Too Darn Hot by Pamela Burford

each bite of tart that passed her lovely full pink lips. And like some lovesick fool, what had he done but leave one of the things on her doorstep. He’d been giddy with infatuation, playing out his part in a pathetic—and doomed—mating ritual.
    Little had he known that his offering was destined to be strewn across the parking lot at Rocky Bay Beach. The seagulls must have been ecstatic.
    Cookie said, “Send her a dozen of the damn things. No, two dozen. Let her worry about freezer space.”
    *
    “With Chef Reid’s compliments. He, like, said to say that.”
    Standing in the doorway of her apartment, Lina stared at the young man leaning on a hand truck on which were perched two large cartons. He wore a wavy black ponytail and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “What’s in these?” she asked.
    He shrugged and started to heft the top box. “Where do you want ‘em?”
    “I want them to stay right here until you show me the contents.”
    The youth produced a penknife, slit the packing tape, and opened the carton. Bakery boxes filled it. Lina’s eyes bulged when she lifted the lid on one.
    “I don’t believe this.” The slimeball was still at it—still trying to bribe her! Had he no shame?
    “So where do you want ’em?”
    “I don’t,” she gritted.
    “Huh?”
    “I won’t accept them. Take them back.”
    “I can’t do that. He’ll, like, totally go off the wall if I bring these things back.”
    “Not my problem. Tell Chef Reid I’ve never been so insulted.” She slammed the door in the kid’s bewildered face.
    *
    “Any more brilliant ideas?” Eric asked. He and Cookie stood staring at the twenty-four bakery boxes that Lina Holland had thumbed her nose at.
    “This offering was too paltry, you think?” she asked.
    “Insultingly paltry, according to her nibs.”
    She pursed her lips in deep cogitation. “Okay. Here’s what you do.”
    *
    “You gotta take it!” the youth with the hand truck wailed. “He made that, like, totally clear. I’m dog meat if I come back with this stuff, man. Uh, ma’am.”
    “What’s your name?” Lina asked.
    “Jason.”
    “Do you work for Mr. Reid, Jason?”
    “Yeah, I, like, wash the pots and stuff. And I make deliveries. I’m new.”
    Obviously the replacement for the dishwasher who’d had a fondness for, as Cookie had put it, tee many martoonis.
    “Jason. Listen carefully. Are you listening?”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “I refuse to accept this delivery.”
    “Take a look before you say that. Just take a look. This is, like, totally outrageous stuff.” He cut open a carton—one of ten that he’d hauled up to her apartment hallway before ringing her bell. “This caviar? It costs, like, I don’t know, a hundred bucks an ounce or something. It’s the good stuff, the little bitty black kind, see?”
    He displayed a tiny jar of beluga caviar. She could almost taste it. Add a little chopped onion and egg, a shot of frozen Gray Goose...
    Peeking into the carton, she counted eleven more jars of the pricey delicacy. She restrained a groan of frustration and tore her gaze away. “Put it back.”
    He opened another box before she could stop him. It was packed with bundles wrapped in white paper. “You like chopped liver? I mean, whachacallit, pâté? There’s some of that in here. Chef Reid makes it himself out of duck livers. Sounds gross, but it’s, like, totally fine. And there’s all different kinds of outrageous cheeses and stuff.”
    She couldn’t speak, her mouth was watering like a faucet.
    He slit another box. The ambrosial aroma of fine coffee wafted from it. “There’s, like, a whole assortment in here, regular and decaf,” he said, pulling out sacks of coffee beans and tins of gourmet teas. He peered at a label. “Raspberry hazelnut creme. All right! Hot-date java!”
    She couldn’t help herself. “What else did he send?”
    “Well, there’s all these cakes and desserts and fancy breads Mr. Reid makes, some kind of flavored oils with, like, I