The Slowest Burn, page 8
He held up the tidy canvas bundle, eyebrows raised. “I do listen sometimes when you tell me things.”
I ignored his impatient tone and kept unpacking kitchen gear, and he wandered around the living room, picking things up and putting them down, and then looked down the short hallway opposite me. “Which of us gets the futon?” he called.
“Aren’t you going to be chivalrous?” I called back.
He stroked his chin as he leaned against the archway. “You like your five-dollar words, don’t you? I’m not sure I know what that means.”
He was acting casual, but it was a little studied. It made me wonder how much of the rest of his behavior was a façade. But the traffic had been intense and I wasn’t in the mood to dig into his brain anymore tonight. “Anyway. How about rock, paper, scissors for the real bed?”
He sauntered over. “Sure. I’m amazing at this game. Ready?”
I looked at him incredulously as I held out my hand. “No one is amazing at rock, paper, scissors. One, two, three … I didn’t say go!”
He waved his scissors in the air. “You said three. Isn’t three when normal people go?”
“I am normal. OK, one, two, three. Argh!” He did a victory dance that consisted mostly of hip thrusting. “Two out of three?” I asked, half laughing.
“Fine.” His wide mouth crooked up, and my eyes stuck on it for a second before I got back to business.
“One, two, three … no!”
“I won, I won! That king-sized bed is mine.” He jogged in a little circle like he’d just scored a goal in the World Cup final, and I felt a grin stretch across my face. He was just so goofy, and I couldn’t help but be a little bit charmed.
But wait—this was what Tad had warned me about. “Yes,” I said, forcing the smile out of my voice with cool professionalism. “All yours.”
Kieran raised his arms and stretched, and I absolutely did not notice that his sweatshirt rode up. Except his happy trail was auburn. Shut up, libido. “So what’s the plan for the rest of the night?” he asked.
“Checking Tad’s supplies and then a quick trip to the supermarket. I have a standard list of ingredients we need for testing.”
His head cocked. “You’re not a ‘buy what you feel like’ kind of person, then?”
I gave his rhetorical question exactly the amount of attention it deserved. “Then we should do some planning. Start to think of things you want to try out and then write down some kind of outline. There’s a farmers’ market in Sonoma Plaza day after tomorrow, too. We should go raid it.”
Out of nowhere, he looked uncertain. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he said with a lightness I didn’t buy, his fingers rubbing his forearm.
“That’s why Tad pays me the moderately sized bucks.” I tilted my head. “Is that all OK with you?”
He shrugged. “Totally fine. You’re in charge. If you want me, I’ll be rolling around in my enormous bed.” And with that, he wandered off.
So he was fine when he was playing, but as soon as we talked about work, he checked out? That wasn’t a good sign.
A little part of me said that I’d liked playing too, once upon a time, but I ignored it. One of us had to stay on task, and it was clear it wouldn’t be him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kieran
“I STAY OUT TOO LATE!”
My body shot out of bed, and half a second later my brain screamed back, What the actual fuck!
Taylor Swift, that was the actual fuck. “Shake It Off” was so loud it was like a force field, and by the time I dragged my exhausted carcass to the kitchen, my hands were over my ears. “Ellie!”
“SHAKE IT OFF, SHAKE IT OFF,” she sang off-key. Citrus oils sprayed into the air as she zested an orange.
I leaned across the island. “ELLIE!”
She reached over and tapped her phone screen, and the earthquake-causing music coming from the living room speakers dropped to Starbucks volume. “Thank you for joining me at the impossibly early hour of”—she checked her watch—“nine thirty.”
“Haven’t you heard of knocking on someone’s door to wake them up?” I groaned.
“Hasn’t anyone told you you’re a ridiculously deep sleeper?” She tilted her chin and gave me a snarky little smile. “Cute boxers.”
I stopped rubbing my eyes long enough to look down at the Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner print. “Thanks,” my mouth said before my brain locked in. “Wait, no. Not thanks. I don’t thank mean people who make Taylor Swift scream at me.”
She massaged her temples like she was the one who’d been yanked out of bed way before she was ready. “You know what? Go ahead and think I’m mean. We have work to do.” She grabbed her notebook and a crisp blank page snapped open under her fingertips. “Since you haven’t given me much yet, I started cooking with what I bought at the supermarket last night. I wanted to try that dish you did with blood orange and duck with the ridiculous name.”
“Breakfast textures.”
“That’s the one. I went to three different grocery stores, but only one carried duck at all, and they were out. So I thought I’d try chicken, and we could make an orange sauce to go with it.” She glanced up. “Of course, you would need to put on pants.”
Surprise and offense woke me the hell up. I had sketched and played around for hours to get that dish right, and she was overhauling it just like that? “But orange usually goes with duck, not chicken. And it wasn’t just a sauce. It was a marmalade and a hollandaise.”
“We can’t ask people to make their own marmalade,” she said like it was totally obvious. “The last time anyone made marmalade at home regularly, married women were property.”
Her cool, dry voice was too much for my tired brain. “Fine,” I said flatly.
“More people can buy chicken,” she said matter-of-factly. “And haven’t you been to Panda Express?”
I looked up. “Chicken is boring, and Panda Express is terrible.”
“You are, of course…”
“Entitled to my opinion,” I said, and her round cheeks blushed. Which wasn’t cute at all.
“Anyway,” she said. “Let’s try it with chicken. Once…” she waved her hand at my bottom half.
I groaned. “Pants. Right.”
* * *
“TELL ME YOU didn’t buy boneless, skinless chicken!” I yelled at the open fridge. “The bone and the skin’s where the flavor is!”
She came up beside me. “The only bone-in chicken was from battery hens. Would you have preferred I buy that?” She was asking like she knew the answer already.
“No,” I muttered, reluctant to prove her right. “I accept that an animal has to die for me to cook it, but what they do to those birds is abuse.”
She sighed, and I suddenly saw the bags under her eyes, the stress in them. “I’m sorry, Kieran. Can you make it work with what we have?”
Her sorry dulled the edge of my irritation. A little bit. “At least they’re thighs,” I said to the package. “I’ll do my best.”
It turned out my best was not much today. Ellie interrupted me every three seconds to measure something or ask a question. Forget flow. I was swimming through concrete.
“Oh God,” she groaned when she tasted the sauce with me. Not the good kind of groan.
I spat hard into the sink, chugged water, spat again. “Gross. So gross.” I’d put in too much sugar, and the orange peel bullied the other flavors. It was like wood cleaner, and it would have been better on the floor than in my mouth.
When she finally stopped drinking from her water bottle, she said, “I was going to say foul.”
I snorted. “Because we’re cooking with chicken?”
“Ha!” shot out of her mouth before she clapped her palm over it.
My hands clapped. “Oh wow, a whole ha. Put one in the win column.”
Did she smile for a split second? Nope, it was gone. She put the bottle down, rolled her shoulders and said, “Take two.”
Three hours later, it was take five.
“I’m going to smell oranges in my sleep,” she said.
“Can we do something else?” I asked hopefully.
She grunted. “No. I’m going to get this right, even if it kills me.”
“Plenty of places for me to hide the body,” I muttered.
It felt like we were a covered pot on high heat. Our sentences were getting shorter and shorter, our bodies more and more tense.
“Hold out your hand,” she suddenly ordered.
“Why?” I snapped.
She pointed to my palm. “Because I need to measure that.”
“You need to measure a pinch of salt?”
“That’s not a pinch.”
How bossy could one woman be? “Seriously, you’re going to argue with me about what a pinch means now?”
She smoothed the front of her apron and took a deep breath. “No, listen. If you didn’t put that salt in, or only put in a little of it, what would happen?”
“It would be underseasoned.”
“But then how is the person reading the recipe supposed to know when the food is underseasoned or overseasoned?”
“By tasting it and guessing. Duh.”
“But they can’t just guess.”
The stick up her butt must get bigger all the time. “Why the hell not?” exploded out of my mouth. “This isn’t science. You can’t rely on it to be exactly the same every time.”
Ellie’s composed mask slipped. “You should!” she said loudly. “That’s the whole point of having a recipe!” Her eyes closed, and she looked for a second like she was in pain. When she spoke again, she wasn’t yelling. She just sounded tired. “We can’t waste time like this. Please give me the salt.”
I dumped the salt into her open palm, she confirmed it was indeed a quarter teaspoon, then said, “I need the bathroom. Don’t touch anything.”
Five seconds later, my hands moved before my brain did and found a spice jar. A pinch in the pan, a quick taste, and there, that was better.
A second after Ellie came back, she popped a spoon in her mouth and her eyes widened. “What did you do?”
“I added a little ground fennel. Or was it five-spice powder?” I quickly tasted it again. “No, fennel this time. And pepper.”
She closed her eyes. “How much is a little?”
“Uh, between a tiny bit and a lot?”
She closed her fists. “You … you…”
All at once, I wasn’t in this Sonoma cottage anymore; I was fifteen years old, sitting across the kitchen table from my parents after they’d picked me up from the police station, my mother’s face stony, my father’s red as he spat cold, furious words about his humiliation, his shame that I’d been caught stealing a candy bar, of all the frivolous things. “Come on, Ellie, what am I?”
“Jerk!” she yelled.
The laugh exploded out of me. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”
“Aaaah!” She stormed out and slammed the door behind her.
Ellie
I paced the driveway and counted. And counted. And counted some more.
By the time I’d made it to ten fifteen times, my temper was still simmering, but no longer about to explode. But I wasn’t supposed to have a temper at all. He was just so fucking provoking. Why didn’t he listen?
The gravel crunched under my feet as I stomped back up to the house. I had to make this work. The chance to make my own home was too important to lose because of one ridiculous recipe.
“You’re back,” Kieran said, looking up from his phone. “You want to call it quits?”
I made a show of cracking my knuckles. “No. I’ll wash the dishes, go buy more oranges and chicken, and then we’ll try a sixth time.”
He slapped his phone down. “What is wrong with you?”
I definitely wasn’t feeling like myself, but this infuriating man didn’t need to know that. “Nothing at all.”
“You want to know what I think?” he said, leaning against the counter beside me while I grabbed a dirty frying pan.
“Not particularly,” I said, scrubbing with a vengeance.
“You couldn’t do what I did,” he said matter-of-factly.
My sponge stopped. “Do what?”
“The challenges on Fire on High. Compete under time pressure, with people watching and all the restrictions. You’re way too attached to rules.”
I had no idea it was possible for someone to sound that patronizing. “I’m sure I could do it.”
He shook his head mournfully. “Nope. You don’t have what it takes. Don’t feel bad,” he said, clearly hoping I did.
I threw the sponge down in sheer pique. “I have what it takes. I can make things up.”
He put his face to mine. “Prove it.”
“Fine.”
He turned and dug around in the fridge and then the fruit bowl. Onto the kitchen island went two red-and-green apples, a head of broccoli, and a chunk of Parmesan. “OK. Combine these in one recipe. You have thirty minutes. Your time starts”—he flourished his phone—“now.”
I grabbed a pot, filled it with water, and put it on a back burner on high. I knew it would take a while to boil. Kieran nodded, and I didn’t feel a little spark at his approval.
I cut a tiny piece off one of the apples. Mostly sweet, a little tart. The broccoli was the opposite, green and bitter from chlorophyll. How could I get them to meet in the middle? The salt and funk of the Parmesan would highlight the differences between the broccoli and the apples and they’d fight with each other more. I needed to make the apples more like a vegetable or the broccoli more like a fruit.
Kieran slapped the counter. “Come on, Ellie.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Think less and do something.”
“Think less and do something,” I mimicked in a nasal voice. Patronizing jerk. Fine. Pickles. I could quick-pickle the broccoli once I’d blanched it and add a lot of sugar to the vinegar to make it sweet and tart. But how much sugar and how much vinegar?
Once I’d blanched the florets in the boiling water, I guessed, measured, and tasted. Augh, disgusting. It was candy-sweet. More vinegar, and I could toast some spices?
No, it was even worse once I’d added those. Maybe I was wrong about the vinegar. I’d start over and use lemon instead. I grabbed one from the fruit bowl, then fumbled it onto the floor and had to rinse it.
“How are you so slow?” Kieran said impatiently. “The knife is sharp; you can trust it.”
I’d cut up a lemon a thousand times before, but not with adrenaline racing through my system. As I sliced, the juice squirted everywhere. A moment after I realized my guide hand was too close to the blade, the knife skipped and a flicker of pain streaked across my right thumb.
He leaned forward. “What did you do now?”
The inch-long white line on my skin turned into a row of deep red beads that swelled larger and larger. I swallowed slowly. My mouth was full of metal.
Kieran’s “Ellie?” echoed in my head as black curtains pressed in.
Kieran
I hadn’t known I could move that fast, but Ellie’s white face and slumping body had me out of my seat in half a second.
Her hips, shoulders, and head slammed onto the wooden floor with a horrible thump. Shit, shit, shit. I kneeled and patted her cheek, trying to be gentle. “Ellie! Wake up. Please wake up.”
After what felt like forever, she blinked. “Ow.”
“No shit, ow,” I yelled. My heart was flailing in my chest like a trapped bird. But me freaking out wouldn’t help right now. I should be soothing. “You cut yourself and then you fainted,” I said more quietly.
She sat up, and I put pressure on her shoulders so she wouldn’t stand. “Wait. Tell me what day of the week it is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Friday. Who are you to tell me to wait, Mr. Don’t Think, Just Do Something?” she mimicked again.
Good to know she wasn’t a cool, sophisticated grown-up all the time. “The person who took a first-aid class at Qui, that’s who. Who’s the president?”
“I’m not concussed,” she grumbled.
“I saw you hit your damn head. I had to check.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Was I out long?”
“Ten seconds, maybe. Tell me how you’re so casual right now, because that was fucking scary.”
“Vasovagal syncope,” she said, pronouncing every syllable.
“Vaso-what now?”
She took a deep breath and her cheeks got the smallest amount pinker. “I see blood and it’s lights out.”
I blinked. “Then how do you cook meat?”
She winced when she shook her head. “Not that kind of blood. Human blood, from an injury. I see it and everything goes funny.”
Relief took over more real estate from panic, but my hands still wanted to flap. I needed to use them for something more helpful. “Yeah, not so funny for me. Don’t look at your right hand and stay still.”
She leaned her temple against the cabinets and closed her eyes. I wrapped a dish towel tightly around her hand, and saw a patch of pale shiny skin on her right wrist. “Did you burn that a while ago?”
“Yeah. Touched it against the top of the oven when I was fifteen.” She opened one eye. “I know you have more scars than me, though.”
“I’m glad you don’t have as many as I do.” Every scar would mean a time when she’d been lying on the floor like a broken doll. “I’m going to check your head. Keep holding still.”
A tiny smile kicked at the corner of her mouth. “Do I look like I can do anything else?”
“Such a smartass,” I said as I ran my fingers through her curls. I didn’t feel anything wet, but she cringed when I moved them over a spot that was already starting to swell. Her hair was so silky, and up close I could see all the streaks of champagne and wheat and caramel that made it blond. It smelled like clean laundry and citrus. Not lemon, but something greener.
I cleared my throat. “You’re going to have a fat knot there soon. Do you hurt anywhere else? Your shoulders, or your hips?”
