“Can’t make any promises,” I called back.

But when I ate, I did it while watching something else.

It was the least I could do in return for the best fried chicken and sides I’d ever had.

* * *

“Hey, neighbor,” Ward greeted as he pushed through the door I cracked open. He kept going, carrying whatever into the kitchen.

I followed, watching speechlessly as he opened my cupboards and pulled out plates and utensils.

“You watch our show last night?” When I didn’t answer, he turned. “Mac.”

“What?” I gave my head a little shake. “What’re you doing?”

“Plating up dinner. Greek chicken.”

I should’ve argued. He didn’t need to bring me food every night. I had a perfectly acceptable frozen dinner that I could microwave, no actual cooking necessary.

He especially didn’t need to waste his night hanging out with me.

I liked being alone. It wasn’t a big deal.

But as I watched him plate up a fresh batch of the grilled romaine, I pressed my lips together.

I would tell him to knock it off.

Later.

After dinner.

And popcorn.

* * *

Hollywood

“She said your fried chicken is the best thing she’s ever eaten.”

At my words, Swedes pulled his attention away from the worn deck of cards he shuffled. “Yeah? And? Anyone with taste buds knows it’s better than that bland, mass-produced crap served in paper buckets with dry-ass biscuits.”

“Not the best chicken she’s ever had,” I said. “Best thing. Period. Which is bullshit ’cause I just made her steak.”

That didn’t make Swedes smile. It made him grin as he puffed his chest out. “Not surprised.”

Might not be surprised, but he was pleased as fuckin’ punch. Bet he’d make her a fresh batch every day if she asked, just to hear her praise.

Sitting down at the table across from him, I clicked my pen. “Tell me you’ve got a good pasta and vegetable recipe. Something with broccoli and spinach. Shit that’s good for her.”

He signaled for me to toss over the pad of paper and pen, but he didn’t start writing. His gaze narrowed, and he threatened, “If you share these recipes, I’ll have a bunny rub Carolina reaper pepper on your dick and then waffle iron it. And that’s as close as you’ll ever get to one of my waffles again.”

The threat wasn’t empty—Swedes didn’t share his carefully guarded recipes with anyone. But it also didn’t matter. I wouldn’t share his secrets.

And a bunny wasn’t getting close enough to my dick to exact that revenge.

Even so, I couldn’t fight a wince, my dick hurting at just the idea.

“You have my word,” I said.