MacKenzie Fire(33)

“How do you tell if it’s done?” I ask. “I mean, I know how I tell, but what’s your system?”

“Throw it on the fridge.”

My eyes widen. “Throw it on the fridge? Are you serious?” Is that what everyone does? Have I been eating noodles that have been stuck to a wall or that have fallen on the floor my whole life and just never known it? Wow. I really should have tried to learn to cook when I was a teenager. I probably would have been anti-pasta my entire adult life if I had.

“Yep. You’ll see.” He winks.

I have to act casual, otherwise he’ll know I’m clueless. “Can’t wait,” I say, going back to my stirring.

“You gonna add the meat anytime soon?” Ian asks.

“Yeah, sure. Get some for me, would you?”

There’s some rustling around behind me and then Ian’s there, holding out a hunk of red meat. It’s frozen solid.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

He shrugs. “Whatever you normally do? I don’t know.”

My mind goes blank. What did that damn recipe say? I cannot remember. This is a major step, but I don’t have a single memory of its mention.

I take the meat from him and dump it right in the middle of the sauce. “Thanks.”

“You aren’t going to brown it first?”

“No, this way is better.” Hell, I might not know how to brown meat, but I certainly know how to defrost stuff. Most of my meals have to be defrosted first before I eat them, and when my microwave broke one time, I just put everything in the one pan I have and heated it on the stove. This will work. Heat equals melted ice. Simple science.

“Okay. If you say so. Need anything else?”

I shake my head. “Nope. You can just sit down and relax while I do all the work.”

“How about if I set the table?” he moves over to another cupboard.

“Sure.” Why a man setting the table makes me go all silly inside, I do not know, but it does. I’m nearly thirty years old and every meal I’ve had with a guy has been at a restaurant. This feels really intimate and nice. This baby thing has really messed with my head, apparently.

I push the lump of meat around, accidentally spilling sauce over the edge of the pan. It catches on fire a little and starts to stink up the kitchen. I quickly wave the smoke away until it stops coming up.

“Smells good,” says Ian from across the room.

Turning around to see if he’s kidding, I see that he’s not looking at me, too busy setting the table for two. I lose my train of thought when I see what he’s done. There are candles in between the two plates. Were those there before or did he put them there? It strikes me as very romantic.

I turn back to the stove so he doesn’t see my expression. I’m so confused right now. This dinner by candlelight probably means absolutely nothing to him, right? I mean, we need light and that lamp above the table is kind of dim. But what if it does mean something more than just illumination to him? What if he’s making it romantic on purpose? But then again, what if he’s playing a prank on me, letting me think that’s what he’s doing so that I’ll say something stupid?

The way our relationship has gone so far, I could never trust him to be serious. And there’s nothing more embarrassing than thinking someone is into you when they’re just messing around with your head. No way am I going to fall for that. He’s still mad at me for almost shooting him. He’s definitely planning some sort of revenge. These candles could be part of that.

“Are the noodles done yet?” Ian asks.

“That’s up to you,” I say. “Better start throwing them around.” I can’t wait to see this.

He stands next to me, using a spoon from a container on the counter to fish a couple pieces out. “I don’t think they’re ready, but let’s see.” Pulling one of the noodles off the spoon, he grins at me. Then, without warning, he throws it against the refrigerator.

I stare at the pasta as it slides down the front of the appliance and then plops onto the floor.

“Nope. Not ready.” He eats the other piece on the spoon. “Too hard.”

I resist the urge to make a comment. Instead, I push on the slightly thawed hunk of meat, trying not to be worried about the pools of brownish-red something that are collecting around the sides of the pan.

“Probably should’ve given you the ground sirloin,” Ian says, looking over my shoulder into the pan.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s better, that’s all.” He moves over to the table. He picks up a nearby folded newspaper and says, “That chuck has a lot of fat.”

My heart seizes up. Who’s Chuck? Is he a person in the news or something to do with our dinner? I decide that silence is my best bet for a response.

I stir the sauce, trying to mix in the brown stuff. Maybe it’ll make the sauce taste better, but I doubt it since it looks pretty unappetizing. It must be meat juice but why isn’t it mixing into the tomatoes? It just moves around making me chase after it with the spoon.

“So how long have you been cooking?” Ian asks.

“All my life pretty much.” Damn, that slipped out before I could stop it. I hate when lies get bigger on their own like that.

“What’s your favorite thing to cook?”