Page 35 of Trick
“No thanks necessary, darlin’.” I caught myself automatically giving her a wink and tried to stop and reverse course midway through. She looked at me with concern, as if she was afraid I was having a spasm or some shit like that. She had the good grace not to point that out, so I knew I needed to distract her before I made an even bigger damned fool of myself.
“Now, let’s figure out what to have for dinner. I was originally calling to invite you to out to eat, but with that email bullshit going on, I think we should stay in tonight.” I didn’t wait for a response before walking into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator, which contained a half-empty bottle of mustard, a handful of ketchup and hot sauce packets from various fast-food restaurants, a bottle of caramel-flavored coffee creamer, and several take-out containers.
A quick glance in the freezer showed there weren’t any better options in there, so I crossed over to the pantry and opened the door, only to drop my head in disbelief at the sight of the junk food lining the shelves.
“Why don’t you have any food?” I asked, which, in hindsight was not the most tactful thing to say, but damn, all she had was a lot of frozen and prepackaged, processed shit.
She paused in the act of sorting through a stack microwavable meals in the freezer and turned to look at me, complete confusion written all over her face.
“What?” She gestured to refrigerator, and then the pantry. “I have food.”
“No, babe, this is all crap. I’m talking aboutactualfood. Vegetables, grains, proteins…” I trailed off as she shook her head and shut the freezer door.
“Let me guess,” she said with a roll of her pretty green eyes, “you’re a health nut? You live on a diet of kale smoothies,plain chicken breasts, and sadness, and think of quinoa as a decadent treat you’re allowed to splurge on once in a while?”
“No,” I protested. “but I don’t live on Pop Tarts, Hot Pockets, and Slim Jims either. I do eat healthy meals as much as I can, and I have a protein smoothie for breakfast most days, but I had pizza for lunch yesterday, as a matter of fact.” I didn’t mention that it was a veggie pizza on a cauliflower crust, since I didn’t think that would bolster my argument in the slightest.
I nudged her to the side and peered into the refrigerator again, then pointed out, “Everything you have in this house is either microwavable, or processed crap full of sodium, preservatives, and unpronounceable shit that’ll kill you, and your fridge has nothing but a few condiments and take-out containers. Do you ever actually cook?”
She reached around me and closed the refrigerator door a little harder than strictly necessary, then pinned me with a look that would shrivel the balls of a lesser man. Luckily, my balls were made of hardier stuff.
A thought wormed it’s way into my consciousness – the memory of Viking on the phone with her, telling her that the smoke detector wasn’t a kitchen timer, and teasing her that she’d probably been giving it a workout.
“Wait, you don’t know how to cook, do you?”
“You think that just because I’m a woman, the ability to cook should be genetically coded into my X chromosome or something?” She propped her hands on her hips, tipping her chin up in challenge. I had to resist the urge to tell her she looked beautiful when she was angry.
“Um, no, I think you should know how to cook because you’re a grown-ass adult who’s gonna have to worry about your cholesterol in a few years if you keep eating like this.”
“And I suppose you’re a whiz in the kitchen?” she sniped back, reaching in and grabbing a bag of – God help me, frozen chicken nuggets – out of the freezer.
“I am a terrific cook, as a matter of fact, even though I don’t get to do it as much as I’d like to since I live in the clubhouse. Every time I cook something there, I end up with half a dozen brothers trying to steal my food,” I complained. “I worked at the Second Street Diner when I was a teenager. I started as a busboy when I was fourteen, then started helping Martie out in the kitchen a couple of years later.”
Lauren’s mouth dropped open, and her stunned expression was funny as hell. She narrowed her eyes and gave me an assessing look.
“I’ll have you know that I eat healthy food, too. I had a salad for lunch the other day,” she pointed out smugly.
“That’s great, but one salad won’t prevent the clogged arteries you’re gonna get from,” I took the bag of chicken nuggets from her and glanced at the ingredients listed on the back, “minced chicken products, sodium phosphate, and potassium sorbate. I don’t think you want to know what constitutesminced chicken products, babe.”
She grimaced, and I tossed the bag in the freezer, against my better judgement. It really should have been tossed in the garbage instead.
“Look, if you don’t know how to cook, that’s fine. I’d be happy to teach you.”
“I know how to cook…in theory,” she conceded with a shrug. “I’m just not good at it, OK? Even the simple stuff goes wrong. The last time I tried to boil an egg, I had to scrape egg yolk off the kitchen ceiling in my condo.”
“How the hell did that happen?” I couldn’t even hide the shock in my voice.
She shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I honestly have no idea. I plopped the egg into the boiling water, and a few seconds later…boom.”
“Boom?”
“Yep, boom. The egg exploded, yolk landed on the ceiling, and the shell fragments flew everywhere. I actually got a tiny cut on my arm from the shrapnel.”
“Egg…shrapnel,” I repeated slowly, as my mind boggled trying to picture this scenario.
She nodded. “So, yeah, I’ve tried cooking. Many times. I suck at it.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to cook for you...” I glanced around the kitchen, then added, “…sometime when we have actual ingredients. For tonight, we’ll have to order in.”
