P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3) by Brooke Blaine

Author:Brooke Blaine [Blaine, Brooke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brooke Blaine
Published: 2017-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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