Next Season (The Elmwood Stories #2) Read Online Lane Hayes

Categories Genre: M-M Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
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“Jerk me off?”

“Yeah…that.”

“We didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do, asshole. So don’t act like you corrupted me with your magic fucking tuna fish. It’s good, but it’s not that good.”

I raised a brow. “Blasphème.”

Riley barked a laugh. “You’re so…weird.”

“And you’re the one eating tuna for breakfast,” I deadpanned.

“Touché.”

“Hmm. The way I see it is this…last night was good, but it can’t happen again. I gave up straight men who’re thinking gay thoughts many years ago. You’re on your own there. The good news is, you have queer friends here if you want to talk about bisexuality or whatever. I’m not that person. I am zee tuna salad person only. And the best way for me to support your um…healing process with the vitamins and omega compounds, etcetera, is to teach you how to make it yourself.” I picked up a can of dolphin-safe tuna and gestured at the label like a game-show model. “We begin with…the main ingredient. Voilà!”

“Oh, boy.” Riley rubbed his jaw and shrugged. “All right, fine. You win.”

I opened four cans and drained the water, explaining the difference between tuna canned in water versus brine while he rolled up the sleeves of his plaid button-down shirt and tied the apron around his slim waist. If I’d thought he was sexy before, he was positively delicious now.

Okay, maybe this was a bad idea. Concentrate, concentrate.

“Brine is salt water. I love salt, but it can be overpowering and we have to acknowledge that some people prefer low-sodium diets,” I replied.

“You mean they’re on low-sodium diets.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. We have the tuna, finely chopped red onion and celery, a bit of relish, garlic, salt and pepper, lemon juice, and of course, mayonnaise. After you drain the tuna, use a fork to separate it like so. You may finish the job while I measure the mayonnaise.”

Riley jabbed and poked at the fish with the prongs instead of the side of the fork. There was no point in discouraging him, so I ignored his messy technique and gave him a thumbs-up when it was flaky but not quite mutilated.

“Now what?”

“Add the mayo.” I passed the cup of mayo to him. “We are making enough for six healthy-sized sandwiches, so my recipe calls for one cup. This is a homemade mayo and it is literally my secret ingredient. You may substitute with store bought…and that is okay. Julia Child loved Hellmann’s. Use that.”

Riley grimaced. “Whoa. A cup? That’s disgusting. And what do you mean homemade? Do people really make their own mayonnaise?”

“I hate to break this to you, Riley, but there is no such thing as a mayonnaise tree. It’s a nice idea, though. I would love to plant one outside next to the herb garden and pluck jars off the branches whenever I need one, but sadly…they don’t grow in Vermont. Or…anywhere.”

He snickered. “You’re a dick.”

“I know. Now we continue. Add the—”

“Hang on. Why so much mayo? It isn’t good for you. Can we cut that in half?”

I stared at him until he burst into laughter. I had a hard time not joining in, and eventually I had to look away to hide my smile.

“Can we cut that in half?” I repeated. “Sure, Riley. Cut it in half and kill the flavor.”

“I thought salt added flavor.”

“So does fat. If you’re interested in a chemistry lesson…when fatty acids oxidize, they produce compounds that enrich—”

“Nope.” He waved dismissively and scooped the mayo in the bowl. “Not interested in the science part. Let’s carry on. What’s next?”

We added the sweet pickle relish, lemon juice, and garlic. Soon, it was time to chop. I had a feeling this would be the challenging part, and I was right.

“Please watch your fingers. I have a first-aid kit if necessary, but I’d rather not call the 9-1-1. That knife is very sharp,” I cautioned, hovering like a helicopter mom as he hacked a red onion into small slivers.

“How’s this?”

“Good.” It was terrible, but I was being nice and encouraging. See?

“Celery next?”

I nodded. “Cut it in half, then lengthwise into strips to make it manageable and—wait. What are you doing? Stop. Drop the knife. I’m calling the police.”

Riley snorted, his eyes alight with mischief and humor as he set the knife down and held his arms up in surrender. “What did I do?”

“You are murdering the celery. Murder.” I shook my head somberly and motioned for him to step aside. “Celery is good for texture. It gives an extra crunch, but it must be diced thinly or it becomes a celery salad and a choking hazard. No one wants either. Am I right?”

He chuckled. “You’re right. So…that’s it?”

“Yes. Add salt and pepper to taste, stir, and refrigerate till you’re ready to enjoy. Simple.” I pulled out a to-go container and transferred the tuna salad, added a few slices of rye bread to a bag, and pushed it across the island to him. “You’re all set.”


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