“Damn. I want to get know this chick,” Roman said over his beer.
“Shut the fuck up,” Har growled, which only made both men howl with laughter.
“Fuck it. I’m outta here,” he said, and left.
Chapter 9 Don't Get Along with Gravy
Stephanie
THE PANDORA APP ON my phone blared Sting’s “Shape of My Heart,” while I made rosemary-garlic mashed potatoes.
The house probably smelled like a bad cafeteria because of the wide variety of food I had cooking. In the oven, I had a lasagna baking, alongside a pork roast. Both smelled great when cooking alone, but side by side was putting my sniffer to the test. Which had to be why I couldn’t decide what to eat for dinner, tonight.
I took a generous sip of my Southern Prohibition beer but nearly spit it out when Har spoke over the music.
“Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” he demanded.
Once I had my choking under control, I said, “I’m batch cooking. Lasagna, pork roast with mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus, though I have to put that in next.”
He stared at me for a long moment before he sauntered to the oven and cracked the door open for a peek then closed it. His eyes met mine just as the song changed to a jazz cover of “Shape of You.”
The lyrics were much easier to hear in this version, and I realized how overtly sexy the song was. I twisted toward my phone to hit the fast-forward button, but Har grabbed my arm and wrapped his other arm me.
“I’m sorry about earlier, Stephanie.”
I’m not.
Being held in his arms rekindled the doubts which plagued me all afternoon. “Thanks, but you don’t have to apologize. I didn’t stop you, so if anyone should apologize, it’s me because that whole thing makes me a cocktease, and I’m normally not.”
He chuckled. “Hate to tell you this, but you always are one whether you mean to be or not.”
My brows drew down. “What?”
“You move through a room, a man takes notice. And don’t let this go to your head, but my cock always notices.”
I shook my head and put my hands on his arms to unwrap them, but he wouldn’t budge. “Thanks for that, but you know what I meant.”
“Yeah. But, I won’t try anything with you again. You made that clear Friday night and I pressed my luck any damn way, so I’m sorry.”
“All right. And, um, just to let you know, I got you two six-packs of craft beer from the store. It comes from a place in Hattiesburg.”
His eyes landed on my open can. “Seems I’m down one already, am I right?”
I shook my head. “I bought my own six-pack.”
He finally let me go, but his head dipped lower. “You fit all that shit on your bike?”
I chuckled. “No, I used a grocery delivery service.”
His lips pulled together and I expected a rebuke. “This isn’t the original, is it?”
It took a moment before I realized he was talking about the song. “It’s a cover. The app should tell you—”
He touched my phone and the screen lit, but my angle was such I couldn’t see it. Har must have since he nodded and his face looked like he was making a mental note.
The song ended and in the short pause I heard his stomach growl. “I know you said I only needed to get you beer, but seriously, I have enough food for an army and I can’t decide what I’m eating for dinner. You pick. Lasagna or pork roast, and I’ll plate you up some dinner.”
His lips quirked and he dug into his pocket pulling out a half-dollar coin. “Heads or tails, Combes.”
I rolled my eyes at him calling me by my last name. “You decide.”
“I flip it, you gotta call it. That’s how it works, woman.”
I huffed out a breath. “Fine. Heads.”
It landed on tails and he grinned. “You really do have some shitty luck. Guess we’re having pork and those potatoes. You makin’ gravy?”
I shook my head. “Gravy and I don’t get along. The upshot of that is I’m cutting down on the amount of fat and starch I eat, since that’s basically all gravy is.”
He blinked and made that face where I suspected my words hurt his ears. “How do you not ‘get along’ with gravy?”
I shrugged. “When I make it one of two or three things happens. It’s too lumpy, too runny, or tastes more like butter than gravy.”
His brows furrowed. “Tastes like butter?”
I nodded. “Or so douchebag Wycliffe told me when I tried starting a gravy from a roux.”
He shook his head. “We’ll get to the roux in a moment. He’s the guy who cleaned you out?”
I smiled. “Yeah, but as you might have guessed it was an alias which led authorities nowhere and made my credit card company think I was coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.”
His smile was small, but I could tell he fought smiling bigger. “All right. Well, how much butter did you use?”
“Too much, but I think it was three tablespoons. And just to say, I added the same amount of flour.”
He nodded. “Your roast gonna have juice?”
I nodded, because we were skirting double entendre territory.
He dipped his chin at me. “Then, I’ll make the gravy.”
“You do gravy?”
He arched a brow. “You makin’ somethin’ of it?”
I chuckled. “I would never. Thanks. It should be out in ten minutes.”
“YOUR MOTHER TEACH YOU to cook like this?”
I threw my head back and laughed. To most, his question wouldn’t seem so hysterical, but the notion of Mom teaching me to cook was just that funny. I leveled my eyes at him. “No. She hated cooking. Being older than me, Suzy got saddled with dinner duty at a really young age and most often we ate frozen dinners or other frozen food items... if they were on sale, anyway.”
He shook his head. “Sorry I asked.”
“Don’t be. In a weird way it makes me more appreciative of the
