“I can tell you know Hart,” I muttered, turning up the heat slightly under the pan of sausage. “What kind is this, anyway?”
“Chicken and apple,” he replied. “I made sure you could eat everything.”
I felt my neck flush higher. “I wasn’t questioning that,” I said. “It smells different than what I’m used to—the apple, probably.”
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I think it’ll be good.” The heat was creeping onto my face. I hadn’t meant to question him or make him feel bad about his food choices.
I used the spatula to break apart the sausage links, letting some of the grease out into the pan. When the liquid was hot and sizzling, I pushed the sausage pieces to the edge of the pan, then took the flour—still out from Elliot’s paste-like attempt—and mixed it directly into the sausage juices with a fork. Once the lumps were mostly smoothed, I grabbed the almond milk from the fridge and added it, as well, switching over to a spoon once it was mostly whisked in so that I could bring the sausage pieces into the mixture as the gravy bubbled around them.
I stirred, not wanting to scorch the flour or almond milk—neither does well with being burned to the bottom of a pan, and I hadn’t made gravy with chicken sausage before. I’d always used pork, because up until a year ago, I’d been able to eat it, and when I made it for Noah after that, I just didn’t eat any. I wanted to make sure it came out okay—because in spite of everything, I still wanted Elliot to be impressed. To like me.
Okay, helikedme—as a friend. But I still wanted to show off for him. Because maybe someday he’d be interested in something more than friendship. Something that would involve wanting me to cook for him on a regular basis.
I tried not to sigh, stifling the breath I’d drawn into my lungs. I shouldn’t be holding out, waiting for Elliot to think of me as anything more than he already did. He’d made it clear where we stood. Repeatedly. Me carrying a torch was both toxic and stupid. Unhealthy. For both of us.
I gave the gravy one last stir, then set the spoon down and turned to tell him the gravy was ready. And then?—
His lips were on mine, his hands on the sides of my face, holding me there as though I were going to pull away or resist.
I wasn’t about to do either one.
I had no ideawhatto do, my brain having completely short-circuited.
