Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When the door of the bookshop opened, Eleanor looked up, expecting to see a customer. Instead, she saw her goofball of a little brother. Shane was waving his phone over his head in the same way that someone might wave an Olympic gold medal.
“I did it,” he said, coming to the desk where she had been inputting new inventory orders. “I finally did it.”
Eleanor chuckled at his antics. “I assume you’re talking about the bet?”
“I am,” he said, waving the phone in indication. “And I even googled it this time, as per your helpful, if annoying recommendation.”
She arched a brow. “Okay, okay. Hit me. What do you have?”
Shane made a production of reading off his phone.
“For your consideration,” he said grandly, “I offer you…” There was a long dramatic pause.
“Rocky. Starring Sylvester Stallone, this Philadelphia classic was set and filmed in the nation’s first capitol city.
It was based off a legendary fight between two equally legendary boxers, Chuck Wepner and Muhammad Ali.
The screenplay was written by Stallone himself in a mere three days; the actor then insisted on starring in the 1976 blockbuster himself, even though United Artists wanted to cast a more famous actor.
This choice propelled Stallone into stardom, propelled Rocky into the highest echelons of the zeitgeist, and propelled me, Shane Ridley, into victory in our little battle of wits. And, scene.” He swept a bow.
Eleanor applauded. Really, he deserved it after that performance. And she could be gracious in defeat.
“Wow,” she said. “That was quite the speech.”
“Thank you,” he said, sliding his device back into his pocket. “Obviously I prepared it ahead of time. I really wanted to lean into the drama of the moment, you know?”
“Stallone himself would be proud,” she complimented.
“Thank you,” he repeated. “Anyway, obviously I am the winner, and as the winner winner, I would like a chicken dinner.”
It was hard to say what seemed to please him more: the victory itself or the silly children’s rhyme that he invoked.
“More specifically,” he said, “I want that delicious prosciutto-wrapped chicken that you made for New Year’s that one time.”
Eleanor had to pause to think about what he meant. “The—Shane, that was like ten years ago!”
A dreamy look crossed her brother’s face. “I know. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It was so good, Ellie. So good. Like, so, so good. So, so—”
“Okay, I get it,” she interrupted, laughing. “I think I made it with some kind of sauce…”
“It was a creamy mustard sauce,” he chimed in. “And you served it over a risotto with mushrooms and spring asparagus. I know, because I dream about it. If I ever asked for a last meal, it would be that one.”
The sting of losing, faint though it had been, was even further diminished by the praise that her brother was heaping upon her cooking, not to mention the detail with which he recalled a meal she’d fed him years prior. It was beyond flattering.
“Well, I don’t think we have to wait for it to be your last meal,” she said. “I am happy to make that for your prize dinner. I could also make it for, say, your birthday or something. It’s not a once-a-decade level of effort, little brother.”
He closed his eyes in apparent bliss, as though he was already tasting the dish that he liked so much.
“I knew moving to this town was worth it,” he murmured, then opened one eye to peer at his sister. “Don’t tell Winnie I said it like that. Don’t make her think that I like your chicken more than her. I like her more. By at least a little.”
His mischievous grin made it obvious that this last part was said only in jest, not that Eleanor doubted it. Anyone with eyes could see that Shane and Winnie were nuts about one another.
“Well, I am happy to give you an evening that includes both your beloved girlfriend and your favorite dinner… not to mention your best ever sister and her boyfriend.”
“Lucky me,” Shane said, smiling.
“Just choose the date and time, and I’ll have it for you.”
Shane did an adorable, if extremely dorky, little victory dance.
“Wonderful, I’ll confer with Winnie.”
“Confer,” Eleanor echoed. “You have a lot of vocabulary happening today. Did you get a word of the day calendar or something?”
“Don’t judge a man for bettering himself,” her brother retorted immediately. “Anyway.” He tapped the counter, then began to head back toward the door. “Don’t buy wine for the meal. I’ll buy the wine. You get yours from the grocery store probably.”
Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with getting wine at the grocery store?”
“Right,” Shane said, nodding like she was agreeing with him. “Exactly.”
“No, Shane, I… Shane! What’s wrong with getting wine at the grocery store?”
“Never change, sis!” he called, halfway out the door.
“But Shane! Shane, I—”
The door clicked shut behind him.
She frowned at the blank panel of wood that now obscured her brother from her glare. Had he just been messing with her? Was her wine acquisition process somehow inferior to whatever secret method he deployed?
She was going to make that little punk sorry for underestimating her. She was going to make him the best gosh darn dinner of his life. She was even going to find a really good bottle of wine, and then she would make him admit that he liked it! He would be sorry for underestimating her.
Admittedly, she wasn’t sure that giving someone a really good dinner was a strong way to make them rue their words, but they all had to eat. And it wasn’t like Eleanor didn’t like good food and wine too.
So, all in all, she had to decide that this bet had ended quite nicely for everyone, indeed.