“Sorry. I should have asked first.”
“You have selfie privileges.”
“Forever?”
If only.
“Absolutely.”
Kia traced a finger along the edge of her plate in a gesture she probably didn’t realize was sexy. Then she reached over, took a caramelized something off Sullivan’s plate, and popped it into her mouth.
“Damn, I’m good!” Kia said. “Admit it, Sully, I’m the best.”
“Sully? I get a nickname now?”
“You are my beloved wife. Of course you get a nickname. Is it okay?”
More than okay.
“I was thinking you’d go forprincessorgoddess, but I’ll take Sully.”
“Eat your corn dog, Princess Sully.” Kia held out the corn dog, looking eager.
Kia cared what Sullivan thought. It’d hurt her if Sullivan said she hated it. Sullivan took the corn dog. No matter how much grease coated her mouth, she’d say she loved it. She didn’t need to pretend. It was everything a corn dog should be. It was winning every carnival game. It was road trips with your best friend. It was a ride on the Ferris wheel when you were a kid, before you knew the rides were installed by underpaid day laborers.
“Do you like it?”
Sullivan savored the flavor.
“I’ve been to five-star restaurants that weren’t this good.”
Kia beamed. “Say it again.”
“I will not give you the satisfaction.” Sullivan grinned.
Kia held up her phone in one hand and a fork with a slice of fried jalapeño in another.
“Boomerang fork toast for the fans?” She gestured for Sullivan to pick up the other fork.
“I’m not even sure what that means,” Sullivan said, but she speared a piece of jalapeño nonetheless.
“Just toast.” Kia held the phone out and they tapped their jalapeños together.
Kia checked the video and posted it, speaking the words, “Nothing means as much to me as my wife saying she loves my cooking.” She checked the text, touched the screen, and put her phone down.
Sullivan took a bite of greens, savoring the collards, ham hock, vinegar, and spices. She glanced at her hand.
“Shit. We should do that toast over.” She held out her wrist to show Kia where a potato had splashed hot water on her and scalded her wrist that morning. “Occupational hazard.”
“Baby!” Kia held out her hand for Sullivan’s, gently turning it from side to side.
“It’s nothing.”
In the world of kitchen injuries, this didn’t rate a level one. Sullivan wouldn’t have thought about the welt distorting the geometric pattern of her tattoo if Kia wasn’t filming. The world didn’t want to know that even the best chefs’ hands were a quilt of scars and burns.
“Wait here,” Kia said.
She went back to the Diva and returned a moment later with a glass bottle with a dropper.
