Lost in Paradise: A Sinners on Tour Honeymoon (Sinners on Tour 6.8)

“Everything’s fine,” she called back, frowning at the slimy green roll she set on a paper plate. Maybe if she nuked it the texture would improve—like if she literally obliterated it with an atomic bomb. Having no atomic bombs at her disposal, she stuck the plate in the microwave and watched it spin around on the turntable. The roll began pulsating like some alien slug, snapping and crackling and giving off an even viler odor. Her stomach heaved when she thought about putting that thing in her mouth. Chewing it. Swallowing it.

Oh God. Seasickness wasn’t going to make her hurl, but ingesting her own cooking might do the trick.

“Something smells good,” Sed called down.

“It does not! It smells like ass!”

“I’m sure it will taste good.”

She was sure it would taste worse than it smelled. Maybe if she doctored it up a bit with something from the cupboards. She found bottles of ketchup, mustard, and olive oil. There was also flour, cornstarch, and baking soda, but no mayonnaise. She was craving mayonnaise. An explosion in the microwave had her scrambling to open the door. Well, the cabbage roll didn’t look like an alien slug anymore. Now it looked like slimy shrapnel. Bits of meat and chopped vegetables peppered the interior of the microwave.

“Well, that’s just great.”

Maybe her mishap was a blessing in disguise. Perhaps heating them up in the toaster oven would be a more successful option. There were still several that hadn’t been eviscerated by the microwave.

Knowing that Sed was hungry, she cranked up the toaster oven to its highest setting, transferred the rolls to a foil pan, and got to work on cleaning up the microwave while their food warmed.

“Is something burning down there?”

Jessica pulled her head out of the microwave. Tendrils of smoke were curling out of the top of the toaster oven. “Shit!”

She yanked open the door and reached for the pan, cursing as the hot metal scorched her skin. She grabbed a dishtowel and used it to pull the foil pan from the oven and tossed the entire mess into the small sink. The cabbage rolls were a little scorched, but the smoke had come from the juices that had dried to crisp black lakes at the bottom of the pan. The rolls themselves were still edible—she hoped—but she feared they’d never been palatable.

She moved them onto plates and added the lettuce she’d chopped for a salad. She could make salad. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to bring dressing or any embellishments, so her salad was lettuce a la carte. “He’s going to divorce me by nightfall,” she muttered under her breath.

She searched a few more cabinets but didn’t find anything remotely resembling dressing. They did have olive oil, though. It would have to do. Unless Sed wanted ketchup on his iceberg. She also found a couple cans of soup they could use as backup should none of her hard work pay off.

“Lunch is ready!” Well, as ready as it was going to be. “Do you want me to bring it up, or can you come down?”

“I’ll lower the sails and come down,” he said.

“Do you need help?”

“I’ve got it.”

While she waited for him to join her, she set their paper plates on the small dining table next to the galley and opened the empty refrigerator. It was starting to get cold now that it had been running for a couple of hours, so she transferred their drinks from the cooler to the fridge, saving two bottles of water to round out their meal. Chocolate milk sounded so good to her right then, but it wasn’t like she could ask Sed to make a quick run to the store.

When he came below deck a few minutes later, she was poking at her undressed salad.

“Did you make cabbage rolls?” he asked, removing his life vest before sliding into the booth across from her.

“If that’s what you want to call them.”

“They look good.” He lied.

She cringed. “I’m afraid to try them.”

“Well, I’m not.” He picked up his fork.

“Do you want oil for your salad? I forgot the dressing.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her, but she didn’t believe him. He cut into his cabbage roll with the side of his fork and shoveled it into his mouth. Such a brave man. Someone should give him a medal.

He opened his mouth and waved his hand in front of his face. “Hot!”

“Sorry. I think I had the toaster oven up too high.”

“I mean spicy.” A tear leaked from the corner of one eye. “But good.” He reached for his bottle of water and downed half its contents in rapid glugs.

“Cayenne.” The recipe had called for it. It was the dill that she’d replaced with thyme. And the ground pork she’d replaced with lean ground turkey. And she’d slipped in some kale for added health benefits. But the recipe had definitely called for cayenne, and she’d added a heaping tablespoon of the stuff.

“A lot of cayenne,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“I like it.” He braved a second bite and chased it with several forkfuls of plain chopped lettuce. “The salad helps cut the heat. Good choice.”

She still wasn’t brave enough to try the cabbage rolls, but she did stick a lettuce leaf into her mouth, feeling like a rabbit munching lunch directly from the ground. “Fresh,” she said, and snorted.

“Thanks for cooking, sweetheart.” Sed reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Thanks for pretending it sucks less than it does.”

“I like it,” he said, subjecting himself to a third bite. His poor digestive system.

When he started on a second roll, Jessica got brave enough to try a bite. Instantly her mouth was on fire. She spit the bite into her hand and slurped water, which didn’t help tame the fire on her tongue in the slightest. “Oh my God! How can you eat that?”

“After a while your mouth goes numb.”

She stood and grabbed his plate. He might be nice enough to eat it, but she wouldn’t subject him to further agony. “I’ll heat up a can of soup for you.”

“Jess . . .”

“It’s fine. I’ll do better next time. Now I know that more cayenne isn’t necessarily better.”

“How much did you put in?”

He was drinking her water now. Even though he liked spicy food, a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. Inferno food obviously didn’t agree with him.

“Just a tablespoon.”

“Are you sure it didn’t call for a teaspoon?”

“It said T-S-P. That’s a tablespoon.”

“T-B-S-P is a tablespoon.”

She bit her lip. That made total sense. She felt like an idiot.

“But I liked it,” he said. “What I could taste of it.”

“I suck at cooking,” she said. She tossed his plate into the sink.

“You’re great at so many things.” He rose from the table.

“Name one.”

“Arguing.”

She grinned and shook her head. “A skill all husbands want in their wives.”

“I didn’t marry you because you’re a great cook.”

“Obviously.”

“I married you because you can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Except cook.”

“You cooked.” He kissed her, and her lips burned from the spice on his mouth.

“I think you could accuse me of attempted murder.” She rubbed at her tingling lips with the back of her hand. “Does your stomach hurt?”

“If it can survive the stuff that passes for food while the band’s on tour, it can survive a tablespoon of cayenne.”

“Heaping tablespoon,” she said.

“So you were trying to kill me.”

“It wasn’t intentional. I was worried that the ground turkey wouldn’t be flavorful enough, so I spiced it up.”

“I guess I should expect that. You spice up the bedroom too.”

She was confident that she could keep their sex life entertaining. At least until she got so enormously pregnant that she became unbendy. Then what use would she be to him?

&nb

sp; She scowled at the direction of her thoughts. She didn’t typically struggle with self-confidence or realizing her self-worth. What was wrong with her? So she’d screwed up cooking their lunch, so what? So she’d temporarily given up her career to join him on tour, help Myrna take care of Malcolm, and incubate Sed’s baby. So what? So her entire self-worth currently centered around making a man happy—what was the big deal?

That was a very big deal for her, she realized. How could she hope to have everything she wanted—love, career, and a happy family—if she couldn’t even make fucking cabbage rolls from a recipe?

“Storm clouds are brewing,” Sed said.

She glanced toward the steps that led to the deck but couldn’t see the sky. “Should we be worried? Can this boat survive a storm?”

“It’s not the boat I’m worried about. It’s you. What’s bothering you, stormy eyes? Are you sorry we got married?”