"You were right there!" I yell at her, pointing toward the armchair. "How could you not notice the fire just a few feet away from you?"
"Well, first of all, it's more than just a few feet away," she retorts, waving her arms in a wild gesture. "This is a damn hall. Who the hell has a living room shaped like this! It's not like I was sitting right next to the kitchen, it's all the way ov-"
"I don't want to hear this," I cut her off. "This is ridiculous."
She glares at me, biting her lower lip as if she was stopping herself from saying something stupid, something that would infuriate me even further.
I leave her side and walk back to the kitchen to inspect the damage now that the smoke has cleared and the fire alarm is no longer ringing in my ears.
It's not as bad as I expected. From what I can tell, she hadn't done much more than start boiling some water in a giant pot, probably to cook pasta. The pasta is still lying right next to the stove, though it’s been turned into a batch of charcoal-black sticks. It's hard to tell what else she had planned to make because the area around the stove is pretty messy and black.
"I really am sorry."
Her voice, coming from behind me, sounds small.
"I know you're going to punish me for this."
I turn around to look at her and am met with a face that makes my heart ache. It pains me to think that she expects me to punish her for something like this. She does deserve punishment for a lot of things, but definitely not for this.
"Don't be ridiculous. It was an accident," I say. "Things like this happen, even though I'm still not quite clear how it did."
She presses her lips together and crosses her arms as if to embrace herself.
"I was distracted."
"I shall say!"
Her expression changes to a frown. "You don't understand! It's... difficult, when you're writing."
"You're right, I don't understand. And I don't think I need to - just don't let it happen again."
She's still frowning at me, sadness in her eyes, but she nods reluctantly. "Yeah."
"You know I don't like that response," I tell her. "Besides you really need to-"
"I get it, okay?!"
Her sudden change in temper surprises me, but only for a moment before my bewilderment changes to anger. No one, absolutely no one, yells at me like that, and especially not her.
She inhales audibly when I approach her, but she doesn't try to escape when I reach for her arm. I yank her close and then grab her damn ponytail and pull on it, forcing her head back into her neck.
She grimaces with pain. "So much for not punishing me."
"This is not for almost burning my place down, Button," I hiss at her. "This is for raising your voice to me."
Her eyes flicker, but she doesn't say a word.
"Never speak to me like that again, do you understand?"
Our eyes are locked onto each other as I await her response. She knows what I want to hear, but it's still hard for her to say it. Understandably.
"Yes, Sir."
The words sound forced and lack the sincerity I prefer, but I'll take it for now. I let go of her hair, but I don't let go of my embrace. I like her pushed up against my body like this. Her heart is racing against my chest, and I can feel the outline of her delicate features pressed against my hip. Tonight may be the night.
"Get changed," I tell her. "We're going out to eat."
She looks at me questioningly, causing me to sigh.
"We can't eat here. I'll have someone come over and clean up the mess you created. Hopefully the kitchen will be as good as new by the time we get home tonight."
Her expression changes to disbelief. "I don't think that's possible."
"A lot is possible when you're me. Now, go get dressed."
I give her a kiss on the forehead, something that surprises both of us. Her face is laced with confusion when I let go of her and beckon her to walk up to the bedroom to change.
Why did you just do that? The question is written all over her pretty face, but I can't give her an answer.
Because I don't know.
Chapter Eighteen
Ann
I feel horribly underdressed for the place he chooses to go. It's another five-star restaurant, very similar to the place where we met the first time. I don't feel comfortable in establishments like this. They're so overpriced, stiff, and luxurious in an obnoxious sort of way. How are you supposed to enjoy your minute portions of food when all you worry about is your appearance and manners?
"Usually I'm more of a pizza-on-the-couch kind of girl," I let him know after we've ordered our food.
He smirks at me and raises his glass of champagne to me in a toast before taking a sip from it.
"Delivery pizza, I imagine."
"Sometimes. But those are expensive. Frozen pizza can do the job, too," I say, winking at him. "But despite whatever you may think based on tonight, I'm actually a good cook!"
He laughs. "I have little reason to believe you, Button."
I reach for my own flute of champagne, a drink that I used to consider special to me, but it seems that we drink it almost every day. His eyes are glued to my every movement, observing me as if this was the first time he's ever laid eyes on me. I try to ignore his intense stare and sip at the delicious liquid. While I don't care much for the posh environment, I could really get used to drinking champagne on a regular basis. The taste is more exquisite than anything I've ever tasted before in my life.
Our appetizers are served, and we eat in silence for a few minutes, only commenting on the dishes before us. Everything is so beautiful to look at that it feels kind of wrong to eat it, even though the taste is as good or better than its appearance. I had been going to make pasta with a cream sauce and steamed vegetables, one of the few dishes I'm able to cook without a recipe. I may have exaggerated when I said that I was an excellent cook, but I usually don’t start fires. Regardless, this food is a thousand times better than what I would have cooked up.
I've ordered fish for my main dish, and find a chance to embarrass myself when the waiter comes by to ask me what wine I would like served with it. I like wine, but it's not like I've ever had the chance or the money to develop a palate for good wines. I usually bought whatever was the cheapest, as long as it's dry. So when the waiter lists off several options that supposedly would go well with my dish, I just give him a blank stare that Jared catches all too quickly.
"She'll go with the Puligny Montrachet," he steps in, helping me out of my misery, but making me feel like the smallest person on Earth at the same time.
I send him a quick glare to let him know how I feel about it, but I refrain from saying anything. The looks he gives me in return is enough for me to know that he knows how I felt about his input.
It helps that the wine he picked for me actually tastes great, and it does go well with the fish. Yet I can't get myself to admit it out loud. I don't want to compliment him and make him feel like it's okay to step on my toes like this. After all, I could've had my own idea about what kind of wine I wanted to order, right?