Chapter 12
Twelve
NATASHA
“Shit, damn, fuck,” I mutter as I consult my phone, and the lovely photo of the salad on the website, and then the mess in the bowl in front of me.
It’s supposed to be a Greek salad, but it looks like slop. I swear, I followed the recipe to the letter, but it doesn’t look great at all.
“Maybe it’s one of those situations where it might not look pretty, but it’s actually delicious.” I prop my hands on my hips and stare into the bowl, then shrug and cover it and set it in the fridge. “Or, it has to set up in the fridge. I bet that’s it.”
I also found a recipe for a Greek chicken casserole.
Yes, there’s a theme for this dinner. My new husband is the head of the Greek Mafia.
I want to cook Mediterranean food for him.
I’ve never cooked a day in my life, because we always had a chef on staff, but it was drilled into me ad nauseam that this is one of my many jobs as Julian’s wife.
I have to have dinner waiting for him every single day. I’m the one who is supposed to plan the menu, and if we don’t have a chef, that means that I’m in charge of preparing the meal. I can read a recipe. I’m an intelligent woman.
“I can do this,” I say for the hundredth time and pull the cooked chicken out of the oven. The recipe called for it to be pan fried, but I’ve never used a gas stovetop before, and this behemoth is scary.
Don’t get me wrong. I would bet that the whole set up cost well into the five figures and that every chef in the world would give it a gold star.
But it’s intimidating as hell.
So, instead, I googled how to bake chicken because the oven isn’t quite as intimidating, and I did that instead.
Now, I have to cut up the chicken and mix it with the other ingredients for the casserole.
Cutting and stirring I can do. In fact, I have a Taylor Swift song blaring through my phone as I stir and wiggle my hips.
This part is fun.
Once the mixture is poured into the dish and I’ve covered it with cheese, I skim the directions again. Bake for thirty minutes. Then broil.
I examine the oven and see that there is a setting for Bake but also a setting for Broil.
“Well, which is it?” I tap my finger on my lips and then shrug. “Must be a typo. I’ll broil for thirty minutes.”
After turning the oven to the right setting, I slip the glass dish inside and then survey the kitchen.
“Whoa.”
Okay, so I’m not a tidy cook. I have a heaping sink of dirty dishes, knives, and utensils, some not even used, strewn about the countertop, and is that flour on the floor?
I didn’t use flour. At all.
It’s fine, I’ll get it all cleaned up while the casserole bakes. I bebop my way to the closet where I found cleaning supplies earlier and pull out a broom and some sponges.
Taylor and I are singing about being the man, elbow deep in dish water, when I start to smell something . . . not right.
Blinking, I frown and glance over my shoulder toward the oven, and holy fucking shit.
The oven is on fire.
I squeal and splash soapy water everywhere as I spin and grab a towel to quickly dry my hands, then open the oven, and a plume of smoke fills the kitchen.
“Shit!”
The alarms start to go off, and I race for the doors that lead to a stunning courtyard and pool area, open them wide, and do the same with the windows around the breakfast nook, hoping the smoke will drift outdoors.
Grabbing the oven mitts, I reach inside and pull out the dish, set it on the stove, and feel my shoulders sag.
“It’s not supposed to be black.”