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I put up my hands. “Čedomir, really—”
“I know of course about the flour and butter, but there was something else you added, something that gave it—” He kisses his fingers as he gets up and moves toward the stove. He’s not even going to let me pretend it wasn’t me.
And really? This has bothered the man for more than fifteen years?
Čedomir whisks a cook out of his way and plucks a pan off the hanging rack above him, setting it on a burner while a younger cook quickly begins handing him oils and butter.
“You will see for yourself. This young woman has something special.”
What can I do? I am in the company of a man who is my worst nightmare. You cannot say no to Čedomir. I once saw him drag Nana herself into the pool for a conga line. And she was in her eighties. And it was fifty degrees.
I feel my face flush. My hands start to get clammy.
I’m weak.
I’m weak and I’ve been parading around the past hour thinking I was improving, that I really was going to win here, but I’m not. I’m still the same weak girl whose tummy goes in knots and will be fighting a GI battle for days over a confrontation like this—if I have the audacity to sit here in his kitchen and tell him no. The overall dooming thought pounding in my head is You can’t say no to Čedomir.
Try, Chloe! I argue with myself.
But there’s no hope. My body starts to rise without my will. My napkin is wadded up and dropped on the empty plate beside the silverware. I dab at my face. Take a sip of water real quick as though that will do me any good.
And then, as my gaze meets James’s, something clicks.
Sure, I’m going down—I’m a pathetic girl who can’t say no to anyone—but I’m taking him down with me.
“James,” I say brightly, throwing out my hand, “you’re quite the cook yourself, I’m sure.”
James’s brows shoot up. He raises his hands. “Oh no. This feels like a you two thing. A good bonding, uh . . .” He stumbles for words and lowers his voice. “What’s your relation again?”
“He’s my uncle’s twice-removed cousin’s husband.”
“Yes, well, this seems like a thing between you and your uncle’s twice-removed cousin’s husband,” James repeats. “A family thing.”
“I don’t think it’s a family thing.”
“I think it feels like a family thing.”
“It’s more of a beurre manié thing.”
“I’m not even sure what a beurre manié is.”
“I’m sure you want to find out.”
“I’m really good here.”
“Wouldn’t you like to join me at the soup pot, James? Wouldn’t you like to have a little competition to see who can make the better beurre manié?”
There it is.
A question.
Yes or no, James? What will it be?
James begins to answer and then stops himself. He takes a breath. “Yeah. Why not.” He pushes himself to standing.
This is, without question, a terrible date.
It’s obvious there’s something amiss with me. Let’s just say the light has gone from my eyes and we all know it. I’m asking him to do ridiculous things, but not simple ridiculous things like before. I’m making it hard on him.
