“I should be working on the project,” I said, tying the fabric that said, Hot Stuff For You.
“You’re in this mess because you want to appear to be traditional. We know she thinks you should be cooking.”
Finally reaching my end point, I asked, “Are you mad at me?”
“I’m doing all I can do to help you, Holly and yet you continue to do the very opposite of what you say needs to happen. You’re in a fake marriage to show her you’re not a spinster, which by the way, why you don’t tell her to fuck off, I don’t know. But you’re doing it, and yet you won’t even attempt to cook, which you also know she thinks you should be doing. I also did your laundry. What do you think she’d think of that?”
“I didn’t ask you to cook or do laundry.” Jesus, did he see my old lady white undies?
He gave me a look that suggested I was being childish and ungrateful. “I get hungry and I like to eat. How about you?”
Instead of getting sucked into a fake marital fight, I let out a breath. “I’m just nervous, Tucker.”
“That’s why you have me. All you have to do is cut up this fruit and put it in this bowl. I’ve got a quiche in the oven—”
“So real men do make quiche?” I grinned.
He looked at me like I had a third eye.
“That’s a saying. It was from an old book,” I explained.
“I think I’ve already shown you that I’m a real man. Twice.”
My body went hot as the memory of just how real he’d been flashed in my brain. “It was a joke.”
His eyes widened in shock.
Realizing my mistake, I quickly corrected myself. “The quiche comment, not…the other…”
He let out a breath. “I’m sorry if I’m tense. I just wonder why I’m here sometimes when you don’t want me here and you don’t want me to help.”
“I do want you to help. I appreciate all you’ve done. I’ll cut the fruit.” I stepped up to the cutting board where he’d put some apples, oranges and bananas.
“You might want to peel the apples,” he said as he watched me cut.
“Why? The nutrients are in the peel, right?”
“Yes, but many people don’t like that part in their salad.” He picked up the peeler and showed me how to quickly remove the apple peel.
Once I did that, I started cutting again, removing the core and chopping into smaller pieces.
“Try to keep them uniform in size,” he said.
I glared at him over my shoulder. “Do you want to do this?”
“I’m teaching you how to cook, love. Keeping them the same size makes a prettier salad, and before you ask, aesthetics are a part of eating, and it’s easier to consume.”
I sighed and made sure my apple pieces were the same size. Then I cut the orange and the bananas.
“I made this juice to go over it. It’s a little lime, sugar and ginger.”
I took the juice, poured it on the fruit and stirred. Then I snapped up an apple to taste it. It was actually pretty good.
Before I could tell him so and thank him, the door rang, and the oven timer went off.
“Perfect timing,” he said, taking his own apron off that said ‘Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’. “I’ll get the door. You take the quiche out. I’ve already put a trivet on the table.”
“I had trivets?”