Ten minutes pass, and then twenty. No drink reappears. On top of my work for once, I follow the vague smell of fire into the kitchen and find Ophelia’s MacBook open on the island withhow to unburn steaktyped into the search bar.
I find her in the back kitchen, taking something out of the microwave. Her hair is in a messy bun, though more red tendrils have escaped than remain. She’s looks like she’s in the worst mood ever, which amuses me greatly.
“Fuck you for having a birthday. Fuck steak. Fuck lunch as a concept. Fuck frying pans. Fuck recipe websites. Why do I have to read about your uncle’s fucking gallstones to read how long to cook a steak for? And fuck the stove, too. It’s lying about being on medium. It’s on high.”
I lean against the doorway, a fond warmth spreading its way through my blood. This is what I want. This is what I wantforever. “Going well, then.”
She spoons green beans onto a plate with far more force than necessary. “A cow died for this, Alex!”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
She leads me into the main kitchen, where two steaks masquerading as lumps of charcoal sit in the cast-iron skillet on the stove. When she drops one onto each plate, they clank like charcoal, too.
“It—”
“Shut up.” She’s pouting, hard, as she tosses a few potatoes on each plate and puts salt and pepper on them, like that’ll save this car crash.
I sit down at the kitchen island, dragging the plate toward myself and biting the inside of my cheek.
“Happy fucking birthday,” she mutters, sitting down beside me. I can see she’s desperately trying not to laugh, too.
The potatoes aren’t even bad. The green beans are definitely almost edible.
“You’re not even going to try the steak?” she asks, looking down at the blackened mass on the plate, expression dejected.
“I’m all right, thanks. I’d quite like to finish the day with my molars intact.”
That earns me a whack with a dishcloth. “Alex!”
I hook my finger under the strap of her green dress, dragging her closer to me. She swats my hand like it’s a fly. “Is this how you usually treat the staff in restaurants?”
I give her my most charming smile. “Only the sexy, grumpy redheads.”
“You better tip well.”
“Oh, I have a tip you can have,” I whisper, watching her bury her face in her hands.
She’s blushing when she emerges, the very corners of her mouth turned up. “You’re a terrible flirt.”
I stick out my bottom lip, hands landing on her ass. The soft lines of her body have me in a tailspin, my head so far in the clouds that I’ve forgotten all my issues. “Flirt back. Don’t leave me hanging—it’s my birthday.”
“Only if you leave me a good review on Tripadvisor.”
I grin against her neck. “Five stars.Chef was so hot that I can only assume that the steak must’ve burst into flames on contact.”
She leans into my touch, my hands threading through the bright copper strands that have buried themselves so deep into my chest that they’re holding my fragile heart together. “Seven letters,” she whispers, “First letterB.The chef might give you one, if you’re lucky.”
I shift on the stool. The thought of Ophelia on her knees, here, has my next sentence stuck in traffic. My brain has short-circuited.
But the patter of bare feet coming through the foyer reminds me why my errant thoughts must remain just thoughts. Josie skids around the doorway, face wrinkling. “Ew. Were you kissing?”
“We wouldnever,” I say, scandalized. I pick her up with one arm and swing her into my arms. She has a piece of paper clutched in her clammy little hand. “What you got there?”
“It’s for Pheelz.”
“Woah, onmybirthday?” I set her down. “Better give it to her, then.”
Josie drags Ophelia to the end of the kitchen island, sticking a homemade poster against the white marble. There’s a stick figure that’s obviously me, and another with an orange mass of hair.
