Chapter Eight #2
The next hours are spent in a flurry of slicing, dicing, mixing, frying, baking, and preparations.
I’m undertaking an impressive menu tonight, and creative ideas are buzzing through my mind.
If I wasn’t so dedicated to becoming a vet, I’d pursue being a chef—as is, cooking will just remain my beloved hobby.
There will be three kinds of meat today—chicken, filet mignon, ribeye—and a dizzying number of side dishes.
Home-made salsa and guacamole. Dauphinoise potatoes.
Mediterranean roasted potatoes. A simple chopped salad with my favorite dressing.
Several flatbread pizzas with different toppings. Spicy-sweet fried plantains.
As I’m prepping oven temperatures, I glance over at Dorian. He retrieved his laptop a few minutes ago; now he sits in front of it, squinting at whatever he’s reading.
“Hey, Dorian?”
He turns to look at me. “Yeah, baby?”
“Don’t call me that. Generally speaking, how much do you and your roommates eat?”
“An inhuman amount,” he responds drily, sweeping his eyes over the loaded kitchen island. “Your food will be put to good use.”
I nod, battering the plantain slices to prepare them to fry. “Good. I’d feel pretty shitty if any of this was gonna go to waste.”
“It won’t,” he says. “Everything smells delicious, by the way. Whatever we don’t eat today, we’ll finish off tomorrow.” A wry smile touches his lips. “Be careful, Mira. You spoil the occupants of this house, and we might get used to it.”
I let out a laugh. “I’m spoiling myself—this kitchen is fantastic. Once again, you three—”
“Just happen to be lucky beneficiaries, yeah,” he interjects with a playful eye roll. “So I’ve been told.” He returns his attention to his laptop, and I return my attention to my cooking.
At 9:15, everything besides the grilling and a handful of potato dishes baking in the oven is done. I send Dorian out to turn on the grills, and of course, that’s when Seamus decides to wander into the kitchen.
“Sorry to interrupt, love,” he says mildly, walking up to the counter and surveying the many serving bowls and plates covering it, most of them already filled with yummy delights.
“It smells absolutely wonderful in here, so I couldn’t resist. Are you treating us for being good boys and not killing you? ”
My lips thin at the reminder of the thin ice I still tread on. “I’m treating both myself and you.” I snap a dishtowel at him. “Now, shoo. Right now, this is my kitchen.”
Seamus’s eyebrows raise as he regards me. “That so? I think it’s our kitchen.”
“When you taste my food, you’ll be begging me to permanently take over this kitchen,” I inform him. “Enough with the veiled threats; I’m still not going to talk.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Seamus says. I feel his gaze on me as I turn to wipe down the counter around the stove. “Your ass looks fantastic in those jeans, by the way—ow! The fuck, Acheron?”
“I already said I’m not going to share. I will not say it again. Get. Out,” Dorian growls. I spin around to see that he’s returned from firing up the grills and is staring at Seamus with a murderous expression.
“Okay! Fuck, okay.” Seamus turns and breezes out of the kitchen, but not before tipping me a wink that makes Dorian growl.
I set a few timers on my phone so I don’t forget about the dishes in the oven. Turning to Dorian, I request, “Help me carry these to the grill.” I pull the bowls of marinating steak from the fridge.
Dorian’s eyebrows raise. “Yes, chef.” He picks up two bowls while I grab the third, leading me through the kitchen and to a doorway at the end of a hall, which lets out onto a back patio I haven’t seen yet.
Stone pillars support a wooden roof over the patio, with withering ivy vines languidly crawling over the beams.
The patio is nice, but the backyard is in a state of disrepair.
Brown grass sprouts in awkward patches across the uneven, dark soil.
There are no flowers in sight, though random tufts of what might be wheat grow at the base of a tall stone wall, which stands guard over the house like a watchful sentinel.
The grill is a masterpiece of design, momentarily making me forget the backyard’s disrepair.
Stainless steel and four-burner, it boasts sleek metal trays affixed to its sides where I set the bowls, and a gleaming hood that lifts to reveal pristine grates, ideal for crafting perfect crosshatch marks.
“I’m good out here,” I tell Dorian. “I won’t run away. You can go back inside.”
“I’m staying,” Dorian replies, watching as I set two pairs of tongs by a large fork and carving knife. I let out a low moan at the sizzle as I plop the steaks on the grate, practically salivating. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so… content.”
I blink at him. “So far, you’ve seen me when I was zoned out at a library, with a dislocated shoulder last night, and today while I’ve been uncomfortable because I want to go home.
My circumstances aren’t really permitting contentment right now, but cooking?
Yeah, that chills me out and makes me happy. ”
“Need help?” Dorian asks. “Or will I just be getting in your way?” He lifts his fingers to mime quotation marks around the words, telling me how ridiculous he thinks I’m being.
I feel my lips quirk. “I might have you watch the steaks in a few minutes when my first timer goes off. I’ll need to take the filet mignon and potatoes out of the oven.”
Dorian’s eyes darken. “I don’t want you going into the house alone.”
“Because it’s not safe?” I query, arching an eyebrow. “You’re the one who told me the three of you are under orders to not kill me. I don’t think Seamus wants me dead—he wants to get in my pants instead—and you indicated that Connor listens to your boss.”
“It’s not a matter of safety,” Dorian growls. “It’s a matter of, I don’t want Seamus to get any one-on-one time with you—which he’ll use to charm his way into your panties—or for Connor to get the chance to scare the shit out of you.”
I contemplate that for a moment, prodding at the steaks with my tongs. “Well, I’m very practiced with resisting guys who want to get in my panties, and I’m used to fear.”
“I sensed as much last night,” Dorian agrees. “That doesn’t mean I want you to feel it.”
That’d be sweet if Dorian hadn’t already scared me half to death. Deciding to pivot topics, I ask, “What had you in a shitty mood earlier?”
Dorian waves a dismissive hand, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders momentarily stiffen. “Nothing. Legion stuff. Business stuff.”
I give him a long look, pondering whether I should push for more. After a few seconds, I decide against it. Whatever’s going on with him is none of my business, and it’s not like I care about him. At least I shouldn’t care, even though I find myself wanting to know more.
My phone alarm for the dauphinoise potatoes and filet mignon goes off.
I hand Dorian the tongs, quickly rushing into the house to take the potato casserole and steak out of the oven, smiling at the delicious scents.
Since Dorian doesn’t chase after me, I figure he isn’t that worried about his roommates.
Dinner preparations are finished up in silence.
Dorian shows me the dining room, which features a gorgeous dark wood table.
He helps me set it and bring the dishes over to it.
As I take the desserts I whipped up out of the oven and set them under a warming light, I hear footsteps converging in the dining room, signaling the arrival of the two crazy guys sharing this house with Dorian.
I inhale a long, steeling breath before joining the men gathering at the table.
I shouldn’t care, but I want them to enjoy dinner.
I want Connor to stop seeing me as a liability and start seeing me as an actual human, though that might be a bit much to ask for.
I want Seamus to stop with the veiled threats.
Making a nice dinner won’t solve all my problems, but it could be the distraction we all need.
In the dining room, Seamus surveys all the dishes with an expression of deep interest and intense longing, while Connor’s eyebrows rise as he looks everything over.
I spend a few minutes pointing at the dishes and rattling off what they are before taking a seat and anxiously waiting for everyone to dig in and give me feedback. I love cooking, and I also love it when other people like what I produce, what I sometimes spend hours on.
At his first bite of the dauphinoise potatoes, Seamus moans, “Holy fuck.”
Connor, who went right for the steak, gives me an approving nod. “What’d you use to marinade it?”
“Chef’s secret.” I turn to Dorian, who eats in silence beside me, throwing me narrow-eyed looks. Almost as if he doesn’t like that I’m impressing his roommates or doing anything that could be seen as a service to them.
A pop and crack, reminiscent of gunshots, sounds off in the distance. Dorian stiffens; Connor drops his fork and knife, expression turning murderous; Seamus sighs. “Looks like we’ve got company.”