Pizza was disastrous. Roast chicken was not appropriately seasoned. Macaroni and Cheese turned out to be entirely different from how it should be, and now, the Stir-Fried rice Orla served on the plate in front of Callan looked like a death warrant.
After two weeks of taking cooking lessons from Callan and she was still this horrible, Callan was convinced that cooking was not her thing and she might never be good at it.
He had taken out time to coach her after office work everyday, and sometimes when he worked from home, they spent most of the hours of the day in the kitchen, but she always prepared poison whenever he left her to practice.
Batting her long eyelashes, she adjusted the apron around her neck and smiled mischievously. She wasn't doing this intentionally, she was trying to make his efforts and hers count, but the food kept coming out badly.
"I dedicated more time to this. You should try it out."
"Orla, sit." Motioning to the chair next to him, he outstretched his hand towards the plate of food served on the table.
He silently prayed that he won't cross over to heaven after he was done eating because the food surely looked like poison, but he wouldn't admit that to Orla. He didn't want to hurt her feelings.
"You will like it." She smiled proudly, not taking her gaze away from him as he prayed that his sins are forgiven because he knew he could die from eating that food.
Spending hours in the toilet after the last time should have taught him a lesson that she needed his presence in the kitchen whenever she was cooking. He should have stayed with her even when she insisted that he shouldn't. He should have persisted. Now, he was preparing for his death.
His hands trembled as he picked up the fork. He tried to dig into the food, but fear clenched him. After giving it a deep and thorough thought. Orla might not be fine if he died, but she would learn to live well after a while. She'd be fine, she killed him after all.
"I imitated the method you taught me, Callan. Just eat up and rate my skills." She clamped her hands together, folding them together to her sides. "Please," her puppyish whines did a million things to his chest.
He couldn't stall eating anymore. So he dug the fork into the food and took a forkful. Shutting his eyes briefly, he swallowed the rice.
Fuck! Just as expected, maybe even more horrible. He chewed the first time, the second time, the third time, but couldn't go past three trials.
"Orla, you should," he shook his head, unimpressed. "Focus on other talents, I don't think you'd like to continue with these cooking lessons."
The food was over-seasoned, and swallowing the mouthful was difficult, but he had to, for his wife.
"You had a first-class degree in Architecture. How about you focus on that?" He sipped some water, pushing the plate aside.
Without saying the words, she grabbed the hints. She stared down at the plate of rice in front of him and back at him.
"Is this bad too?"
Callan grunted, tempted to ask if she didn't taste her food before serving him.
"We would not live long if this is the kind of food that we order. Perfect but over-seasoned." He applauded, smiling at her. "Perfect, but that over-seasoning skill is needed in another part of life, not cooking. Definitely not cooking."
He anticipated the rumbling of his stomach and visitation of the toilet ten times before morning just because of the three spoons of rice he just consumed.
"Are you trying to say that my cooking skills are horrible?" Orla frowned, folding her arms against her chest.
Horrible is an understatement, Orla. He feigned a smile. "Great! You have a great skill, but that might not be cooking."
Her frown deepened. She loathed that Callan was nicely mocking her. He should just come out plain.
"And what would that be?" She queried, pushing the plate next to herself to have a taste of her handiwork. "Great," she moaned as she chomped on one spoonful of rice. "I never thought I could do something this good, Callan. Okay, maybe this is imperfect, but trust me, I will make it up to you. Just one more trial and it will be perfect. Oh, my God! I really should be a Chef, what do you think?"
"I won't support that idea, Orla. Get rid of the thoughts before they grow in your mind." Really? A chef? Was she planning to wipe out the whole country with her horrible meals? Callan sighed and waved his head in declination.
"I didn't do well, right?" She paused, biting her lips in humiliation.
Callan shook his head faintly. He had been encouraging her that she could do better through these weeks, but enough of the bogus endearments.
Orla didn't look like someone who wanted to learn how to cook. She obviously wasn't interested in the skill.
"Maybe if you had allowed me to stay with you while you cooked-"
"That's not the issue, Callan." She cut him off.
"Then, what is it?" He asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
"You, Callan. You." She pressed her lips together, staring away. "You didn't let me focus. You were touching me too much, stealing kisses at every opportunity you got. How do you want me to learn when we made out half the cooking time?"
Now, she wasn't fibbing. That was and wasn't his fault. He couldn't get his hands and eyes off her as they cooked together. He was attracted to her, too attracted to her and having her close meant touching her at every chance he got.
"Hm, you didn't complain about that." He opposed, arching his well-outlined brows.
His lips quirked into a smile and he relaxed on the chair, anticipating her protest against what he just said. He loved it when she countered his words.
"You don't complain about something that makes you so good." She shamelessly agreed, staring at the plate of food on the table.
When Callan didn't respond to her. She drummed her fingers on the table and exchanged a knowing glance with him.
Her mind ran through how he worked his fingers on her sensitive part as he taught her. It was creative how he washed his hands before continuing back to teaching her. She couldn't stop him, she even prayed for more.
"What do you think might be my talent if cooking isn't?" She asked to quell the tension that clouded the air between them.
"You were top of your class in school." He reminded her.
Although he already had in mind to discuss that with her, that was the perfect moment to let it flow.
"Yes, I was." She deadpanned as if he had just triggered a memory she didn't like to dwell on. "What about that?"
"Did you have a thing for it or that was what your father wanted you to do?"