Page 44 of Flag On The Play
Me: You busy tonight?
Finlay: Depends.
Me: On?
Finlay: On whether or not you’re inviting me over.
Me: I am.
Finlay: Then no, I’m not busy.
Shit. This is happening.
I toss my phone onto the counter and pull up the recipe I bookmarked earlier. I’m talking actual food. Real ingredients. Like I’m a whole-ass adult trying to impress a guy or something.
Which I immediately regret.
Why did I decide to cook?!
I’ve never cooked a full dinner in my life unless we’re counting ramen noodles and scrambled eggs, which apparently we’re not.
But tonight? I wanted to go big. Or at least I was trying until I managed to burn the chicken, start a small grease flare-up on the stovetop, and set off the smoke detector. All within thirty minutes.
There’s a pot boiling over, something sticky on the floor, and I’m fanning smoke out the window with a potholder.
“Motherfucker”
He knocks.
I freeze. Covered in flour. Possibly smelling like a roasted tire.
I stare at the mess. The kitchen looks like a food truck exploded.
I could just not answer. Say I was in the shower. Or asleep. Or that I got amnesia and forgot he was coming.
But he knocks again.
With a sigh, I wipe my hands on a towel, which is also covered in something brown and possibly charred, and open the door.
Finlay stands there in jeans and a black Henley, looking like pure temptation. He’s smiling until the smell hits him.
His nose twitches. “Is that burnt hope and dreams I’m smelling?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s called home cooking.”
“Is the ‘home’ part of it, because it smells like it’s on fire?”
“Do you wanna come in or stand there roasting me like my chicken?”
“Is it chicken?” he says, stepping in and surveying the scene. “Because based on the smoke cloud and the smell, I would’ve guessed vengeance?”
I shove his arm. “Shut up.”
He laughs and lifts a lid off one of the pots. “Okay, this one looks edible?”
I slap his hand away and sigh. “Alright, fine. I ruined dinner. I tried. I actually tried. I found a damn recipe, went to the store, chopped things, followed directions, sorta. And it still went to shit.”
“I’m impressed,” he says, leaning against my counter. “This is the most effort anyone’s ever put into trying to kill me.”
