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“I agree.” Marshall gestured toward the monstrous pile of dishes, his ‘hamlet.’ “So, if I can wash all of these dishes will that settle our bet?”
I looked at him, then at the stack of dishes, then back again. I tried to clamp my lips down on a laugh, but it escaped anyway.
“Are you kidding me? You’re going to wash dishes in that outfit?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Yeah, right.”
“You don’t think that I will?”
I regarded him for a long moment while Dill shifted nervously from foot to foot. It seemed to me that he was utterly serious. I had to consider that he was taking my challenge for real.
“I’m starting to think you’re insecure enough about the size of your dick to try,” I said at length.
“That’s it,” Dill sputtered, his face turning redder than a tomato. “Jenny, you’re—”
“It’s all right,” Marshall said, cutting off Dill’s tirade before it could really get off the ground. Dill closed his mouth, his eyes anxious as he stared up at Marshall.
“So, if I wash these dishes, then I win the bet?” Marshall asked casually.
“What?” I let out a bark of laughter. “Oh hell no, it’s not going to be that easy. I mean, at this time of night, I’ve had washed a gazillion dishes already and I’d be tired. You’re going into it all fresh.”
His lips twitched a smile. I saw the glimmer of a dimple. Oh my god, he was gorgeous.
“I see. So you would like it to be more fair.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Then… how about a time limit?” he gestured to the dishes. “If I can wash these in a time specified by you, then I win the bet.”
“Um… how long?”
“That’s up to you.”
I considered it for a long moment. How long would it take me to wash those dishes if I were fresh? That was to be my metric. I did the calculations in my head and turned to him confidently with a number in mind.
“Okay, if you can do those dishes in fifteen minutes, I’ll admit that you do know how to work for a living, and I’ll buy you a porterhouse.”
“Fifteen minutes?” he looked over at the dishes and shrugged. “Seems too easy.”
I wanted to strangle him. I bit back an angry retort as he opened his mouth to speak again.
“And quite frankly, I don’t eat a cut of meat as basic as a porterhouse.”
“Oooh, look at Mr. Fancypants.” I made a gesture in the air with my fingers. “Too precious to eat a porterhouse.”
“If you like.”
None of my insults seemed to be getting through to him. In point of fact, he was getting to me, in more ways than one. I swallowed the lump in my throat and spoke.
“So, what do you want? Lobster or something?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll claim something if I win, though, to be sure.”
Claim something? Like what, flying to Japan for fugu or something?
“Oh, all right, fine.” My eyes gleamed with malice. “I’ll let you claim a ‘mystery prize’ on one condition.”
“And what condition would that be?” He still hadn’t lost his cocky veneer. I was hoping to end that.
“That you do it in five minutes.”
