I dumped the load in the garbage can and swiped her phone from her hold.

“Give me that.” She reached for it, but I dodged away.

“These weren’t coated in breadcrumbs.”

“I didn’t have any.”

I looked at the stove and saw no pan. “You didn’t fry them.”

“Frying isn’t healthy.”

I scanned the seasonings, their labels faded and ancient. “These spices are older than me.”

“So? They’re spices. They don’t expire.”

“They do.”

She tilted her head. “Really? I thought maybe they just became less flavorful, so I doubled them.”

“Lemme get this straight.” I gripped her chin and tilted her head up to pull her attention away from the spices that old Mrs. Anderson had likely brought over on the Mayflower. “You followed the recipe exactly except you didn’t use breadcrumbs, you baked instead of fried, and you coated them in seasonings that expired around the time movies started having audio.”

Her cheeks flushed even redder, her eyes going huge. “I just… I thought…”

Her words trailed off, and she froze, but I didn’t.

I laughed. And while I did that, I did something stupid.

I pulled her close and hugged her.

Just for a second.

Then I released her before she could push me away—or knee me in the junk. “Go sit down. I’ll clean this up.”

She stared at me, her poker face giving me jack-shit. It would’ve been impressive had it not been so damn frustrating. ’Cause, for whatever reason, I wanted to know what she was thinking. Feeling.

After a moment, she shook her head. “You don’t have to. I’ll take care—”

“I got this. Go decide what you want on our pizza.”

At that, her face lit before she hid that reaction, too. “I’ve got a lot of heat-and-eat meals. I won’t starve. You don’t have to take pity on me.”

“I don’t pity you, Mac.”

Far fuckin’ from it.

I kept that to myself and ordered, “Go sit down.”

“You have better things—”

“I already planned to see if you wanted to hang out tonight.”

Her gaze narrowed as she eyed me skeptically. “You did?”

“Yeah. Was gone for work all week, wanted to say hey, neighbor.”

She didn’t question that. Not what I did for a living that took me away all week and not why I wanted to have dinner with her.

I was grateful ’cause neither would be easy to explain.

Instead, she pointed out, “Pizza isn’t healthy.”

“You want something else instead?”

She shook her head.

“You want me to make veggies or some healthy shit to go with it?”

She nodded.

“Got it.”

For a moment, she just stood there. I braced for her to change her mind and kick me out, but she didn’t. “Pepperoni, extra cheese, and black olives.”

“See? Black olives make it healthy.”