Page 67 of Guarding Grace
I waved my arm and felt my face going red as I raised my voice. “Whatthe hell were you thinking? It’s not a goddamned movie where you hang out a window and shoot bad guys without them shooting back.”
“I was helping,” she argued with a hand on her hip. “And I know how to shoot.”
“That’s not the point. You put yourself in danger by not doing what I said.”
She squinted at me. “We’ve been through this already. I’ll follow your suggestions?—”
“Orders,” I corrected. “These are non-negotiable. We can only get through this if you do what I say. If we operate as a team.”
She walked forward, and before I knew it, she had her arms around me and her head against my chest. “Fine. Orders. Can we drop it now?”
Knowing I should never have started this conversation, I pushed her away to keep myself from giving in to her warmth. “Oatmeal doesn’t work for me.”
“You’re evading. What’s really going on?”
“I said you have to follow my instructions. It’s important.”
She nodded. “I heard you. But?—”
“Good. We can do chicken marsala, if you’re willing to help.”
“You’re not going to avoid this forever.” She shook her head in obvious frustration and opened the freezer compartment. “I don’t see it.”
It might not be forever, but I needed time to figure out how to deal with her. “I mean from scratch.”
“You can cook that?” Surprise laced her voice.
“You think all I can cook is chili straight out of a can, or maybe microwave a pizza?”
She closed the freezer. “I’ve never cooked that before—chicken marsala, I mean, not the pizza.”
“Don’t knock pizza. It has all the major food groups.”
She half-heartedly opened the fridge. “Where’s the beer?”
“Chicken marsala is the offer. Would you like it or not?”
“Sure.”
“You need to help then.”
She moved things around on the fridge shelf. “I don’t see any beer in here.”
“There’s a bottle of Chardonnay in the door.”
“A wine drinker and you cook? You surprise me, Mr. Goodwin.” She rummaged around in the drawers next to the fridge. “I thought all you tough guys only drank beer.”
“And scratched our crotches and opened the bottle caps with our teeth?” I suggested.
“I was going to say farted.” She laughed.
“Insult me all you like. The corkscrew is one more drawer to the left.” I joined her and pulled chicken from the fridge, followed by mushrooms and an onion.
“I don’t hate you,” she said. She uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, offering one to me. “Can we cook without fighting? Pretty please?”
I nodded.
She raised her glass. “To being friends.”
