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“Declan, I am not laughing,” the chef answered. Everyone else stood as still as statues, lips pressed together tightly. “I am concerned.”
“Ahh. I am glad you are telling me this,” Declan answered. “What part of my meal preparation goals are you concerned about, chef?”
“Sir, your meal preparation goals do not scare me,” the chef answered. “What scares me is the chance that if your meal was consumed by yourself or the lady, one of you, if not both, would end up taking a trip to the emergency room.”
The room became even more silent than it already had been … if that were possible.
All parties in the room, save the chef and Declan, were pressing their lips shut with such vigor an outsider looking in would have thought that what was taking place was a breath-holding contest.
“I am not going to sugarcoat my words, chef,” Declan added. “That was a fucked-up thing to say. My cooking will not be sending anyone to the infirmary. In fact, you might want to remind yourself that my grandmother, the previous queen before my mother, was an incredible cook.” Of course, cooking skills weren’t hereditary. But he’d figure it out.
“Of course, King,” the chef answered. “I was in error for wanting to stick around to watch the upcoming maelstrom. For some reason, I thought that since you didn’t know how to cook, the dinner you prepared would be as organized as a flock of pigeons in a tornado.”
“Well, then,” Declan exclaimed, clapping his hands together as he spoke. “I bid you all a good evening off, and I will see you tomorrow.”
The staff left.
The chef left.
Declan began the process of preparing the kitchen.
In Declan’s memory, the kitchen was always a place with plenty of space and shiny marble countertops.
His memory had plenty of scenes where there was an abundance of flat space upon which to place items.
That night, however, all free space had been filled and covered so quickly with Declan’s mess. The oven had been preheated, and a couple side dishes had been made, but he was essentially still at square one in terms of dinner preparation, and he had already burned two hours of time.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice from behind him.
Taryn. Beautiful Princess Taryn of Autumhart, soon to be his queen.
“It’s a surprise,” he answered.
“Are you surprising me with a lesson in kitchen demolition as an antecedent to kitchen remodeling?”
“I am surprising you with dinner,” he told her flatly.
“I am surprised,” she answered, holding up a small power drill that had been sitting on the counter next to the bread. “Do you know how to cook? What were you drilling.”
“It can’t be that hard,” he answered bluntly. Then he grabbed a small jar of Vaseline, scooped out a small dollop, and applied it liberally to a sheet pan.
“What are you doing?” she asked again.
“I told you. Cooking dinner for my one true love.”
“I’m guessing you really like that pan,” she said, jerking her chin toward the pan.
“Ha-ha. For your information, the recipe calls for a greased sheet pan.”
“Okay, big boy. I am going to get changed into something comfier. When I get back, you can pick something out for me to do to help.”
Taryn left the kitchen.
Declan looked at his surroundings.
Yikes. The place looked like a hoarder’s kitchen. There was a small jar of surfboard resin next to the bell peppers. He grabbed the resin and stashed it in a cabinet. Taryn didn’t need to see that. He also hid the wood glue; although it wasn’t toxic, Taryn would make fun that he’d had it out.
Sweet heavens. What a sight! Taryn had returned. She wore one of his T-shirts, her yoga pants, and nothing else. The wild fragrance that always surrounded her, that of cedar, jasmine, and cinnamon, floated atop the air like the most heavenly scent.
