"Shit," I said, the knife in one hand and my other holding open the fish. I was beginning to understand veganism. "Hey, Dawson? Can you get my charger for me?"
He'd picked up a newspaper while I prepared the meal, and he had it spread open so that I couldn't see his face.
"Dawson," I said, a little louder. "I'm wading through fish guts over here, so could you be a gem and plug my phone back in so I can figure out how to do this?"
I knew he heard me that time, but he continued reading the newspaper like I wasn't three feet away slaving over a meal to feed his ass-and his ego.
"Ugh, you are loving this," I muttered. "I didn't even know you knew how to read."
Out of the corner of my eye I caught him move the paper aside to watch me, and then he snickered.
Opening the fish back up, I used the knife to cut all of whatever that shit was inside out, gagging the whole time. I had no clue if I was even doing it right, but Dawson was the one who'd get food poisoning if I didn't, so it was on him. I rinsed the fish off too, and the insides, because … well, I guessed that was what you were supposed to do? Couldn't hurt, anyway.
"What about the other one?" Dawson finally piped up, his gaze on the second, still complete fish on the countertop.
"I'm suddenly not hungry," I said, as I began stuffing the one in my hands with the escarole mixture. Step three was to cook the trout in a skillet with oil. No problem. I could do that. Since Gabrielle hadn't left the oil on the counter, I grabbed the extra virgin olive oil, since it didn't specify what kind, and poured a bunch in the cast-iron skillet. A few minutes later, the trout was in, and I was mentally patting myself on the damn back.
Until a few minutes later, when it started smoking. Liiiike a lot.
"Um, Dawson, is it supposed to be smoking this bad?" I asked, fanning the fumes away from my face. I hadn't expected him to answer, since this was laugh-at-Paige hour, but it would've been fucking helpful to know in case I was about to burn my house down. Maybe it needed more oil? I poured some more in, the hiss and sizzle of the liquid against the hot pan satisfying my sense of productiveness. Who said I couldn't cook?
CHAPTER TWELVE
War of the Roses
REMIND ME NEVER to do that again. If someone threatens my life and tells me I have to make them a beef wellington blah blah blah or it's death by Aqua Net inhalation, I'll take a few gallons of the stiff hairspray kick-it bucket, please.
It was two hours later, and as I stared down at the mess covering my stove, I couldn't believe that Dawson was still planning to put any of it in his mouth. To say the fish was well done miiight have been an understatement, judging from the charcoaled bits that kept falling off; the risotto looked like a pile of grey oatmeal my nana used to gum when she'd lost her teeth, with lumpy green asparagus roots rising through it. It was the grossest thing I'd ever seen in my life, and I'd watched seven seasons of Sons of Anarchy, thank you very much.
"Well," I said, gesturing to the stove. "Bon appétit."
Dawson looked over my shoulder at the steaming pile of … well, crap, to be honest, and raised his eyebrows. I had a feeling he thought I'd burn the house to the ground before I was able to make something resembling cooked fish.
"It looks … um." His face twisted as he tried to find the right word for the amazingness that was burnt trout and lumpy rice stuff. "You did a … bang-up job. For someone who's never opened her refrigerator before."
"I appreciate the backhanded compliment."
"You're welcome. Now, I think I'll take dinner in the dining room. Wife." He kissed my cheek and strode across the kitchen, apparently intent on letting me serve him or something.
Uh, no. Hell no.
I threw the potholders on the counter, and put my hands on my hips. "This is buffet style, honey. My end of the bet is done."
"All good wives set the dinner table and then join their husbands for their evening meal, or did you grow up with a bunch of baboons?"
The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying, and I scowled. "You know exactly where I grew up and with what kind of baboons. You think we had happy family dinners?"
There was a flash of sympathy in his eyes, but I blinked and then it was gone, replaced by his signature smugness.
"I didn't say it had to be happy. I said you had to join me."
"So I can watch you dry-heave after you realize this stuff is inedible? No thanks."
"Look, I'll even make my own drink," he said, taking out a glass from the cupboard and then filling it with filtered water from the fridge. "Though I won't be opposed if you'd like to open a bottle of wine."
With a snort, I headed to the sink to scrub the length of my arms down to remove all evidence that I'd actually gotten my hands dirty doing something domestic. When I was done, I wiped my hands off on a towel and then took a plate out of the cupboard and began piling the unpalatable food on it, making sure the fish eyeballs were up front and center. "Fine. You'll get served, but you're out of your mind if you think I'm letting you drink in private with me again."
"Aww, Pita. Scared?"
"The product of the last time we drank together is that I married your ass, you moved in, and we … " I gestured between us. "Whatevered. So, yeah, you could say I'm a bit hesitant."
After opening the utensil drawer, I grabbed a fork and knife and set it on the plate, and then reached across the island for the salt and pepper, knocking over what looked like a mini blender in the process.
"What is this thing?" I asked, setting it back upright. It was bunched in with all the other ingredients I'd used tonight, but I hadn't seen a blender mentioned on the recipe. "Was I supposed to use this for something?"
"I believe that's the vegetable chopper."
"The vegetable-" I couldn't help it. I stamped my foot. "Are you telling me you watched me spend an hour chopping shit that I could've pushed a button for?"
"I do recall you threatening me with a knife and telling me to 'zip my pie hole.' Castration isn't really my thing, love. You understand."
Have reached boiling point. Potential to explode: high.
"You motherfu- Ugh." Pushing past him into the dining room, I let the plate of food clatter onto the table and threw down the silverware, putting him at the far end of the long oak table and me on the other end. If I sat any closer, I might have to stab him in the knee with my fork.
"Such a temper." Dawson tsked as he took a seat and waited for me to do the same.
I didn't.
"Not going to say thank you?" I asked.
He placed the napkin in his lap. "Thank you."
"That's better."
Jerking out the chair from under the table, I took a seat and looked up to see Dawson squinting at me and wiping at his cheek.
"You've got something on your face," he said. "Leftover cornmeal, maybe."
Frowning, I rubbed the back of my hand over where he'd indicated, but he shook his head and chuckled.
"You're making it worse," he said.
"And you're just going to sit there and laugh at me, are you?"
"I'm thinking about it. You're not going to eat?"
I'd felt a little vomitous earlier, and there was no way in hell I was taking a bite off his plate, but I was kind of hungry.
"Now that you mention it … " Pushing away from the table, I went to the kitchen to take out exactly what I was in the mood for. Sweet cream ice cream from Licked that Ryleigh had sent over in a gallon-size container. A large jar of Nutella. A can of whipped cream-the extra-creamy kind. Hmm what else … a big bowl and spoon, check. Yep, that should do it.
"Dessert already?" Dawson asked as I set the items up on my side of the table and took a seat. "Looks great, but I'd prefer that after I finish this … uh"-he stabbed something black on his plate-"fish?"
Taking off the lid of the Nutella, I gave him a saccharine smile and said, "Oh no, this is not for you. Your dinner is served. This is mine." Then I spooned some of the smooth hazelnut chocolate into my mouth and moaned. "Mmmm, sooo good."
His expression fell, and so, apparently, did his good mood. Ah, so he didn't like it when the tables turned on him. Good. I'd have to aim to piss him off more.
Setting down his fork before taking a bite, he pushed away from the table. "Hmm, now that you mention it, I forgot one small thing." A few seconds later I heard the refrigerator door open and shut, and then he was back, carrying a plastic food container.
"Excuse me, what is that?" I asked.
"Your Gabrielle is such a thoughtful woman. She seemed to think you might not be up to the task of cooking dinner tonight, so she wanted to make sure I wouldn't starve. Luckily, she thought of dessert too." He popped the top off the container and took a deep breath. "Mmm, buttermilk pie. One of my favorites."
My mouth fell open. "She made that for you?"
"Mmm," Dawson said as he took a big bite. "She sure did. And the fish I ate earlier was just as delicious."
"But … " I was at a loss for words, and I had a feeling my mouth had gaped open more than the fish on his plate.