Ted, he says.Not the Jif.
I’m still unpacking! And I don’t cook. What else am I supposed to eat?
Literally anything but that.
Thing is, I type,Jif has more calories than air, which is my only other option, so I think I’m going to stick with the Jif. Also, you didn’t answer my question—how are you?
Well, I was doing as well as could be expected for someone who’s about to eat his feelings in the form of a giant tub of gelato. But now I’m anxiously pacing my kitchen because you’re eating JIF for dinner.
“Alex has gelato?” I whine to Argos. “Salt in the wound.”
Ted, he says,where do you live?
In a very small, unpacked apartment that’s so hot I’m poaching in my own skin. Why?
Because I’m picking you up and feeding you. You can’t eat Jif for dinner.
My stomach flips.It’s midnight. Everything’s closed.
Not when your family owns a pizzeria and gelato shop. After-hours Luna’s is always open.
I nearly drop my phone again. I love Luna’s. That’s where Lauren and I had lunch yesterday.Are you serious?
I’m always serious about food, Ted. Let me know where to pick you up. I’m ready when you are.
Argos whines and nuzzles my elbow.
I send Alex my apartment’s address and type,How does after-hours Luna’s feel about welcoming a big, pea-brained yet adorable golden retriever?
After-hours Luna’s feels like he can sit outside the kitchen where animals belong and enjoy the night air.
Argos harumphs.
I smile as I type and then hit send.We can work with that.
“You really were hungry,” Alex says.
I come up for air from my perch on a prep table in the back of Luna’s, cradling the bowl of lasagna I’ve mostly demolished. “I really was. Thank you again. I’ll happily pay.”
Alex looks offended. “You will not.”
“Why?”
“First, because you’re a friend, and friends don’t pay. Second, because this food isn’t Luna’s. It’s mine.”
I blink down at the container. Then peer back up at him. “Wait,youmade this?”
“I’m going to try not to be offended by how surprised you sound.”
“No, no, I just assumed, when you handed it to me, that you’d gotten it from the kitchen fridge or something.”
“I brought it,” he says. “You must have missed me unpackingthe cooler when you were drooling over the gelato display and telling me the six-flavor combination you want.”
“Excuse me.” I stab another big bite of lasagna with my fork. “I was not drooling. But I absolutely did pick six flavors.”
A smile flashes across his face, and for just a moment, I recognize the handsome, happy guy from the cover of the cookbook Lauren gave me. Heat hits my cheeks. I need to stop thinking about that cookbook cover. And Lauren calling himHot Chef.
Alex’s smile falls as he watches me take another bite of lasagna. He says, “I really wish you’d have let me heat that up.”