Chapter 18
MEAT CUTE
RORIE
YASSSSS, join us! We’re making sculptures that speak to the soul. Mine might have abs. And a tail. TBD.
I don’t even want to IMAGINE what Jeremy’s soul sculpture looks like.
His will probably something with fangs and commitment issues.
You say that like it’s a bad thing. Art is pain. And also a little horny.
I’m staying in tonight. Catch you weirdos on the flip side.
Coward. Respectfully, J
You’re missing out. This is how geniuses are born.
Have fun.
Muncan Food Corp smells like smoked tradition and deli-born pride. Salt and spice drift in the air, clinging to walls, shelves, skin. One breath, and you know exactly where you are: somewhere sacred, savory, and unapologetically cured.
A slicer whirs. A lady hassles a worker over the wrong salami. I breathe it all in. Aromatherapy for the emotionally damaged.
I don’t come often, only when I’m in the mood to pretend I’m building a charcuterie board for guests I don’t have. Today is one of those days. An edible distraction is the thing that might shut up the mental monologue titled: Why Carl Suddenly Turned Into a Brooding, Dickhead.
I grab a wedge of manchego and drop it into my basket with unnecessary force, follow it with a sleeve of fig crackers I absolutely do not need. Self-control is not on the menu.
More people enter the store. I ignore them. I’m too busy inspecting a jar of imported mustard I’ll never open when I round the corner and stop cold.
Nolan “Why-the-Fuck-Are-You-in-My-Meat-Market” Rhodes stands in front of the glass case like it’s the Louvre, wearing shorts and a tshirt. The backward baseball cap is just cruel. Built biceps and veined forearms flex as he points at a cut of steak. I’m not proud of the sound my throat makes.
My rival looks wildly out of place and unfairly edible. Did he stumble into my quiet Queens meat temple just to mess with my blood pressure?
One hand slides casually in his pocket. The other holds a basket full of stuff. Of course he sees me at the exact moment I try to pivot and pretend I didn’t.
Nolan blinks, then grins when he sees me. A slow, toe-curling grin that should come with a smoke alarm and a fire extinguisher.
“Well, well.” His gaze prowls over me in a way that’s far too appreciative for a deli aisle. “Didn’t peg you as a meat market regular.”
“Ditto,” I deadpan. “Though, on second thought…”
He laughs. “This place is my secret weapon. Been coming here for years.”
I glance up at the thick sausages swinging from their hooks above him then on instinct—because my brain is in the gutter—my traitorous eyes drop to the front of his gym shorts.
“So, Adams, this is where you come for all the thick meat?”
My eyes snap back up at him. He smirks.
“I could ask you the same.”
His teeth catch on his bottom lip.
“It looks like someone already stole the best cuts.” I shoot him a look. “Shocking.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “I got here first. And I’ve already told you…I prefer strategically acquired.”
“Mhm.”
He follows me through the narrow aisles, two steps behind. I pretend not to notice. He pretends not to be watching the way my ponytail swings.
We reach the checkout, and while I’m digging in my crossbody purse for my card, he sidesteps me, slides his steak onto the belt like we’re grocery shopping together, and pays without breaking stride.
“I don’t–why did you do that?”
The cashier hands me the bags. He snatches the heavier one out of my grip before I can argue.
“I’m just being neighborly,” he says.
“Please tell me you don’t live here.” I follow him toward the door.
“I don’t. Tribeca. And I’m being a gentleman, Adams.”
“Didn’t know you knew how to.”
“Occasionally.” He pushes open the door and steps aside so I can pass. The early evening air wraps around us like a weighted blanket, sun slipping low over Astoria, golden light sprawling across the brick buildings and fire escapes.
“So, you live nearby?” he asks casually, adjusting the bags in his hands as we step onto the sidewalk.
I stop walking. “What are really you doing in my neighborhood, Rhodes?”
He smirks. “Meat. I told you.”
“That better be all you’re here for.”
His eyes sparkle with zero innocence. “Can’t a guy pick up a few steaks without getting interrogated?”
“We keep running into each other and I’m starting to wonder if you’re stalking me.”
“Trust me, Adams,” he says. “I’m definitely not stalking you. But the universe obviously has a plan.”
“Right. A plan.”
Nolan lifts a shoulder, biting back a grin, and that damn dimple is cocky as ever. I should be alarmed. Instead, my pulse kicks.
As he carries the bags, I watch his muscles shift beneath that tight tshirt, and several thoughts enter my mind, ones that should be censored.
The sun catches on his stubbled jaw, then climbs higher over cheekbones, the slope of his neck, up to that stupid backwards hat barely keeping his hair in check.
Nolan walks up to a man standing by a sleek black car, looking mildly amused as Nolan hands off a few of the groceries and then turns to me.
“Your executive privilege is showing,” I say.
“You’re not wrong.” He smiles. “You need a lift?”
“I can walk.”
“You sure? It’s hot. And the bag are heavy.” He gestures to my groceries.
“They’re not heavy. I’m good,” I say, raising an arm, but he holds the bags out of reach.
“I’ll consider it cardio,” he says.
I let out a sigh, dramatic and mostly performative. “Fine.”
“I’ll text you,” he tells the man who nods at his instruction and opens the driver’s side door and gets in.
“Lead the way.” Nolan grins wider—full-blown satisfaction blooming across his face as he follows me down the block like this is some weird, meat-centric rom-com we accidentally wandered into.
We walk side by side, the hush between us buzzing with tension, like a fuse inching toward a flame.
The disappearing light filters through the leaves above, causing fractured shadows to dance across the pavement.
Somewhere nearby, a delivery truck rattles by and a kid shouts from an open apartment window.
I could pretend I’m focused on the street ahead, but the truth is—I’m hyper-aware of all things Nolan Rhodes right now.
The way his shoulder brushes mine whenever we drift too close. The way the paper bags crinkle faintly in his hands as he adjusts them. His spicy cedarwood scent cutting through the city air and messing with my resolve.
I sneak a glance as we cross the street. He’s relaxed, shoulders loose, no tension in his face, just an easy kind of calm, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. Each step beside him tightens the thread between us. And I don’t know where it’s pulling me, only that I’m not fighting it.
We turn the corner near my building, and his gaze flits to me. I keep mine stubbornly forward.
The worn brick facade rises above us like it’s judging the bad idea swirling in my mind right now. Like, inviting Nolan Rhodes up for a drink.
“This your spot?” he asks, nodding toward the building.
“Yeah,” I say, slowing to a stop at my stoop. “Drop-off zone ends here.”
He doesn’t hand over the bags. Not immediately. Instead, his eyes trail from my face to the curve of my shoulder, as though he’s working something out in his head.
“You want to grab a drink?” he asks suddenly.
Caught off guard, I blink. “What? Why?”
He shrugs, casual as hell. “Figured the least I could do is buy you a drink.”
“Why?” I repeat.
“For hogging all the good cuts. And, you know... emotional restitution.”
I fold my arms, one brow arching. “Emotional restitution?”
“That steak looked important to you.”
“It was. I made eye contact with it.”
“And I’m prepared to make amends. Preferably with wine. And professional destruction,” he adds. “Don’t forget that part.”
My mouth opens. Closes. My brain cranks up the wattage on the bad idea sign in my head. But my pulse says: just fucking do it.
“There’s a place around the corner,” I hear myself say. “Decent wine. Cozy.”
“Cozy huh?”
“Don’t get any ideas, Rhodes.”
“Well, lead the way, Adams. I’ll try to keep the ideas to a minimum.” He finally offers the bags. “I’ll wait here for you.”
I take them, careful not to touch him, though it still feels like we did. “Five minutes.”
Nolan’s grin kicks up half a notch. “I’ll time you.”
I roll my eyes and head up the steps, pulse quickening with each one.
Once inside, I dump the bags into the fridge, don’t even bother taking the contents out, and release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
What the hell just happened? Nolan Rhodes—steak thief, account pirate, living, breathing hot as fuck problem—is standing on my block, waiting for me to grab a drink with him.
Voluntarily.
I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror as I pass and immediately double back. Yikes. My hair’s a windblown mess and there’s the faintest sheen of sweat on my collarbone—not the sultry kind either, the drippy, hiked uphill in the heat of summer kind.
After tugging the elastic from my hair, I give it a quick brush until it falls into something closer to intentional waves.
A swipe of deodorant. No two. A tiny spritz of perfume.
Lip gloss. The bare minimum, I tell myself.
Not for him. For me. Because I look like an alley rat who wrestled another for a baguette.
I open the closet. My hand hovers over a black top with a plunging neckline that says I didn’t plan this but also, yes I did. I eye it. I eye my reflection. I eye the clock.
“I’m not changing for a man,” I mutter. “Especially not that man.”
Cut to: me, changing into the black top anyway.
As I’m slipping my lipgloss into my purse, I catch my reflection one more time. “Don’t do anything stupid, Adams, like kiss him,” I mutter, then leave and lock the door behind me.
And with that, I head back down, pretending I’m not about to meet the human embodiment of temptation for a drink around the corner.