Page 86 of Just So You Know, I Don't Work Friday

“No one’s going to ask me all that,” I said. “Okay, so we’ve got fish and chips and coleslaw. I can work with this.” I took a deep breath. “Please, Red Lobster. I hope you’re going to come through for me for delicious food.”

“I mean, I don’t know that—” Chelsea started and then stopped. “You know what? I’m going to keep my mouth shut.”

“Good,” I said. “Let’s bring out the cheddar biscuits now. You girls take them through, okay? And I’ll plate up the fish and chips.”

“Okay,” Chelsea said. “Are you sure you want us to do this while you—”

“Yeah,” I said. “Go on.”

“Okay,” she said.

They grabbed two big plates’ worth of biscuits and headed out of the kitchen. I stared at the plate full of fried fish, and an idea suddenly came to mind. I grabbed a huge pan, put it on the stove top, and added some oil. If I refried the fish so that it was hot when it went out, they would believe that I’d made it because there was no way Red Lobster was going to deliver piping-hot fried fish.

“Good idea, Harriet,” I said, doing a little dance.

The oil felt hot enough as I hovered my hand over the top to see if it felt warm. I added pieces of fish to the frying pan and smiled to myself as it sizzled.

“This cooking thing isn’t so bad after all,” I said, smiling. “I’m the best cook in the world,” I sang out loud, making up a song. “I can cook for Gordon Ramsay, and I can cook for Wolfgang Puck, and I can cook for the Queen of England if she wants me to, but now the queen is dead, so I’ll cook for the king.”

I giggled to myself at my made-up song.

“Hey,” a deep voice sounded, and I looked up from the stove. Finn was standing in the doorway, leaning against the arch. “Those biscuits were delicious.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, quickly grabbing a spatula and turning the fish over. Some of the pieces had burned slightly, but I wasn’t that concerned, as it gave it a more authentic look.

“I’m impressed,” he said. “I can see why you did so well in that culinary competition.”

“Yeah. Well, you know, I can cook.”

I bit down on my lower lip as I looked at the fish in the frying pan. It was looking oilier and greasier than before and slightly too brown. I quickly put the pieces back onto a plate and then added some more.

“Oh, is that the fried fish?” he said, heading over to the countertop.

I put my hand up.

“Stop, Finn. I don’t like many people in my kitchen.”

“Technically, it’s my kitchen,” he said in a smooth voice, and I just glared at him. He chuckled slightly. “I like seeing you behind the stove.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It makes you seem more domesticated. Now I just need you barefoot and pregnant with your hair down.”

“What?”

My jaw dropped, and he chuckled slightly.

“You never heard that saying, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?”

“Um, isn’t that a saying from, like, the nineteen twenties?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know when I get married, that’s what I want my wife to be doing.”

“What, cooking for you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “My breakfast, my lunch, my dinner.”

“Okay. Well, good for you.”

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