God, I want to punch something.
That’s when I feel a cool hand on my arm. “I’m really sorry about all of this.” I blink down as my little neighbor looks back up at me with a tinge of fear in her eyes. “Let me clean this up for you.”
We stare at one another for a beat before I break the contact and shake my head. “Nah. I’ve got it.”
“But I feel terrible.”
“He your kid?”
She blinks, making her strawberry-blonde lashes flutter. She’s not wearing any makeup. Most of the women I know, especially when they’re having company or going out, have a face full of the stuff. Not that I mind it. It’s just a surprise, I guess. I let my eyes move lower to the smattering of freckles on her cheeks. A few of them even dot the bridge of her nose.
I’ll be damned.
This woman is all natural. I’ve taken a moment, several actually, to note her curves. She’s got lots of those. Everything about her is real and natural. The memory of seeing her bent over pulling weeds around the little tree on her side of the yard this morning and that ass of hers facing me, well, let’s just sayallof me woke up.
“Uh. No. He’s my great-nephew.”
Shit. I forgot what I asked her. “Not your fault or your problem, sweetheart.”
I hear a snicker from across the room, and both of us look up at her sister. She’s got a roll of toilet paper in one hand and a handful of tissue covered in lube in the other. “Did you say you had this under control? Because I’d like to get back to the party. I haven’t had a picklewich yet, and I’m pretty hungry.”
I look back down at the redhead. I know her name is Colette, I just haven’t gotten to first names with her in my head. Curvy, sexy, hot, ginger. Those are the words I’ve got rolling around in my skull when it comes to her. “What’s a picklewich?”
“Come on.” Red takes hold of my wrist. “I’ll show you.”
****
I stare down at the plate of food that Colette has set before me. “That’sa picklewich.”
Apparently, a picklewich consists of a bun, a tiny burnt hamburger patty, and a shit-ton of dill pickle slices.
“You see”—she leans down and whispers the next bit—“my dad loves to grill, but he’s terrible at it. He turns a perfectly good hamburger into a burnt, solid puck-like consistency requiring pickle slices to make it edible. Hence the name: picklewich.”
“I see.” I pick up the bun and stare at it. “Am I going to break a tooth?”
“Probably not.”
Not exactly the answer I was hoping for. Shrugging, I place the bun to my mouth and bite down. The bun, pickles, ketchup, and mustard all cut easily. When I get to the meat, however, things sort of stop.
“You can do it,” she urges. For some reason, hearing her say that makes me want to try harder. Forcing my teeth through the meat, I’m shocked at the flavor. “Blackened” is an understatement. I’ve had blackened things before, like fish, but this isn’t that. No, this is straight up petrified.
“How’d I do, son?”
I do my best to swallow, not choke, on the food. It takes great effort. All I can do in response is smile and hold up my thumb to show my approval.
“Thank you,” my neighbor says with sincerity. “Grilling is his passion.”
And that’s when I choke.
With laughter.
“I’m serious.” She frowns at me. “It’s his honest-to-goodness passion.”
“Oh.” I grab my glass of sweet tea provided to me by Sonia and take a drink, hoping to wash down whatever remains in my mouth. “I thought you were screwing with me.”
Damn. Iwishshe were screwing with me. As in actually screwing.
“No.” She’s still whispering. “He loves it. He’s just not … very good at it.”
