Page 41 of The Kitchen Contract

“Nora and I made a bet that we couldn’t get twenty thousand views on this video by Saturday. I said y’all can do it, but Nora’s not so sure.”

Great, he’s gone rogue, and he’s painting me as the villain. I can practically hear our virtual audience booing me. I pinch Alex’s side out of view of the camera, and he shifts away from me without breaking his pleasant expression.

“Oh, I give our viewers more credit than that, Alex,” I say in a voice like honey, trying to make up for whatever damage he might have caused.

“Too late to back out of our bet now, Nora. Folks, here’s the deal. If I’m wrong and we don’t get twenty thousand views by the end of Saturday—that’s midnight central standard time—Nora will get to dump a bucket of ice water on my head live on our social media feeds.”

Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

“And if Nora is wrong and y’all show up in a big way, then she has to dye her hair purple.”

I’m pretty sure I am only partially able to disguise the horror on my face. I hold it together as best I can as Alex closes us out since I seem to have lost all ability to speak normally. Inside, I’m screaming Armadillo! Armadillo!

“So be sure to share this video with all your friends and tune in next time to see Nora with a new ’do! Bye for now!”

We stand frozen for a minute before I stop the video.

Alex smiles happily. “Well, I think that went really well.”

I round on him. “Why did you do that? Now we’ll have to re-record the whole ending again.”

“What? Why?” He seems genuinely confused by my reaction to his stunt.

“Because I’m not going to dye my hair purple, Alex. I’ve never done something like that. It’s just not me. Can you picture me with purple hair?”

“Yeah,” he says, cocking his head to the side and surveying me like he’s imagining it right now. “I think a few streaks of that light purple color you like so much would look really good on you.”

I study his face and…he seems to be sincere. He really thinks it would look good.

“Plus,” he continues, “this is a win-win. If it doesn’t produce the number of views I think it will, then you have nothing to worry about. But if it does, isn’t a temporary streak of color worth it?”

I take a deep breath and attempt to consider his assertion objectively and…darn it, he’s right. When he first said “dye your hair purple” I was envisioning a Sesame Street Muppet with a full mane of fluffy, vibrantly grape-colored fur. But a few subtle streaks of lilac? I picture what that would look like woven into my pale blonde hair. I think if it was done right, it might actually look pretty and feminine rather than the punk look that initially sprang to mind.

I turn to him and register the look of apprehension on his face. Good. He should feel a little nervous about springing something like that on me. I narrow my gaze and let him squirm for a moment before I relent slightly.

“Fine.” His tight expression starts to relax, and I jab a finger at him. “But don’t you ever do something like that again without talking to me first, because next time I will throw you under the bus instead of going along with it. Do we understand each other?”

Alex nods vigorously. “Got it. You don’t like surprises.”

“I like good surprises,” I clarify. “Feel free to surprise me with an ice cream cone whenever you want. Just don’t commit me to things without checking with me first.”

“Noted.”

“Good. Now you’d better run this kabob to Mr. Turner before he thinks you tricked him.” I hand the kabob over, and he takes off with a grin.

While he’s gone, I fill two plates with the food we’ve just prepared. I don’t bother to wait on him to begin eating. By the time he returns, I’m in a patio chair with my feet propped in a second chair, chomping my corn on the cob with no shame.

He grins when he sees me.

“What?” I ask, swiping a trickle of butter off my chin.

“Nothing. It’s just that you look very comfortable and at home. I’m glad you feel relaxed here.” He settles into a chair across from me with his own plate.

I reflect on his statement as I chew. I do feel at home here. Maybe even as much as I do in my own apartment. As if reading my thoughts, Alex says, “I’ve never seen where you live. You should have me over for dinner sometime.”

“Um, no. There’s a reason why I’m cooking over here these days and it’s because my apartment is so small you can barely turn around. It’s old and outdated, plus it’s dark because there’s only one window. It’s about this big.” I use my hands to demonstrate a twelve-inch square. “And it’s in the bathroom.”

“We don’t need a window to eat together,” he points out with a smirk.

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