Huge marble island. Stainless-steel fridge. Chef’s grade six-burner stove andfourovens. Oh, I am going to havefuntonight. Usually, I have to make do with an oven possessed by a demon and a barely functional two-burner stove.
Dorian spends a few minutes showing me all the cooking supplies, a seemingly endless stockpile. Mixing bowls, whisks, measuring cups, even pasta makers and a mandoline. Excitement sizzles in my veins; I’ve never had a kitchen or so many excellent tools to work with.
“You need help?” Dorian asks, watching as I lay out the grocery items and start collecting cutting boards, mixers, knives, and pots and pans of all different sizes.
“Nope,” I respond. “You’ll just get in my way. You’re good to go, everything will be ready at ten.” I wash my hands and grab several sauces from a cupboard to start on a marinade for the steak. “You guys have a grill?” I ask.
He nods. “Out back. Let me know a half hour before you need it, and I’ll fire it up.” He seats himself at a small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll stick around.”
I frown at him, opening my mouth to tell him I prefer to work in peace, but think better of it. “Whatever floats your boat.”
The next hours are spent in a flurry of slicing, dicing, mixing, frying, baking, and preparations. I’m undertaking an impressive menu tonight, and creative ideas are buzzing through my mind. If I wasn’t so dedicated to becoming a vet, I’d pursue being a chef—as is, cooking will just remain my beloved hobby.
There will be three kinds of meat today—chicken, filet mignon, ribeye—and a dizzying number of side dishes. Home-made salsa and guacamole. Dauphinoise potatoes. Mediterranean roasted potatoes. A simple chopped salad with my favorite dressing. Several flatbread pizzas with different toppings. Spicy-sweet fried plantains.
As I’m prepping oven temperatures, I glance over at Dorian. He retrieved his laptop a few minutes ago; now he sits in front of it, squinting at whatever he’s reading.
“Hey, Dorian?”
He turns to look at me. “Yeah, baby?”
“Don’t call me that. Generally speaking, how much do you and your roommates eat?”
“An inhuman amount,” he responds drily, sweeping his eyes over the loaded kitchen island. “Your food will be put to good use.”
I nod, battering the plantain slices to prepare them to fry. “Good. I’d feel pretty shitty if any of this was gonna go to waste.”
“It won’t,” he says. “Everything smells delicious, by the way. Whatever we don’t eat today, we’ll finish off tomorrow.” A wry smile touches his lips. “Be careful, Mira. You spoil the occupants of this house, and we might get used to it.”
I let out a laugh. “I’m spoiling myself—this kitchen isfantastic. Once again, you three—”
“Just happen to be lucky beneficiaries, yeah,” he interjects with a playful eye roll. “So I’ve been told.” He returns his attention to his laptop, and I return my attention to my cooking.
At 9:15, everything besides the grilling and a handful of potato dishes baking in the oven is done. I send Dorian out to turn on the grills, and of course, that’s when Seamus decides to wander into the kitchen.
“Sorry to interrupt, love,” he says mildly, walking up to the counter and surveying the many serving bowls and plates covering it, most of them already filled with yummy delights. “It smells absolutelywonderfulin here, so I couldn’t resist. Are you treating us for being good boys and not killing you?”
My lips thin at the reminder of the thin ice I still tread on. “I’m treating both myselfandyou.” I snap a dishtowel at him. “Now, shoo. Right now, this is my kitchen.”
Seamus’s eyebrows raise as he regards me. “That so? I think it’sourkitchen.”
“When you taste my food, you’ll be begging me to permanently take over this kitchen,” I inform him. “Enough with the veiled threats; I’mstillnot going to talk.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Seamus says. I feel his gaze on me as I turn to wipe down the counter around the stove. “Your ass looksfantasticin those jeans, by the way—ow!Thefuck,Acheron?”
“I already said I’m not going to share. I will not say it again.Get. Out,” Dorian growls. I spin around to see that he’s returned from firing up the grills and is staring at Seamus with a murderous expression.
“Okay!Fuck, okay.” Seamus turns and breezes out of the kitchen, but not before tipping me a wink that makes Dorian growl.
I set a few timers on my phone so I don’t forget about the dishes in the oven. Turning to Dorian, I request, “Help me carry these to the grill.” I pull the bowls of marinating steak from the fridge.
Dorian’s eyebrows raise. “Yes, chef.” He picks up two bowls while I grab the third, leading me through the kitchen and to a doorway at the end of a hall, which lets out onto a back patio I haven’t seen yet. Stone pillars support a wooden roof over the patio, with withering ivy vines languidly crawling over the beams.
The patio is nice, but the backyard is in a state of disrepair. Brown grass sprouts in awkward patches across the uneven, dark soil. There are no flowers in sight, though random tufts of what might be wheat grow at the base of a tall stone wall, which stands guard over the house like a watchful sentinel.
The grill is a masterpiece of design, momentarily making me forget the backyard’s disrepair. Stainless steel and four-burner, it boasts sleek metal trays affixed to its sides where I set the bowls, and a gleaminghood that lifts to reveal pristine grates, ideal for crafting perfect crosshatch marks.
“I’m good out here,” I tell Dorian. “I won’t run away. You can go back inside.”
