LITMIR.BIZ

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same wavelength. Sort of.

      “Do you mind?” I said, hoping he would suddenly find some other venue for his slacker revue tonight.

      “Nah.” He shrugged. “I’ll just watch the game in my room.”

      So much for getting him out of the apartment. I had forgotten about the Yankee game. There was no way I could hide my embarrassing little ploy now, I thought, heading for the kitchen to tackle my next project: domestication. It wasn’t that I couldn’t cook at all—I make a mean marinara—it’s just that I stuck pretty much to those things which wouldn’t kill anyone if I messed them up. But if I was going to make Kirk pine for the woman he could possibly lose, I had to tackle something a guy like Kirk could understand: meat.

      I headed for the fridge, where I had stacked a package of perfectly cut—or so said the butcher at Lenny’s Meats—perfectly thick and perfectly frightening sirloin steaks. I wasn’t a veggie or anything, I just was a little afraid of foods that had the capability to inadvertently poison me if undercooked. I put the steaks carefully on the counter, wondering just how long I had to grill them on the George Foreman (a Christmas present from Sonny that I had yet to take out of its original packaging) to destroy any of that malicious bacteria I seemed to know way too much about for a woman with such limited culinary experience. Fortunately, my mentor in man-catching, Michelle, had loaned me her copy of Cooking With Style, which, despite the suspiciously bright platter of vegetables that graced the cover, had a section on grilling.

      Flipping the book open, I was amazed at how easy it all seemed. Six minutes for each side? No problem. Knowing that timing was everything, I set the asparagus to steaming and tossed the potatoes in the microwave. This was easy, I thought, laying the steaks on the hot grill just as the buzzer rang.

      “I’ll get it!” I yelled, running for the intercom, though Justin hadn’t budged from the couch.

      “Hey, it’s me,” came Kirk’s voice as I pushed the listen button. I depressed the door buzzer with something like dread. Then I immediately went to the front door and waited, as if by greeting him at the door I could protect him from my own madness—or Justin’s all-knowing gaze. When I heard him ascend the third flight, I stepped into the hall.

      “Hey,” I said, as he approached.

      “Hey, Noodles,” he said, his face creasing into a smile that made me feel guiltier and guiltier. Clearly I wasn’t cut out for this level of subterfuge.

      He kissed me, his eyes roaming over my face as if he could see the deceit there. And there must have been something in my expression because he asked, “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing!” I said quickly, turning and leading him down the narrow hall toward the living room.

      “Hey, Captain Kirk, what’s up, man?” Justin said with a wide grin from his—semipermanent, I hoped—position on the couch.

      I felt Kirk stiffen with tension beside me. Though Kirk had been forced to accept the fact of Justin’s presence in my life from day one, it was clear he didn’t always approve of Justin’s seemingly carefree lifestyle. Justin must have sensed this, as he seemed to revel in his slacker ways in Kirk’s presence. But Justin did make some attempts to bond, I suppose. Like the whole Trekkie thing. When Justin discovered Kirk was a fellow Star Trek fan, he took great delight in rehashing the finer plot points of what he considered the Great Episodes, while Kirk couldn’t get past the way Justin took the good captain’s name in vain every time Justin greeted him.

      “Justin,” he said with a curt nod. And while I was pointedly rolling my eyes toward Justin’s room in a silent message that I hoped said, Time for you to go, Justin was gazing happily at Kirk as if he was his new best friend.

      And apparently he was, judging by the way Kirk’s own eyes lit up when he spied the television screen. “Is that the Yankee–Red Sox game?” he said, swiftly leaving my side and planting himself cozily beside Justin on the couch.

      Oh, brother. Now how was I going to get Justin the hell out of here?

      I decided that the best I could do at the moment was hit the kitchen. After all, I had bigger things to tackle at the moment. Like meat.

      I headed for the kitchen, where those bloody red steaks still sizzled. Thank God I had asked the butcher to cut an extra steak. It looked like I would be cooking for three.

      I can do this, I thought, when I had flipped all the nicely browned steaks and began placing the freshly steamed asparagus on a serving platter and pulling the baked potatoes out of the microwave. Studying my handiwork, I realized I was practically a Domestic Goddess.

      Once the six minutes designated for side two were up, I pulled one of the steaks off the grill and cut into the middle, just to make sure they were good and cooked and I wasn’t about to poison myself, my best friend and my, um, future husband. Red juice rushed out, sending a shiver through me. There was no way we could eat these like this, I thought, my head filled with visions of dancing microbes. That cookbook couldn’t have been right….

      I threw the steak back on and closed the lid on the George Foreman, just as the intercom buzzed.

      “I’ll get it!” I said, rushing for the intercom with an anxious glance at the sofa. Kirk continued to stare at the TV, unfazed. Justin, on the other hand, looked over at me, his eyes narrowed.

      Hands trembling, I pushed the talk button, praying my beloved roommate wouldn’t betray me now. “Yes?”

      “Flower delivery,” said a voice with a thick Spanish accent. I glanced over at the couch. Now I had Kirk’s attention, I realized. But the thrill of victory was quickly squashed by the look on Justin’s face as he sat back, folding his arms across his chest. He knew what I was up to. With a quick don’t-you-dare-say-a-word glare that I hoped Kirk didn’t pick up on, I headed for the door and swung it open.

      Only to discover the deliveryman holding what looked like some sort of flower bush. A very large flower bush. “What the—” I stopped myself, glancing back into the living room, where Kirk and Justin looked on. Where are my roses? I wanted to scream but couldn’t for obvious reasons.

      “Flowers for Miss—” the man began, studying the order slip he clutched in his free hand. “DiFranci?”

      I sighed. A florist who couldn’t even get a name as easy as DiFranco right obviously hadn’t been the best choice for this ridiculous plan of mine. Correction, Michelle’s. Why had I listened to her anyway?

      As I stared at that large pink bush, I realized this screwup by Murray’s had left me with a way out of this ridiculous scheme. “There must be some kind of mistake,” I began. “I didn’t order a…a…plant.” That was the truth, right? I had ordered roses. One dozen long-stemmed ones. At $54.95.

      A frown creased the man’s features. Lifting the order slip closer to his face, he squinted at it. “Miss, the order here says I am to deliver these flowers to Miss Angela DiFranci?”

      “I’m sorry but, I can’t accept—” I glanced back when I realized that Kirk now stood at the end of the hall. Of course, Justin stood just behind him, the smirk on his face even more pronounced now.

      “What’s going on?” Kirk asked. “Is there a problem?”

      “Mmm, nothing. Just go back to your game. I think they have the wrong apartment.”

      “No, miss. It says right here that I’m to deliver these flowers to Miss Angela DiFranci, three-forty-seven East Ninth Street, apartment three-B.” Then, squinting at the slip, he said, “The order was placed by—”

      “Okay, okay,” I said, grabbing the offending plant and pulling some cash out of the pocket of my jeans to silence my plant-wielding nemesis.

      God knows how many singles I handed the guy, because with a wink and a smile, he disappeared before I could even ask for pruning directions. I only prayed that this bush I was now the proud owner of wasn’t any more expensive than the roses I had ordered. And that Kirk would at least get some of

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