Chapter Four
Charles
This woman is insufferable.
It's been three days and she's still trying to make me eat meals she considers healthy. Worse, she's completely won over my mother. No, that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that I absolutely love her cooking, but there's no way in hell I can tell her that.
“You seem to have a lot on your mind.” My mother has fixed that knowing smile on her face.
“And I'm pretty sure you've worn out your welcome.” I take a sip of the Scotch that I have sitting in front of me and she lets out a snort, followed by a laugh. It's all I can do to hold back a smile of my own. Things have been a bit tense between the two of us lately. We've both managed to keep our sense of humor even when we butt heads and disagree about the cook.
For the moment, I'm going to pretend like my drink is the most interesting thing I've seen as I sit forward and hold the glass between my hands, staring into it as if it holds some cosmic answers. If only a drink could be the answer to all of my problems.
“I don't know why you're pretending like you don't love her food.” At this point, my mother almost sounds concerned and I glance up at her.
I'm not about to give her anything to work with, though.
Instead, I simply fix her with a stare, waiting for her to get uncomfortable and shift in her seat. Of course she doesn't, because she's the one that taught me that intense soul penetrating glare, and she's unaffected by her own weapons.
The dinner table has become a place of playful conflict between her and me, and real conflict between the cook and me. Honestly, I'm wondering if it's possible to have withdrawals when your diet changes suddenly, and I wonder if that's a valid argument to use against the cook. Of course, everything I try to tell the cook seems to fall on deaf ears; she might be the least sympathetic person I've ever met in my life.
“Boy, I taught you that glare. I know you're not trying to use it against me right now.” My mother's eyes narrow.
“Last I checked, we’re family. And that means you're supposed to be on my side.” My tone is a mix of humor and seriousness.
She tilts her head, her smile playing at her lips. “Not when you're wrong.” She shifts in her seat and picks up her glass of wine, taking a sip of the deep red while staring off into space.
That wasn't the response I expected, but I guess I know where she stands. Even though there's a playful tone to our back and forth, there's also an undercurrent of seriousness that bothers me. And perhaps it's a ridiculous thing to fight over what meals our personal chef is cooking for us. But still, it's the principle of the matter that bothers me. I hired her to do a job, I gave her parameters to work with him, and she refused to meet me. So why am I still paying her?
The answer to tell everyone else is that I don't want my mom to pay for her services, and if I'm paying her, I might as well eat.
The real answer is that I secretly love her cooking, though I'd probably die before admitting that to her. Unfortunately, it seems like my mom's caught on though, so that's potentially going to be a problem.
“I wonder what she made us today? Maybe some new quinoa? Something with chickpeas?” My mother rubs her hands together, clearly excited for whatever this next meal is going to be. Based on the delicious smells wafting out of the kitchen, whatever it's going to be, it'll be mouthwateringly delicious and worth waiting for.
Still, I have that initial gut tightening thinking about eating all of these other things that are not meat. I really miss my steaks and my burgers, but I've been grabbing them while I’m out and hating the quality, because I know that if this cook would just try, she’d probably make the best damn steak or burger I’ve ever had in my life.
But getting meat out of her is similar to the proverbial blood out of a stone - it’s just not going to happen. And I thought about the fact that the sooner I accept that, the easier this whole experiment will be. But I'm still feeling a little frustrated about her inability to follow directions. She's lucky my mom likes her or she'd be gone.
And suddenly an evil plan dawns on me. If I disable the fridge’s ability to order food and I hire someone else to do the shopping, then I will absolutely be able to control the meals she makes. She can't make quinoa or chickpeas if they're not in the house.
With that, I pull out my phone and quickly pull up the app that controls the fridge. I quickly disable the ability to order groceries from the fridge, stating a broken feature as the reason. Now every time she tries to order, she'll get an error that something isn't working properly. And when she tells me the fridge is broken, I’ll feign upset and hire someone to shop. Simple solution to an annoying problem.
“What are you plotting?” My mother is watching me, still sipping her wine.
“I just solved a work-related problem.” I don't want to give her any opportunity to catch on to what I'm doing and thwart my plans.
Now all I have to do is wait.
The next day
“The fridge isn’t working.” The cook is rightfully suspicious as she says the words, eyeing me through narrowed eyes.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I can hire someone to do the shopping and deliver the groceries; no problem.” She puts her hand on mine on my phone as if to stop me, and I lift my gaze to meet hers.
“I don't mind doing the shopping.” There's a challenge in her eyes, as if she knows what I'm up to and wants to stop me before I can derail her health-train. Too bad this whole situation is already off the rails and her days as conductor are coming to a screeching halt.
“Oh, no; your time is too valuable to waste with shopping.” Obviously that's not the real reason I don't want her to be the one shopping, but hopefully she'll buy that excuse.
She lifts her chin, turning her head to the side, but her eyes never leave me. “Okay.” The tone of her voice tells me she's obviously bothered by this whole situation and knows that I'm up to something. Just maybe she's not sure what yet. Or maybe she knows exactly what I'm up to and there's nothing she can do to stop me. Personally, I don't really care; I'm just excited to sink my teeth into a thick, juicy steak tonight. I've gone long enough without meat - I don’t plan to go another night.
I send a few quick messages, glad that I'd already set up my shopper in advance. As I finish up my messages, she shifts her weight and crosses her arms, and I meet those pretty blue eyes of hers. “Just send me your list, I'll forward it to them, and you'll have everything you need in time.” Pressing my lips into a tight line, I hold back a grin, thrilled because I see this plan coming together perfectly. I can almost taste the steak I'm going to order and demand that she cook.
She seems reluctant, but finally nods her head and takes her phone out of her pocket. A moment later, my phone chimes with her list and I send my list to the shopper instead. Surely she won't get upset at a silly mix up, will she? And she's not going to let me go a night without eating just because of a silly mix up. And if she does, well, I know how to cook.
“They'll be here within half an hour.” As I say the words, I see her stiffen. There's no way she's not on to me at this point, but it's too late - there's nothing she can do.
“I guess I'd better get back to prepping.” With that, she turns and makes her way toward the kitchen and I watch her go, enjoying the little shake of her backside as she moves. I’ll say one thing, her diet certainly seems to keep her in excellent shape.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of those thoughts before following her into the kitchen.
“Can I help you?” she asks, apparently stunned to see me in my own kitchen. Which is a fair reaction given the fact that I've avoided this room like the plague since she started working for me.
“I'm just wondering what smells so good and if I can help.” I've seen my mom in here talking with her while helping with the dishes, so I know that the cook isn't against having other people doing tasks and helping out around the kitchen.
She seems unsure and maybe a little bit flustered as she pulls a pan out and loses grip of the metal, sending it cladding between her body and the countertop before catching it with her knee before it can hit the ground. “I’m fine, I don’t need help.”
I arch an eyebrow at her, glancing with the pan she nearly just dropped, and she glares at me. “That only happened because you're distracting me.”
I decide that I like seeing her distracted and make a personal goal to spend more time underfoot, in her way, and making her drop things.
My lack of response seems to bother her and she begins banging around, getting together a cast iron pan, a glass mixing bowl, and a pair of gloves, watching me all the while out of the corners of her eyes.
“So what are you making today?” I plan on sticking around and asking questions just to make her off balance, in hopes she’ll continue to be flustered. This hadn't even crossed my mind as a viable way to regain my power in my home. Maybe she'll have a lot more trouble standing her ground if I'm right here watching over her shoulder and distracting her.
“White chicken chili.” She peeks up at me from under her lashes as she gathers her ingredients. Without clarifying, she walks to the fridge and pulls out another bowl, pulling the lid off it to peer at the contents.
Maybe we're making some progress because there's meat in this dish. Though I guess I'm not being fair. There has been meat in several dishes; she just opts for the leanest possible meats. No red meat, just chicken, fish, and rarely, pork.
“That sounds delicious.” I wander the kitchen, realizing that this is one of the rare days my mother isn't here. So it's just the two of us.
The door chimes at the same time as my phone and I realize that the grocery delivery person must have gotten here earlier than anticipated. That's fine by me; things are about to get interesting. Pulling my phone out, I head for the front door as the delivery person walks in with bags in hand.
“Let me help you with that.” I take several of the bags from the delivery guy and he seems relieved as we walk toward the kitchen together.
“Nice place you have here. Life goals.”
“Thank you.” Hopefully one day he will meet and exceed his life goals.
We drop the groceries off on the kitchen counter and he gives me a salute before heading for the door as the cook gets busy going through the bags. Her face drops the instant she opens the first bag, and she glances in my direction. I see her shoulders droop, then lift as she plants both hands on the kitchen counter.
I wait, but she seems to be gathering herself before speaking.
“These aren't the groceries I ordered.” I expect an edge of defeat to her voice, but instead she sounds ready to fight.
“Strange. I wonder if there was a mix up.” I pull out my phone out as if I'm about to text the delivery service, but her eyes narrow.
“There wasn't a mix up - you did this on purpose.” She pulls two hefty steaks out of the bag and holds them up like trophies, her expression almost amused. “Look, I know you're absolutely in love with your red meat, but it's not good for you. Your mother understands that. I don't know why it's so difficult for you.”
Her words sting. I'm not too stupid to figure out that red meat is bad for my health - I simply don’t care. “Nobody lives forever, you know.” With those words, I move to her side and take the steaks. “Do you know how to cook these bad boys?”
She rolls her eyes and angles her body toward me, planting a hand on her hip. “Of course I do, but I'm not going to cook those. I told you I'm making white chicken chili.”
“And that sounds delicious. I'll have it on the side of my steak.” I move toward the cook top, taking her cast iron pan to get this juicy steak started, but she pulls the pan away.
“Did you forget that you hired me to do this job?” She sounds angry and frustrated and I almost feel bad for her... until I remember she’s been refusing to let me eat red meat.
“How could I possibly forget? It's easily the worst decision I've made in a long time.” I know the statement is out of line, but she doesn't seem bothered.
“I’m not cooking that, and you aren’t either.” With that, she tries to shoulder me out the way as she continues preparing food.
“Last time I checked, this was my kitchen.” Surely she doesn't think she's going to stop me from cooking in my own kitchen, does she?
With a sigh, she leans a hip against the counter and turns to face me. “Let me do my job and get out of my way or I quit.”
There's something so final and serious about her tone I actually believe her, and I'm a little bit worried because I don't want her to quit; I just want her to meet me part way. A little bit of red meat here and there isn't going to kill me. I'm happy to cut back on my consumption, but this is absolutely ridiculous.
“Charles? You’re not bothering Alisha, are you?” My mother’s voice rings out, and I lift both eyebrows at the cook. Leave it to my mother to save us from this uncomfortable deadlock we’re trapped in.
“I’m not bothering you, am I Alisha?” I ask, watching the pulse at the base of her throat quicken. That’s an interesting response to my question. I study her eyes as she swallows hard, her delicate throat flexing.
My mom walks in, then stops and plants both hands on her hips. “Let the poor woman work,” Mom says, then does a double take, looking me over. “You look good. Brighter, healthier, maybe. Maybe that new diet is agreeing with you. Hmm.” With that, she leaves the room and I make my way out of the kitchen, thinking about the cook’s reaction to my words.
Determined not to think about my mother’s words, the cook’s obvious arousal, or my own thoughts, I pull out my phone and dial Arson’s number.