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.
“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 fa
ce,” 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.
Dawson wiped his mouth with his napkin and then inclined his head. “You didn’t really think I’d be up for food poisoning, did you, love?”
Ohhhhhhh. Oh, no he did not. The simmering in my blood turned to a full-on boil as I sat there watching him continue eating his pie, realizing this had all been a fun new low on ways to torture me. And, to top it off, he’d used my chef against me? I’d bet money there wasn’t another plastic container in there with my name on it, and that was what finally did it. Thaaat was what had me clenching my jaw and ready to snap.
He really should’ve learned it’s better when I’m not forced to snap.
“You rat bastard,” I said, jumping to my feet, and as I pointed at him with the spoon I still held, the ball of ice cream I’d scooped up for myself went flying off, hitting him with a loud splat square in the jaw.
Oh, shit…whoops?
Dawson sat there, stock-still, as though trying to process that he had, indeed, been hit with a flying ball of ice cream.
Damn right he had. I hadn’t meant to do it, but hell, it had felt so good watching that self-satisfied expression leave his face that I dug my spoon into the ice cream again, this time flinging the ball toward his lap so that he had to jump up to wipe it off, lest he feel like having frozen balls for dessert.
“Pita, what the hell?” he said, as he worked the napkin up and down across his zipper, and then wiped at his chin. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I think I have. You see, I seem to have woken up in some kind of nightmare alternate universe where I let this guy I know get the best of me at every turn. But”—I scooped some Nutella onto the spoon—“I think he needs a little reminding that I’m not that kind of girl.”
And then I flung that Nutella, but this time he’d moved to the side just in time, so the hazelnut chocolate only skimmed the side of his neck instead of slapping into him, the rest landing on the wall behind him.
Dawson’s jaw ticked, and then he lifted a finger to his neck, slid it across the Nutella, and sucked it into his mouth. His eyes were heated on mine as he pulled it back out slowly. “Feel better?” he growled.
“I do. I really, really do,” I said, with a smile sweet as sugar. Then I dropped the spoon into the ice cream, picked up the container, and headed out of the dining room, but not before calling over my shoulder, “By the way, you’re on cleanup duty.”
When he didn’t respond, I felt a little more than self-satisfied. Sure, throwing food was immature and not the way I’d normally play the game, but Dawson was crawling over every last nerve I had left, so a smack in his face felt damn good. Especially since I’d been kicking myself over the slightest bit of guilt I had over abruptly shutting him out when I’d thought he was being sincere the other night in my room. But tonight he’d proved that old emotions getting stirred up had no business in the present. He was a bug that needed to be squashed, and I had no problem putting my heels into it.
Honestly, had he thought he’d get the best of—
Thwack!
Something cold and gooey hit the back of my neck with a force that meant it’d been hurled across the room, and I stopped in my tracks.
No, he fucking didn’t…
As I slowly turned on my heel to face him, another glob of his dessert smacked me in the chest, before sliding down my white blouse and then dropping onto the hardwood floor. My jaw fell right along with it, and then I looked up to see Dawson’s superior smile, and a challenge in his darkened eyes.
“You don’t look so great in buttermilk pie,” he said, wiping his hands off before placing them squarely on his hips. Which was also right before I swiped the whipped cream container, flicked off the top, and charged. Yes, charged—right at him.
His brows shot up to his hairline when he saw me coming, and he raced to the other side of the table, where I’d left the rest of my “dinner.” It didn’t matter, though, because I was on him and spraying him down with the creamy white stuff—hah, probably a first for him—before he had a chance to retaliate.
“You’ve…gone…psychotic,” he managed as he struggled to grab a hold of my wrists, but his hands were too slippery.
“And you, you won’t leave me the hell alone,” I yelled, continuing to spray the whipped cream, though it was half landing on me at this point. “Why is that? Millions of women out there begging for a night with Dirty Dick, and you insist on screwing with me?”
I slipped on some of the melted ice cream I’d lobbed his way, and took the opportunity to slide out of his grasp. After quickly kicking off my heels, I skated across the slick hardwood, out of his reach, but he stayed hot on my tail. A cold bullet to my back as I ran into the kitchen had me screeching, and I looked over my shoulder to see him balling up some more ice cream to send in my direction.
Several long strands of hair had come out of his ponytail, hanging in front of his face, all wet and sticky and not at all unattractive. Damn him. I doubted the same could be said for me at the moment.
Dawson gave me a savage smile. “You’re just lucky, I guess.” Then he let go of the melting ice cream in his hands, and before I could move, it smacked against my chest.
“Oh shit,” I said, as the sweet cream oozed its way down into my shirt, soaking the entire front completely and sending goosebumps up my arms. “Sweet fuck, that’s cold.” I didn’t hesitate—I undid the top buttons and then lifted the shirt up and over my head, anything to get warm.
It wasn’t until I looked up that I noticed Dawson had stopped moving, one of his hands still holding the gallon of ice cream and the other dripping the remnants from his fingers onto the floor. His gaze was on me—or on my chest,
rather. The nude satin didn’t do a damn thing to hide how cold that shit had been; my nipples were hard and the melted ice cream had soaked through my shirt, making it completely see-through. Christ, he probably wasn’t even thinking it was from the cold. No doubt he had the wrong impression, like I was excited by all this…this…whatever this was.
When he continued staring at me, I crumpled up my shirt and threw it at his head, but I missed completely and knocked over the ice cream cone display I kept on the back counter instead. It was only then that Dawson tore his eyes away, shaking his head as if to clear his brain, and then he leaned over to right the display. But when he did, a buzzing noise filled the air.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
“You must’ve hit the button. Turn it off.”
“Turn off your ice cream? Why is it shaking?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Because it’s a vibrator, dumbass.”
Dawson almost knocked the thing over again as he looked up at me in surprise. “You keep a vibrator in your kitchen?” he said, taking the ice cream cone out of the stand. It’d been a Christmas present from Ryleigh last year—my friends know me so well.
“What can I say? I like to keep my appliances handy no matter where I am. You can put it down now.”
“Hmm.” Dawson pushed the button again, sending the vibrator into fast pulses instead of the previous steady vibration. “No. I don’t think I will.”
“Seriously, Dawson? Now I’ll have to sterilize it.”
He pressed on the button again, and the vibration went high to low like a rollercoaster. He looked at it curiously and toyed with his bottom lip as he stalked my way. “I wonder which of these settings my naughty Pita is the most fond of?”
“That would be none of your damn business for five hundred, Alex.”
He continued forward, as I backed away. I was out of whipped cream, the ice cream was out of reach, and I had nothing left to—
The Nutella.
I darted for the jar on the dining room table, but Dawson got there first, caging me in so that my ass hit the edge, and he took hold of the jar.
P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3) Page 11