Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
The next morning, I don’t have time to worry about my situation. The second round of the Championing Unimaginable MealKits (CUM) competition has officially started and I almost completely missed the email telling me about it.
My assignment: Create an egg-based meal kit that is both innovative and practical.
(An oxymoron, one would think).
Deadline: Less than twelve hours from now.
Bleary-eyed, not at a full-strength, and jerked awake by this calamitous stroke of timing—I must get to work immediately. After taking a heavy dose of medicine, I dash into the kitchen.
It’s going to be fine. I’m fine. Just fine.
The next few hours are spent in complete concentration, with me brainstorming and experimenting tirelessly. Then halfway into me boiling another set of eggs, I twist around to pore over the scattered pages of my notes, and let out a cry.
“ Why are you lurking behind me?”
“Can one lurk in their own home?” asks Luke, standing there professionally dressed but a notch down from his usual full business suit. Well-fitted trousers pair with a crisp dress shirt. No vest. No tie.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“I don’t think so. Now tell me, why aren’t you resting? It’s not been nearly enough time for you to have made a proper recovery.”
“I’m obviously cooking.”
He does a slow appraisal of the spills on the countertop, the food bits littered on the floor, and how I have basically pulled out every pot and pan and tried to put them to use. The kitchen is, in a phrase, a tornado of a mess.
“You must know,” he says slowly, “that I don’t expect you to perform your usual meal prep, right?”
I’m busy now, stirring a bowl of blended green veggies, trying to un-gloop the texture. “This…isn’t for you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I should be obligated to answer his question since I’m his unwanted houseguest, though if he hadn’t showed up at my apartment, and not gotten into a fight with Janice, maybe I’d still be there.
Feverish, collapsed on the bed. Okay so, his doctor’s medicine is giving me strength to compete right now…
and this is his kitchen I’m invading for the contest…
But so what?
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Aren’t there vulnerable labor unions available for crushing? Or stolen wealth that needs hoarding? Maybe some small businesses you want to demoralize under the weight of your boot?”
Yeah…I’ve not forgotten about the soup incident.
“I’m taking a break from world domination,” he says with cool casualness. “Also crushing dreams to fluff up my yacht fund really builds up the appetite. What are you in the mood for? I’ll order in for us. There’s no need to cook.”
Before I can answer, water from one of the stockpots I have on the stove bubbles over. I put down my bowl and rush over to take the pot off the heat. “No, that’s—I can’t. Later.”
In the process of moving the pot, some water splashes up over the side and lands on my arm. I let out a soft hiss.
“Stop that,” he chides. “Stop fretting about, Rita.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m good.” I pat the spot as if proving it doesn’t hurt.
“You don’t look good.”
Putting the stockpot down, I turn and face Luke. “So kind of you to offer your opinion on the style of someone who is not quite on the mend.”
“That’s not what I mean. ”
I force my body to relax. “Really, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“Even with that smile you’ve put on, I know you are lying.”
If I wasn’t currently suffering under the immense pressure of inventing an innovative but practical recipe centered around a protein that has already been cooked for millions of years, I would give more thought as to how Luke continues to foil my fake-cheer persona.
Instead, I chalk it up as a malfunction of my own in that I’m probably too knackered to have deployed it correctly.
Going to the stove, I try to turn on the left burner. It’s powered by gas but requires one of those long lighters to initiate the flame. Normally I can do it within a second, but my hands are being clumsy right now.
“Look, I know you have a passion for cooking,” says Luke, “but take the week off.”
The lighter button continues to act like an asshole.
When a little starter flame is finally produced, I jab it at the stove, but not quickly enough. It sputters out and a subtle kerosene-like odor fills the air. I shut off the gas dial and bat my hands around, trying to dissipate the smell.
Then I resume my campaign against the lighter button.
Click, click, click.
My eyes also dart towards the small timer on the counter because shouldn’t the herbed broiled egg be done in the oven, yet?
“You are clearly unwell,” says Luke. “Go back to bed.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t.”
Click, click, click.
I throw the defective lighter down onto the kitchen island behind me and start rifling through a drawer to find another. When I grab a new one, any feeling of success is short-lived since Luke uses an embarrassingly minimum amount of force to tug it out of my hand.
The way he holds it, the lighter has become his personal hostage. This not only annoys me but effectively sabotages my cook because I can’t proceed without another open flame.
I glare at Luke. “Real mature. Is this how you behave to get everything you want in the boardroom too?”
“I am nothing if not handsy in the bedroom. ”
“No, I said board room.”
“Did you?” He smirks. “I must have misheard. Regardless, the answer remains the same. Now tell me, why are you so worked up?”
His smugness practically yells, I’m bigger than you and I can stand here all day if you don’t want to answer.
“Fine,” I groan. “I’m cooking because I only have a few hours to think up a dish, get it photographed, and submitted for a competition. Now, please, give me the lighter.”
“What competition?”
Time is precarious, so I do my best to whizz through the rules.
When I’m finished explaining, he says, “Well, this explains why you’ve been wanting free use of my kitchen.”
Is he going to yank those privileges away?
In my experience, employers don’t like when an employee works on their own projects if it means an escape route from the job.
Or maybe Luke will lecture me that winning an online competition open to the public is a long shot and hoping to be a finalist is like playing your last dollar on the lottery. A foolish waste of hope.
He does another survey of the kitchen. “You need help.”
“So?”
Instead of returning the lighter, Luke goes around and turns on the stove. The bitch lighter is compliant under his magic touch and lights embarrassingly quickly.
“ You ? You can’t cook.”
He does a lazy 360-degree turn, his gaze lingering on the sloppiest sections of my workplace, particularly a milk spill that slowly drips over the ledge of a counter.
“This is only because I am not well!”
“And that’s exactly why you need supervision.
Or an assistant,” he amends quickly, apparently catching enough of the gathering storm on my face to backtrack.
“This competition is clearly important to you. And it’s not like you are cheating since my culinary skills effectively don’t exist, so really all I’ll be is an extra pair of hands.
Come on now. Don’t roll your eyes when you can live out your wildest dream and boss me around. We both know I deserve it.”
“But why would you help me? ”
A stunning display of generosity without any strings attached is not Luke Abbot. So what does he get this time?
“Isn’t it obvious, Rita? In your current condition, you are a liability. I’m making sure you survive this without burning my place down.” He winks. “And maybe you’ll think I’m a good person.”
There it is again. That disappointing feeling. Why does it keep coming up around him, more and more?
A good person. He is alluding to our bargain.
The conference. Mr. Duncan’s advice was to bring me along to convince the white whale.
Luke’s behavior makes sense with that in mind.
If I let him help, he can hold it over me as another bargaining chip when the time comes.
Not that he isn’t already racking up enough emotional manipulation points by rescuing me from?—
The situation he’s contributed to. Me not having a place to stay. Though, how does one complain when given the most luxurious room to stay in? It’s harder, that’s for sure. How evil of him. The man with a sinfully attractive face and an even more appealing body is playing me like a fiddle.
My brain hurts thinking about those consequences, and in the end, it’s a nasty, spoiled smell wafting through the air that makes the decision for me. I run to take out the herbed egg from the oven.
The top has blackened. It’s unsalvageable.
Luke wisely says nothing as I morosely dispose of the mess in the bin.
And he remains strategically silent as I gather my notes into a pile and bring them over to him so he can see the diagrams I’ve made.
“The brief is to make a dish featuring eggs as the protein. It has to be both innovative and practical.”
“That’s a contradiction.”
I secretly agree, but don’t say so.
“Well, the whole purpose of a meal kit is that the food has to be engaging enough for a person to want to cook, but it also can’t be too intimidating.
The customer needs to believe they too can learn new techniques and pull off cuisines they haven’t tried before, which is why I have to stand out with something they probably haven’t cooked before to win.
My first thought was to use the egg itself in an unusual way.
For example, instead of a breakfast burrito that uses a tortilla shell, I could use the egg as the outer vessel and roll it up with spicy sausage, cheese, and fresh avocado salsa on the inside. ”
“That’s an omelet.”
“No. It’s a twist on a breakfast burrito.”
“Also known as an omelet.”
“In case you are wondering,” I say through gritted teeth, “your contribution as an assistant so far leaves much to be desired.”