"I told you not to bet me."
"You got lucky this time. Another round," I said, and he shook his head, chuckling.
"Rules are rules."
"Fuck the rules-isn't that what you've always said? Make our own damn rules."
"I'm good with the ones we laid out."
I shifted, crossing my arms over my chest. "Well … what is it you want?"
"I think I'd like to see you sweat about it first."
"I'll do no such thing."
"You will. But don't you worry." He tapped me on the nose. "I'll be collecting soon enough."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Here, Fishy, Fishy
TWO NIGHTS LATER, he did just that.
After I parked my SUV in the garage, I looked again at the text message he'd sent me hours earlier:
Be home by six. I'm ready to collect.
Sweet Jesus, there was no telling what he had up his sleeve. And, holding up my end of the bargain, I'd waited to come home until right at six. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was eager-I definitely was not.
"You're late," Dawson said from behind me when I'd walked inside, making me jump. He tapped his watch. "I said by six. Not at six."
"Oh, one measly minute, what does it matter?"
"It matters because I'm hungry."
"So? There's a stocked kitchen. Go make something," I said, walking past him to hang my coat up. "Or maybe if you can manage to ask nicely, my chef, Gabrielle, will fix whatever it is you wish."
"Actually, she can't."
When I turned back around, I asked, "Is she sick?"
"I sent her home."
"Why would you do that?"
A sly smile spread across Dawson's face, one that told me I wasn't going to like the answer to that question. He held out his hand toward me. "Come."
When I crossed my arms instead, he shrugged and headed toward the kitchen. Suspicious, I followed.
I should've stayed in the foyer.
Laid out across the long marble island were pots and pans, packages of food, and jars of all shapes and sizes.
"What is this?" I asked, slowly walking alongside the island, glancing at the spread.
"I told you it was time to collect my prize. This is what I want."
"A counter full of fish and asparagus?"
"You're going to make us dinner."
My mouth fell open as I looked from Dawson to the ingredients in front of me. "You've got to be fucking joking me."
"Not at all. See, and you thought I'd give you something worse."
"But I don't cook. Like … ever. I don't even know how to turn the oven on." I picked up the fresh package of fish, two long ones with their heads still fully intact, eyeballs and all. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"
"That's for me to watch and you to figure out."
I clicked my tongue, getting it now. "So you want to watch me suffer and look ridiculous. Got it."
"No. I said I was hungry. I expect to eat something."
"When you said you were ready to collect on the bet, I never would've guessed you wanted … this," I said, picking up a jar called "parsley" and wrinkling my nose at the smell.
"Aw. Disappointed? Want me to choose something a bit juicier?"
"No," I said, too quickly. "It's just … unexpected, is all."
Dawson pushed off the counter and came over to wrap an arm around my shoulders. "I remember you telling me that 'a good wife puts food on the table.' I know details of that night are sketchy for you, but surely you remember those bold claims you made about wifely duties."
Oh, I remembered, all right. I'd also said something about several orgasms a day, but thankfully he didn't mention that part. "I said there'd be food on the table. I didn't say I'd be the one making it."
"There's a first time for everything."
Okay, so in the grand scheme of things, he could've chosen something much worse than throwing together a bunch of food and calling it a meal. I mean, he could've brought up the aforementioned sexual favors, so, yeah, I could be down with food.
"So … it looks like I'll be making … um … some kind of fish with asparagus and uh … " I scanned the table, looking for something remotely resembling a side dish. "Risotto?"
"Escarole-stuffed seared trout and lemon asparagus risotto."
"Holy shit. That sounds like gibberish."
"That's what Gabrielle tossed out, so who am I to complain?"
"Whatever happened to cheeseburgers and fries?" I mumbled.
"You know how to make those?"
"Well, no, but at least the protein wouldn't be staring me in the face. That fish is creeping me out. Can you at least cut the head off for me?"
"It's supposed to be cooked with the head."
"Ew, why?"
Dawson's hand came up to cover his mouth-or, rather, to cover the cheesetastic grin on his face.
I held up a green bunch that looked kind of like lettuce. "I don't even know what this is."
"That's the escarole part of the dish."
"The what? Is that the fancy name for it?"
"It's also called an endive."
"Oh. Endive. Right." I had no clue what that was either, but I wasn't showing that card. No need to make him realize I was as blond as I looked when it came to matters of food. He'd find out soon enough.
"Okay … well … I guess I'd better get to it." I picked up the sheet of paper Gabrielle had been kind enough-yes, that was sarcastic-to leave behind, and quickly skimmed it. "Mix together the escarole with lemon juice, olive oil, and shallots." Oh fuck, what the hell were those?
The confusion must've showed on my face, because Dawson pushed what looked like an onion toward me. I looked at the list again. Okay, no onions, so maybe that thing was a shallot.
"Right," I said. "Easy enough." I placed the large mixing bowl in front of me, and was about to rip the escarole into pieces when Dawson coughed. Glancing up, I saw him inclining his head toward the sink.
Ohh. Yeah, these should probably be washed first, huh? It would've been nice if all the instructions had been written on here, but I did remember seeing Gabrielle do it to vegetables before chopping them for a salad, so I carried the escarole to the sink and rinsed it off. Once I was satisfied it was good and clean, I patted the bunch dry and then grabbed one of the big, sharp knives I'd seen Gabrielle use on carrots.
Dawson's eyes grew large. "Uh, what are you gonna do with that?"
"Relax, Dick. I don't plan on using this on any body parts tonight, though after this I might be tempted to."
"Can we not go to the hospital tonight? That might put a damper on things."
I pointed at him with the knife. "You wanted dinner, I'm fucking making dinner. So zip your pie hole and let me concentrate."
Then I moved the bunch of escarole to the cutting board and lifted my knife, but stopped short when I realized I didn't know which part I was supposed to cut. Did you chop the whole thing? Just the leafy green things? Not the leafy green things? Oh, shitdammit.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly searched "what part of the escarole do you use." A quick YouTube video later, and I was ready to cut the whole thing apart. It took me a lot longer than the one-minute video I'd watched-try about ten minutes-but that was only because I'd been trying not to cut off any fingers while I was at it. Then I did the same search on my phone but with shallots, and that took even longer because they had to go into tiny little pieces. Oh, and it didn't help that those tiny assholes were making me cry like an onion would. On second thought, shallots were probably the fancy name for onion, because nothing could ever be simple today, could it?
I sniffed and wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. My mascara wasn't waterproof today, so there was no telling what I looked like. Besides a sniveling mess, of course.
"Aw, Pita. I had no idea you'd get so emotional-" Dawson started, until I squinted and pointed the knife in his direction again.
Once I measured out the shallots and escarole into the mixing bowl, I added squeezes of lemon and some olive oil and tossed it around a bit. Well, damn. I felt pretty proud of myself already.
"'Step two,'" I read to myself. "'Stuff the cavities of the fish with the escarole mix and close with skewers.'" I picked up the package of fish and took the shrink wrapping off. Stuff the cavity? Did it mean-
I dropped the fish back on the counter. "Oh, no, no, hell no. I am not sticking my hand inside that thing."
A bemused expression crossed Dawson's face as he looked at me.
"There's guts and stuff that has to come out, right? And then I have to put the escarole crap in it? Do you seriously want to eat this, or are you just torturing me?"
Dawson's shoulders began to shake, as his hand went over his face again, and when it was clear from his laughter that he wasn't helping me in any way, shape, or form, I growled.
"Fine. I'll figure this out for myself. I just need to, uh … get another knife," I said, and then drew a random one out of the knife stand. Then I grabbed a pair of dishwashing gloves out from beneath the sink and searched for a video on "how to clean trout." I felt like a surgeon with all the "slit open its belly along the underside" talk, and just as I'd successfully done that and was ready to tackle what all needed to be removed, the screen went black.