Eat Crow (Cheap Thrills 6)

I doubt there was a greetings card that extolled the virtues and relief of having a clean and non-sweat-ridden butt crack, but there should be. And as soon as it was created, I wanted to buy them to send out to the guys at the department in the summer when I knew they’d understand what I meant.

That’s how I felt as I pulled on a pair of sweats and a clean t-shirt an hour later. Bex had taken one look at me as I’d gotten out of my truck and had known immediately what I needed. Granted, that might’ve been because of how I was walking, but still.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she called through the door, making me trip.

Seven years was enough time for someone to learn how to cook, right?

That had me thinking back over the meals we’d had together since she’d been back. Had she ever cooked?

I took the stairs slowly as I contemplated how I was going to word the question. Diplomacy was a virtue that people needed to employ more.

Unfortunately, I also forgot that mantra when I saw the plates of food.

“Am I going to die if I eat this?”

Okay, I had issues with hot food going cold, food being reheated in case it gave me food poisoning, and also dying from her cooking. I could admit to my faults—even though they were rational in my mind.

Bex, who’d been putting two bottles of beer on the floor—which was our temporary dining table, apparently—froze and looked over her shoulder at me, then back down at the plates. The way she immediately

started chewing her lip didn’t put my mind at ease, either.

“As in—did I reheat it? No,” she answered hesitantly. “But I did cook it.”

My reaction would’ve been a hasty step away from the plates, but I managed to hold myself in check. “Uh…” An excuse, any excuse at all, not to eat it would’ve been great at that moment, but in my panic, my mind went blank.

“I can cook a couple of things now, and this is one of them.” The uncertain tone of her voice said otherwise, and then she added, “But I haven’t made it in a long time.”

Now, my parents didn’t raise me to be rude, especially given how much she was doing for me, so I bit my tongue and sat down in front of one of the plates and smiled at her.

“Sounds good!” There, that was polite, right? And science and medicine had come along in leaps and bounds for things like e-Coli, salmonella, listeria, and shit like that—I hoped.

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

Staring at it, I tried to take a stab at what I thought it would be. “Beef stew. I love beef stew.”

“It’s chicken in a cream sauce.”

I wasn’t quick enough to hide the body jerk away from it this time. “But the sauce and meat are brown? How’s that chicken and cream?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared down at the plate on her side of the floor space as I carefully reached around the plate to get my beer. “I don’t know. Wait, maybe I used beef by mistake.”

I’d just taken a mouthful of my beer and choked on it. There’s no way you could mistake chicken for beef.

By the time she came back from checking in the kitchen, I’d managed to get air into my lungs and was starting to breathe normally again.

“No, it’s definitely chicken, so I’m not that dumb. I just don’t know why it’s brown?”

Because it’s death on a plate?

Looking down at it and then back up at her, I made a choice. I was going to be grateful, and probably have a funeral next week because I was trying it.

Reaching out a shaky hand, I picked up the fork and scooped up a piece of ‘chicken in cream sauce’, praying she’d take pity on me before it reached my mouth.

I had my eyes closed, so when it finally touched my bottom lip I flinched but opened wider to put it in my mouth.

“Wait, no, don’t do it. If I killed you, I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life. Hell, I can’t even bring myself to eat it, and I cooked it. I’ve got the stuff for subs in the fridge and a good selection of chips, we’ll have that.”

The second I heard the word ‘wait,’ I dropped the fork back onto the plate and picked up the napkin to wipe my mouth.