Two hours go by. I should be hungry; the breakfast Joss made me was a lifetime ago. But my empty stomach doesn’t grumble. I forget it’s there, even as a headache throbs in my temple. It’s like PTSD cut the connection between my brain and my belly. Like itknowsthat low blood sugar heightens anxiety, and it wants to be the cruelest motherfucker there is.
The kitchen door swings open. Joss blows through it with a box on one shoulder and a produce bag tucked to his chest. His pockets are full of…potatoes, and he has a credit card stuffed in his mouth.
It’s a sight bizarre enough to wipe just about anything from my mind.
I push off the counter and meet him in the middle, taking the box from his shoulder and the card from his mouth.
He shows me his teeth. “Cheers, mate.”
“You’re welcome. Why do you have Yukon Golds tumbling out of your pockets?”
“Because I brought a sample back from the farm and the bag broke.”
Put like that, it’s not as bizarre as it first appeared. “What else did you get?”
“Chicken from Harrison’s fella’s farm, beef from whatshisface, and weed buns from a cheese factory.”
Okay, maybe it is bizarre. I blink. “Rewind that shit. You got chicken from Finn?”
“Yup.”
“Beef from the Holbert’s farm?”
“Yup.”
“And…actually, I got nothing for the last part. I can name eleventy cheese producers off the bat, but you’ll have to explain the weed buns.”
Joss grins wider. “I got lost and the map was pissing me off, so I turned down a street called Cheesefactory Road. It took me to a hemp farm, and they make bread, and I needed a supplier for the burgers I’m going to make, so—” He runs out of breath and the potatoes fall out of his pockets.
We both crouch. I grab the ones nearest me, but Joss is distracted by the fryers. He crawls to the oil compartment and opens the door, fiddling inside with something I can’t see. Then he stands and turns them on, and I realize I’ve lost him.
I pick up the rest of the potatoes and take a peek inside the box on the counter and the one he’s abandoned on the floor. The hemp buns look good, but they smell weird. Can’t lie, I’m suspicious. “Do they get you high?”
“Hmm?”
“The buns.”
Joss returns to me, literally and mentally. He unpacks the buns and lays them on the counter. “Nah, it’s botanical cannabis. None of the good stuff, but it’s sustainable as fuck and they taste better than they look, trust me.”
I do. “Um. Okay.”
“Not for chicken, though.” Joss fishes a package of chicken from the box and taps his fingers on the counter. He does that a lot, and I can’t tell if it’s a tic from his Tourette’s or a coping mechanism to help him focus. Part of me wants to still his restless hands. The rest of me is so fascinated by him that I absorb every trait and nuance without giving it much thought.
“Do you want me to light the grill?”
Joss shakes his head. “Not yet. I’ve got prep to do first, and I don’t want to smoke you out.”
“It won’t smoke. I burned all the residue off when I installed it.”
“You did?”
“Set the smoke alarms off at shit o’clock in the morning. Tanner was pissed as hell with me.”
Joss laughs. “I bet. Thanks, though. I fucking hate that smell.”
“Sure thing.” I lean against the counter again. I have nothing else to do and zero excuses for ignoring the job quotation requests sitting in my inbox, the text from my brother, or the online therapy session I need to complete, but watching Joss bustle around the kitchen I built is fun.
I show him where the knives are. The cutting boards. The grilling utensils. “There’s still money in the budget if you want one of those potato-peeling machines.”
