MacKenzie Fire(32)

“He wants us to cook dinner?” I ask.

“Yup.” Ian pauses before driving into his space. “Can you cook?”

I panic. Then I snort. “Are eunuchs de-nied at the pearly gates?”

“So I heard.”

“Well then, you have your answer.” It’s a total lie to say that I cook. I mean, it’s not just a fib or a slight exaggeration, but a straight up bold-faced LIE. But Ian doesn’t know that.

I wonder how long it would take me to learn if I Googled it?





Chapter Thirteen





I HAVE MY ANSWER THIRTY minutes later: not long. This cooking thing is a breeze, apparently. Spaghetti and meat sauce, coming right up.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Ian asks as I open up different cupboards trying to locate the pans that the online article said I’d need.

“Of course. Do you have any ground beef anywhere?”

“This is a cattle ranch, what do you think?”

I look over my shoulder to find him smiling at me. “Where would I find it?”

“Freezer.” He sits down at the table in the kitchen and turns his chair so he can watch me.

“Garlic and onions?” I ask, trying to keep my nervousness from showing in my voice.

He points to a wooden box on the counter. “In there.”

“Okay.” I find a big old sharp knife in a drawer that looks like the one in the picture I saw, and put the papery vegetables on the cutting board that’s always out. “So I’m going to cut these up first.”

“You might want to peel those outer layers off first,” he says as I struggle to figure out where to start.

“Of course I will. I was just figuring out the best angle. There’s always a best angle for these things.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.”

I work for what seems like way too long peeling off the fine layers of skin that surround the onion and the garlic thingies. When they’re finally bare, I cut them into squares. My eyes begin to sting so bad I can barely see. I think my nose might be swelling too.

“Holy crap this garlic is strong.”

“Sure it’s not the onion?” he asks. His tone suggests he knows the answer.

“It’s both. Gah. I can’t see.” I turn around. Ian’s face is a mere blur through my half-open eyes.

“Ma’s got goggles in the drawer if you want to use ‘em.” He points across the kitchen.

“No, that’s alright.” I have no idea why he wants me to wear goggles. Do people wear goggles in the kitchen? I’ve never seen that on TV, and the article didn’t mention it. “I’m almost done.”

I give up on chopping any more vegetables and just sweep them into a pan with some oil. Some of the onion is still pretty big, but oh well. They immediately start sizzling. By the time I can see properly again, they’re turning brown.

“Sauce?” I ask, sniffing hard. My nose is running like crazy after the onion incident.

“What do you mean, sauce?”

“Where’s the spaghetti sauce?”

Ian shrugs. “I don’t know if we have any.”

My heart skips a few beats. No sauce? There was no contingency plan in this recipe for a kitchen without sauce. The ‘Quick-n-Easy Fifteen Minute Spaghetti’ might not be so quick and easy without that main ingredient. Oops.

He gets up and walks into the pantry. A few seconds later he comes out with a can. “Here’s some tomatoes. Could they work?”

“Of course,” I say, having no idea if this is sauce or not, but it has tomatoes on the picture and sauce is just tomatoes, right? I put on my brave face. “Open them for me, would you please?”

“Sure.” He opens the can and hands it to me.

I stare at it. The sauce inside doesn’t look anything like the pictures on Google. I dump it into the pan with the onions and garlic anyway because I don’t have any choice.

“Shouldn’t you start the noodles?” Ian asks. He’s hovering just behind me.

“In a minute. I need some …” I search my memory for the herbs mentioned in the article. “Basil, oregano, thyme, and uhhh … parsley.”

Ian opens a cabinet right next to me, standing so close I can feel the heat from his body. “Take your pick.”

I ignore the chemistry building between us and find the bottles I need. I have no idea how much to use, so I put in a few shakes of each.

“Want me to do the pasta?” he asks.

I put my hands on my hips and turn around to face him. He’s way too close but I don’t back away. “You seem very worried about the noodles, Ian. If it’s that big a deal, go ahead.”

I’m actually glad he wants to take over because I’m clueless about how to cook that stuff. Never in my life has that mattered, because I prefer eating out or buying already made meals from this place down the street from my apartment run by cooking school students, but today it feels like a big hole in my life-education. How am I going to impress this man if I can’t cook him a plate of spaghetti? And why do I even care about impressing him?

I watch very closely as he goes through the process of putting pasta on to boil. Seems simple enough. I could have done it, probably.