The Lineup(52)

“You say that now. Just wait, one of these days I’ll make you try it. Maybe I’ll bring a guacamole platter over whenever Emory and Knox have another celebration.”

“Or, you can prove me wrong and bring it over this week. Show me what this comfort food is all about.”

She thoughtfully nods. “You know what, I will.”





“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful in my life,” I say, taking in the beautiful plating and artistic cuts of carrots, displayed on a wooden charcuterie board. Yellow and orange carrots decorate a wooden bowl of guacamole—sans tomatoes, smart woman—while sliced bell peppers border the outside. “You did this?”

She chuckles. It’s quiet, but it’s still there. “No, my chef made it for me. I don’t cook.”

“You don’t cook?” I ask, not understanding that concept. “Why not?”

“Never been good at it, never had the time to learn. My personal chef is amazing, so I just rely on him and his husband to feed me.”

“You don’t cook at all? Not even a little?”

“Does heating things up in the microwave count?”

“Not even,” I say, picking up a carrot in the shape of a flower. Who has time to do something like this?

I guess a personal chef.

“I’m afraid to eat these,” I admit. “They’re too fancy.”

“I have no problem with it.” Still in her suit jacket and matching skirt with light blue blouse, she takes a carrot flower, scoops up a chunk of guacamole, and pops it in her mouth, tearing the flower apart with her teeth. She closes her eyes and makes a yummy noise in the back of her throat. “So good, and better than your ice cream.”

I laugh at that and dip my carrot into the guac as well. “I can promise you one thing, this might taste good, but it’s not going to be anywhere near ice cream level.” I pop the carrot in my mouth and chew.

Yeah, it’s good. It’s a carrot with guac on it, but would I lean on this if I had a bad day? If I needed a pick-me-up? If I was trying to apologize to someone? Nope. This I’d eat during the season as a snack to stay healthy.

“What do you think? Amazing, right?”

I chew and swallow and then choose my words wisely.

On a steady breath, I clasp my hands together and say, “I’ve had better.”

“What?” Her eyes widen, playful insult taking over. “How on earth could you say that? This is clearly amazing, and your taste buds are lacking in sophistication.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I shake my head and hands, trying to erase her statement from the air. “You did not just say that.”

When I look up at her, she has a small smile playing against her lips. The light tug, that tiny hint of amusement, fuck, it turns my stomach upside down and unleashes all sorts of butterflies. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than the smallest of smirks from Dorothy Domico.

She casually picks up another carrot, dips it, and says, “You haven’t proven me wrong yet.”

“Are you challenging my palate?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh . . . It. IS. ON.” I push her platter away. “Take that somewhere else, I have some planning to do.” I grab a pen and a piece of paper from one of my drawers.

“Planning?” she asks, confused.

“Yeah, this Friday, you’re about to get schooled.”

“Schooled in what? Good food?”

“No.” I hold up the pen. “Not just good food, but how to make good food.”

She shakes her head and picks up her platter off the counter. “Oh, no. You’re not getting me in the kitchen. Nice try.” She flashes one hand. “These fingers don’t go near knives.”

“They will Friday.” I dab the pen tip on my tongue and pretend to write something down.

“You’re ridiculous. It’s not happening.”

“Oh, okay, sure . . . it’s not happening.” I stare her dead in the eyes. “It is so fucking happening.”





Dottie: I have to work late on Friday, sorry.

Jason: I’ll wait up. I’ll snack on some carrots and guac.

Dottie: Why do I feel like you’re being sarcastic?

Jason: I am. I don’t think I want that flavor combo in my mouth again.

Dottie: Just like I don’t ever want your potato salad in my mouth again.

Jason: DON’T. YOU. DARE. SAY. THAT.

Dottie: Why are you so dramatic?

Jason: Why are you so wretched?

Dottie: Wretched . . . or right?

Jason: Wretched, most definitely wretched.





Dottie: Just learned I have to go north for the weekend, so I really can’t make it Friday. I’m leaving Thursday night.

Jason: Who’s making you go?

Dottie: My inner self.

Jason: It’s not a work thing?

Dottie: No, it’s a sanity thing.

Jason: Great, I’ll pack my bags. We can make the cooking lesson an all-weekend thing.

Dottie: I’ll pass.

Jason: I can drive, but that means it’s my playlist.

Dottie: You’re not going.

Jason: Can you give me the address? I like to plan the trip.