I laughed and nodded. “That’s right. Well, I spent my teenage years hanging out with foster kids. Most of us were raised in front of television if the electricity bill was paid, so Brad and Jenn weaned us all off slowly. But their house was a revolving door, so Sunday nights was family movie night. The little kids usually wanted a cartoon. Peter Pan was a family favorite because Peter and The Lost Boys were kind of like us. Wendy reminded us all of Jenn. Anyway, in Peter Pan, Tiger Lily is a native princess. She’s so feisty and fearless. Anyway, when I got to the place, I actually didn’t like them. This one is a waterlily dahlia.”

Naomi leaned against the chair with her hip, crossing her arms while she stared at me. It was different somehow, but I couldn’t read her.

“Stupid?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.

“No. I’m currently fighting the urge to undress you.”

It took me a second to process her words, then my mouth stretched into a grin. “Why fight it?”

“What are we putting on the plates?” she asked, sitting.

“Huh? Oh!” I lifted a large brown paper sack from behind the chair by its handles.

“Take out?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said, setting the sack on the seat of my chair. I pulled out a silver, covered baking dish, then another, and another. I peeled back the lids, steam rolling out and filling the room with so many different, delicious smells.

“My mouth just started watering. I didn’t even know I was hungry. What’s that?”

“I cooked. No kitchen here, so I had to transport everything. But I timed it right. Everything’s still hot.”

“You made all of this?” she said, eyeing the table.

“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I pulled out all the stops. When I do this at home, my family calls it Around the World.” I loaded up her plate, naming everything as it landed. “Fattoush salad. Cajun broiled shrimp. Asian steak kabobs. Balsamic chicken breasts. Stout-braised short ribs. Mini burritos. Pierogis. Peruvian yellow potatoes, mashed. Brazilian cheese bread. And last but not least—” I jogged over to the small fridge and turned to face her with two cold bottles of imported beer. “Doppelbock. It’s German. I have a tarte tatin waiting in there for a French dessert.” I popped the beers, set them on the table, got rid of the sack and sat down across from her.

Naomi was uniquely beautiful, soft and severe like a tornado slowly rolling over the countryside.

“I … how am I going to eat all of this?” she asked.

“I made extra. The rest will go to Taylor and his girl.”

She placed the napkin on her lap. “I haven’t tried most of this before.”

“Good,” I said, digging into the salad.