Page 99 of Carry On
I recoiled, eyeing him closely.
“How hot is that?”
“I’m notthatmuch of an asshole,” he scoffed. “Okay, maybe I am, but the stove is off.”
“And has been for a while?” I demanded. “I like all my taste buds where they’re at, Nashville.”
“Open your damn mouth, Melvin,” he shot back, making me grin. I liked our back and forth. I opened like he asked, mostly because I trusted him, but also because my curiosity got the better of me.
The explosion of flavors on my tongue was instant, making me moan with appreciation. There was food, and then there was whatever the hell this man had just made. As he chuckled at my reaction, I took the spoon from him and helped myself to more. Fuck, I skipped the bowl and ate straightfrom the wok.
“Holy shit,” I let out around another mouthful. I didn’t have a clue what he’d made, but it was delicious.
“Go sit down, you fucking heathen.” He tried to take the spoon from me, but I swatted his hand away. Instead, I kept eating. “I’ll make you a damn plate!”
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I changed the topic. I had no intention of sitting down. Not when the good stuff was on the stove. It wasn’t like I wasn’t used to good food. I was. I knew a lot of fantastic restaurants in town. But cooking wasn’t my thing, and I rarely had time for it anyway, so a home-cooked meal was a treat.
“My mom worked in a Chinese restaurant when I was… fuck, I think I was eleven. Maybe I was twelve,” he explained. “Anyway, the guy who owned the place—Charles Wong—said I had an attitude problem.”
I snorted into my food.
“Fuck you,” Nash continued. “Anyway, he said that, if I was going to be a problem child, the least I could do for my mom was make sure she had a home-cooked meal after an extra shift. It taught me about patience and discipline, and it gave me an unhealthy love for knives.”
Laughing, I choked on my food. He slapped me on the back once like it’d help.
“Careful there,” he said. “Mr. Wong learned real quick that I couldn’t make anything other than a bowl of cereal, and he even criticized the way I poured the fucking milk. I ended up working and learning from him for years.”
“Forget you getting a job,” I replied as I set the spoon down. “Can I just pay you to cook?”
I was kidding. Mostly.
“I’m not that good,” Nash dismissed.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why do you always do that?” I demanded with a frown.
“I’m not doing anything,” he retorted.
“You are, though,” I said. “Every time I give you any kind of compliment, you find a way to dismiss it.”
“I don’t—”
“You do, though,” I interrupted him. “Any time I talk about your music, you dismiss it.”
“It’s just music,” Nash told me.
“But it’s not! You’re good—you’re better than good.”
“Drop it, Lincoln.” There was something in his tone that ticked me off. Why couldn’t he see how talented he was?
“No, I won’t. Do you not realize how fucking talented you are? Most people go through life without that kind of natural talent. I definitely have no fucking talent—”
“Leave it, Lincoln.”
“No—”
