Harlequin E New Adult Romance Box Set Volume 1: Burning Moon\Girls' Guide to Getting It Together\Rookie in Love (35 page)

So I’m going to have to learn how to cook on my own. It’s something I should have done ages ago, even before I read it in the article. Only now I’ve got the incentive.

I haven’t told Zara that I plan to cook for her instead of ordering our usual takeaway tonight. I know she’ll only try to talk me out of it.

Realistically, this is probably the only point on the whole list that she’d support. I’m sure she hates doing all the cooking. Why wouldn’t she want me to learn?

But she’s so against the article itself that letting her think takeaway night is still on is clearly my best option.

It’s perfect. She’s going to be out anyway, so if it goes completely wrong, I can phone the takeaway order in like normal, leaving Zara clueless that I ever went near the kitchen.

After I’ve caught up on the work I missed yesterday looking up holidays all day with Helen, I catch the bus back to Rothwell and get off by the little shopping street.

I load up the recipe on my phone and have a mad dash round Morrisons finding all the ingredients it says I’ll need to make a chicken bhuna.

I’m exhausted by the time I’ve got my shopping safely back to the flat.

Do people seriously do stuff like this every day? Thank God Zara and I discovered doing the food shop online.

I line everything up on the kitchen counter and squint at the recipe on my phone’s screen.

Shit. I didn’t buy a lemon.

Pulling open the fridge door, I see we’ve still got a slightly shrivelled lime from when we were thinking of having a cocktail party a couple of weeks ago.

Surely lime juice is similar. It probably won’t make any difference. I toss the fruit onto the worktop with everything else and read through the listed ingredients again.

Okay, I also forgot to get cardamom pods and fennel seed.

Well, I didn’t forget exactly.

I sort of ignored them on the shopping list because I couldn’t find them in Morrisons, and I don’t actually have a clue what either item is.

But everything else is here. I’m sure it won’t make much of a difference.

A quick Google search tells me cardamom comes from the same family as ginger, and there’s already ginger going in it. Not the fresh stuff like the recipe asks for, but Zara already has a jar of the powder stuff that she uses for baking or something, so why not use that instead?

I start my preparation, which doesn’t take long since I cheated a bit and bought a packet of pre-chopped onion and a jar of garlic powder.

Having never been that good with a paring knife (or any kitchen utensil), cheating seems the safest option if I still want to have fingers afterwards.

I start adding spices to my frying onions. Two teaspoons each of cumin and coriander, ginger and garlic. I hold the spoon over the pan and shake out liberal amounts of the powders. Easy.

Until one of the lids comes loose and drops into the pan, along with pretty much the entire contents of the jar.

That smells like…

Oh fuck. I stare at the label.

In my defence,
cinnamon
and
cumin
do look really similar, don’t they?

And now I’ve got a curry that smells like Christmas.

I grab a wooden spoon and try to scoop some of it out but it only mixes it in even more.

Okay. Don’t panic.

What would Zara do?

Oh, that’s a stupid question. She wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

I start a fresh Google search on my phone and type in “cinnamon curries” and, of course, Nigella bloody Lawson appears with a cinnamon chicken recipe.

There’s a marinade to make, but I don’t have time for that. Scanning the ingredients, I notice it’s pretty similar to my concoction, except there’s milk and cream in it.

Right. I can salvage this curry.

* * *

“Megan?” Zara comes through the door and peers at the meal I’ve cooked for her. “What’s this?”

“I decided to cook.”

“You should have told me,” Zara says. “I could have helped you.”

That wouldn’t be a bad idea if cooking it hadn’t been such a disaster.

“What is it?” She stares at the slop on the plate.

“Cinnamon chicken,” I reply. “I was going to make a curry but then I saw this great recipe on Nigella Lawson’s website.”

It’s all going to be fine. I’m going to get away with this. Maybe I’ll even be good at something for once.

“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll go get mine.”

Back in the kitchen, I will myself to calm down with a glass of rosé. I did, sort of, follow Nigella’s recipe. How bad can it be?

I get a plate out of the cupboard and spoon out a portion, trying another mouthful as I do. Maybe it’ll taste better now that it’s done.

It tastes… Oh, God. It tastes like bloody Christmas.

I don’t suppose there was much I could do to compensate for all that spilt cinnamon.

And I’m not sure there’s meant to be this much liquid. It looks like I microwaved cinnamon ice cream.

Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in here. At least until Zara’s finished. I lean forwards on the counter and stare into my sloppy mess.

“Oh. Um. I was coming to get us some spoons.” Zara pulls our cutlery drawer open.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

Zara pauses, still holding the drawer open. “I appreciate the effort you’ve put in.”

“But?”

“But were you trying to make dinner or a pancake mix?” Her lips curl into a smile.

I glance at the takeaway menus pinned to the notice board. “I guess we can always order in still.”

“It doesn’t taste that bad. It’s just difficult to eat with a fork.” She holds a spoon out to me. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, I follow her back to the living room and sit down.

And Zara’s right. Once I’ve had a few bites, it doesn’t taste
that
bad. But it doesn’t taste that good, either.

“Takeaway night will be back on next week, won’t it?” Zara asks.

“I’m sorry I can’t cook.” I sigh. “I just thought I should learn. I’m going to be twenty-five in January!”

“Who says you should learn?”

I stare down at my plate. “Olivia Bright,” I admit.

“What the hell does she know? Modern women don’t spend all their time in the kitchen.”

“Don’t they?” My eyes move over Zara’s zebra-print jeans and black leather-panelled T-shirt. “But you love being in the kitchen.”

Zara laughs. “I don’t think confidence comes as a direct result of knowing how to follow a few recipes.”

“Then where does it come from?”

“I don’t know.” She fixes her sharp green eyes on me. “And neither does Olivia Bright.”

“But I was starting to feel better,” I moan.

“Then don’t give up because of one failed attempt.”

“Hang on.” I shoot her a confused look. “Isn’t that the complete opposite of what you’ve been telling me all along?”

“Yes.” Zara stacks our plates. “But when have you ever listened to me?”

Chapter Fifteen

Tim is sitting on my couch, his body hunched forwards, when I get home from work on Friday.

What is he doing here?

And more importantly, why did Zara let him in?

“Oh, hi Megan.” My flatmate breezes into the room holding a tray (we own a tray?) of coffees. She sets one down on the beige carpet by Tim and holds another steaming mug out to me. “I thought you might like a hot drink.”

“Thanks.” I place the coffee down on the table behind me.

“I told Tim he could wait here for you,” she explains, seeing my confused expression.

“Tim is Bryony’s brother,” I blurt out.

“I know.” She gives him a subtle once-over while she sips her coffee. “I’ve heard your mother talk about him enough times.”

Tim laughs as though this is hilarious. “So, Megan, I was hoping I could have a word with you?”

“Oh?” I pick up my coffee mug.

He clears his throat and glances at Zara.

“Right. I get it. You mean alone.” Zara jumps up and disappears into her bedroom before I can utter a word to stop her.

“I know you said you were busy,” Tim begins as I stare into my milky coffee. “But I’ve been thinking about our potential as a couple. How about you go out with me tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow? I’m not sure. I might be doing something with Zara,” I hedge.

Tim shakes his head. “She says not. I already asked her.”

He asked Zara if I had plans with her? Oh shit. What am I supposed to say now? He probably already knows that I’m not seeing my mother. What about a work colleague?

I’m thinking of a plausible pre-arranged activity that I could be doing with Scarlett when nasty Liam pops into my head.

I suppose I could do a lot worse than Tim Hudson, with his scrawny build and inky black hair.

What other options do I have?

Available men are hardly queuing up in the tiny communal garden outside my front door.

I force a smile onto my face. “Right. Well, in that case, I don’t think I’m doing anything.”

“Great! I have this amazing Indian restaurant in mind.”

Oh, no. I was hoping he’d suggest going to see a film or something where we wouldn’t have to talk to each other.

“Sounds lovely,” I lie.

* * *

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I yank down the hem of my red velvet dress again.

“Doing what?” Zara lifts her head over the top of her laptop screen to look at me.

“This!” I lift a studded black sandal in the air while I try to fasten the other one. “Going out with Tim.”

“Ah, come on. He’s not that bad.”

“You met him for all of twenty minutes,” I remind her.

She shrugs. “Well, he seems harmless enough. And your mother obviously likes him.”

“Is that why you let him into the flat even though you had no idea who he was?”

Zara stops typing and rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously, Megan? He told me who he was. Unlike you, I don’t assume all men I don’t know are axe murderers.”

I turn towards the mirror and start smoothing my loose curls. “I don’t assume that about
all
men. It was just a logical conclusion to come to about Gary. You haven’t exactly offered up a valid reason about where you were.”

“Oh sorry, is work not a valid enough reason for you?”

“Yes.” I sigh. “It’s just that you’ve been so secretive about everything recently.”

“Do you know that there’s a price tag hanging out of your dress?”

“What? No.” I try to look over my shoulder and grope for the tag.

“When did you buy this?” She stands up to remove it for me. “Isn’t this the one you got at the January sales?”

I nod.

“It’s nearly December and you still haven’t removed the tag?”

“I didn’t notice because I haven’t had the opportunity to wear it yet.”

“Well.” She steps back to take a look at me. “You look amazing, Meg.”

“Thanks.” I grab my beaded evening purse as I hear a car horn outside. “I won’t be back late.”

Zara sits back down to her laptop. “Why don’t you give the guy a chance? He might surprise you.”

And when I see Tim waiting for me, all smartly suited up with his hair slicked back, I do my best to anticipate an evening that will exceed my expectations.

* * *

Bollywood-themed music blasts from the restaurant Tim takes me to. I look out the car window to see tall gold pillars wrapped in twinkling lights, supporting an archway spanning the entrance.

As I follow Tim inside, I start to hope that Zara’s right about him.

We’re greeted by a waiter wearing a purple uniform and a teeth-flashing smile. “Have you booked a table?” He looks at Tim.

“Hudson,” supplies Tim. “Table for two.”

The man leads us to a white-clothed table by a large window at the back and hands us each a menu.

“Can I get you some drinks?” Another man appears by the table.

Tim orders a bottle of champagne without consulting me, and I stare longingly after the waiter, in the hope that Tim might notice and realise that I wanted to see their wine list. But he’s too engrossed in studying the menu.

I glance down at mine, already knowing that I’ll probably order a chicken rogan josh like I always do.

“Are you a fan of hot curries, then?” asks Tim.

I shake my head. “I’m nowhere near brave enough. I always tend to order the same dishes to be honest. A bit boring.”

“It’s not boring at all,” he insists. “I’m the same, really. But I can handle the hot stuff.”

“Can you?” I quirk an eyebrow.

He leans back in his seat, puffing out his chest. “Oh, yes. I’m a vindaloo man myself.”

Well, that
is
surprising. I had him down as a korma sort of person.

The waiter returns with two champagne flutes and a bottle in an ice bucket. I stare at the fizzy liquid as he pours it into my glass.

I did say I was off champagne. But I didn’t know Tim was going to order it. And I can’t just not drink it, can I? That would insult him even more than the white wine incident in the pub.

I take a sip, letting the bubbles go straight to my head.

“Would you like some more time?” The waiter poises his pen above his notepad and gestures to the menus in front of us.

After we’ve both ordered, the waiter collects our menus and heads off towards the kitchen.

“I think this calls for a celebration.” Tim trails a finger around the rim of his champagne flute before lifting it in the air.

“Oh. Right.” I clink glasses with him, wondering what’s worth celebrating about this scenario. “So, how’s the job search going?”

Tim stares down into his drink as he places it back down on the table. “It’s pretty abysmal.”

“Still no luck?”

“I’m lucky to get rejections. Most don’t bother to acknowledge my application.”

“Sounds terrible.” I reach a sympathetic hand out to him.

He laces his fingers through mine, and I suddenly feel trapped.

What am I doing here?

Putting on a frock and going to a posh restaurant with Tim isn’t going to make me fall in love with him. I wish that it could.

Another waiter comes over to give us some cutlery, and I take the opportunity to wrench my hand free.

I take another sip of champagne. “How’s your mum?” I never was much good at small talk. But asking questions that I don’t care to know the answer to is certainly preferable to letting the topic slip to his sister and her perfect wedding plans.