MacKenzie Fire(34)

“Ummm … dinner.”

He laughs. “I mean your favorite dish.”

“Oh … uhhh … pie, probably. Lemon pie.”

“Really?”

I look over at him. He seems very interested all of a sudden, no longer reading the news about Chuck.

He puts down his paper. “Lemon meringue?”

“Of course? Is there any other?” I flash him a fake smile over my shoulder before turning back to face the stove and cringe. Is there a shovel in here? Because I think I just dug my grave a little deeper.

“Oh, man, that’s my favorite. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t.” Why did I have to say lemon?! I could have said chocolate or apple or … shit, whatever other pies there are that I can’t remember right now.

“You’ll have to make me one of those before you go.”

“Okay. I can do that.” Hello, Google? I need a little help. Or a lot of help.

“You make your own crust?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t?” Oh, God. What am I doing?! Now I have to learn how to make crust too?

“Mmmm, I can already taste it. I wish we had some lemons right now. I’d get down on my knees and beg you to make me a lemon meringue pie.”

My eyes go wide. Could it be possible that the key to Ian’s heart is a simple lemon pie? I feel like I have true power in my hands right now with this knowledge. The question is, do I share this power with a worthy woman who will make Ian a happy man or do I use this power myself for selfish purposes? I try to picture Ginny making him that pie and it makes me want to punch her in the face. I think this means I’m going to be making a pie soon.

“Noodles are probably ready,” he says. “You want me to drain ‘em?”

His concern for the pasta wakes me up from my pie-making, girl-fight fantasy. “Yes, please. Sauce is almost done too.” The last hunks of meat are still clinging together, but it won’t be long before they’re separate. The stupid brown puddles are getting bigger, but maybe I can just scoop the sauce from around them and avoid them altogether. I’m afraid to taste the sauce and see if it’s fit for consumption.

What if it’s horrible? I don’t know why, but I’m more afraid of admitting I can’t cook a single thing than having him taste something awful. Maybe because it doesn’t smell half bad. Maybe there’s hope.

Ian’s busy next to me and then at the sink. A few minutes later he has two plates of noodles held out in front of him. “Ready, Chef.”

“Ready?” I’m afraid there’s a critical step to spaghetti making that I’m not aware of.

“For the sauce. Is it done?”

“Oh! The sauce! Yes, it’s done.” I grab a large spoon and take my time, scooping out tomato chunks, meat, and all the sauce I can find that doesn’t have the brown goop in it. It’s only enough for the two plates of noodles he’s presented me with.

I look down into my saucepan at the mess of onion scraps and brown goo. “I didn’t make enough for your parents.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. I’ll order them some pizzas.”

I cringe inwardly, realizing that we could have done the same thing and spared both of us this experience. Please don’t let this dinner suck!

He leaves me at the stove and sits down at the table. “You like wine or beer with your spaghetti?”

“Wine if you have it.” I’m kind of surprised to find that they drink wine out here. I had them pegged as Budweiser people.

“Yup.” He gets a bottle from a small collection on the counter. “Andie bought some when she was in Seattle. My mom likes this one a lot. Says it goes good with red meat.” He pours a glass for me and then opens a Sam Adams beer for himself. He’s standing behind his chair waiting for me.

The picture in front of me makes me want to cry. Pasta. Candlelight. The most gorgeous hunk of man I’d ever want to see. And a stupid blue baseball hat perched on his head, making his hair curl around the edges of it. He’s a working man, someone who uses his hands and body to do things around a ranch with horses and cows and stuff. I’d give just about anything to see him naked once.

He sees me looking at his head and quickly reaches up to take his hat off. He stuffs the brim in his back pocket and ruffles up his hair, trying to smooth away the pressed-in spots. “Sorry about that. No hats at the table. House rules.”

I can’t help but smile. He can be so charming and adorable when he wants to be. Or when he’s not trying to be, is more like it. It’s his natural state. The one he fakes is the jerky Ian. It boggles my mind that he would spend so much energy doing that when he could be so amazing with no effort. It makes me wonder if Ginny knew the real Ian or the fake one.

I take the seat he’s holding out for me. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” He sits down too and picks up his fork, dropping a napkin into his lap a second before he takes a big helping of noodles and spins it into a nest shape.

I stare at him, waiting to see if he’s actually going to eat it.

The forkful is halfway to his mouth when he freezes. “What?”

I shake my head and take my fork. “Oh, nothing. Sorry. I was spacing out there for a second.” Watching out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a bite.