It was certainly…something. Even if he couldn’t exactly identify what any of the particular ingredients were. Or what they’d looked like in their original state. Either way, he doubted that anything in front of him could have been found in nature.
On the plate was a crumble of something that looked worryingly like graham cracker crumbs. Over that were little, burned crescents of pink something. The dish was garnished with a thick, chunky red sauce in the shape of what appeared to be a penis.
At least there was water in his glass to wash it down.
“Today I’ve prepared for you a hot dog hash over a Bugle crostini, served with a ketchup-and-relish gastrique and finished with a drink of my own creation. I call it Hobo Tears.”
He stared at her, gauging whether she really expected him to eat it.
“So, they, uh, they still make Bugles, huh?” He scraped his fork along the dish, trying to catch a few morsels without trying the charred pink mass.
He failed.
Little tidbits of blackened, processed meat were mixed into every crevice of her crispy crust.
“Well, yeah, but that brand was recalled a couple weeks ago. I’m pretty sure I bought it before then, though.”
He tapped his fork against the plate, not sure whether he was willing to go gently into this particular good night, but the pleading pout of her lips could only get her so far. He reached for water, took a big swig, and promptly sprayed it back out in shock.
“Is that grain alcohol?” he sputtered.
“Um, what did you think hobo tears would taste like?” She used her massive skirt to dab some of the alcohol from her face. “And no offense, but if this is your big first-date wooing, I have to tell you, I’ve been seduced more successfully by strippers.”
He cleared his throat, but a sticking sweetness clung to his tonsils. “What is that aftertaste?”
“Oh, I added a little bit of white Mountain Dew. You know, for flavor. Don’t you like it?”
“I—” He didn’t know what to say, but thankfully the doorbell rang to save him from either lying to her and dying—or telling her the truth and still probably dying.
Avery shuffled to the door, and her face lit up at the sight of the delivery guy. Before she could reach for her purse, Holden nudged her out of the way and paid for her meal.
She lifted a tin out of the paper sack and tucked in, chowing down on a giant pile of nachos, one chip at a time. “This is my absolute favorite. It goes great with Hobo Tears.”
“I’ll bet.” Holden sat on the couch and patted the seat beside him. So what if she couldn’t cook? He liked it better that way, even if he couldn’t explain why. Plus, that meant he would never have to live through dinner parties.
It was perfect, really.
She was perfect.
“So, what do we do now on our awesome first date?” Her plate was nearly empty. What a difference it made when the food was edible.
“Anything you want.”
“I already got what I wanted.” She winked.
“So, you think you won with ketchup sauce and grain alcohol?”
“I didn’t phone it in. Literally.”
He stole a chip from her container, then added, “A person can’t cook with exclusively discontinued or recalled items. Cooking in your kitchen is like trying to amputate a limb with a rusty fork.”
“I can’t help it if you’re not as versed in the culinary arts as I am.” She tossed him a haughty grin.
“Well, I think we have to call it a draw,” Holden said. He paused, reclining into the lumpy couch cushions. “So, do we both win? Or do we both lose?”
“We both win, I think.”
His heart leapt, though it wasn’t necessarily due to excitement. Because she’d won, there would be sex. And it was sure to be amazing.