Page 100 of Agency

“Family dinner,” Andrew said with a wide, shit-eating grin.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ambyr

“Ican’t cook.”

“What do you mean you can’t cook?”

“I mean ‘I can’t cook.’ I’m not speaking Farsi, Andrew. Are you speaking Farsi? Because I’m speaking English, but maybe that phrase means something else in your language.”

“We’re both speaking English, so, no, probably not. And how can you not cook?”

“I’m a trained killer. Did I miss where they taught home ec to you guys in Q Course?”

“Your aunt didn’t teach you?”

“My Aunt Val is a fucking spy-master who spent a chunk of my teenage years training me to be a killer, and ordering takeout.”

“So, you at least know how to use a knife, then…”

“Not unless carrots have femoral or carotid arteries I can sever,” I said, cringing as I tried to speedily chop the orange roots, but failed miserably.

“Wanna peel potatoes, instead?”

“No,” I growled, slicing through the length of carrot again and again, producing one-inch pieces each time. “Anything but that. Feels too much like brig-work.”

Prep had gone like this for a while, with me, Morgan, and Andrew in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and preparing ingredients for all the sides. After a requisite grumbling period, Jericho had returned outside to brush down the rusty grill with steel pads he’d found beneath the kitchen sink, and get a fire going.

“How about cutting onions?”

“Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

“Carrots it is, then.”

“We’re never going to use all these herbs,” Morgan said, interrupting Andrew and my back-and-forth nattering.

“Not with that attitude we’re not,” Andrew had replied with a grin, immediately switching gears.

In the end, Morgan had been right, and Andrew had been wrong. Probably a good thing.

We went through the work of prepping dinner–of making the scalloped potatoes Andrew insisted on, of making the glazed carrots Morgan was craving, of cooking the Brussels sprouts I liked so much, but for which I had zero clue as to the recipe.

On that last part, Andrew listened to my description of the dish and winged things with some bacon, olive oil, chicken broth, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and a dash of vinegar.

Pretty soon, we had the potatoes in the oven, and everything else on the burners.

“That’s… Not exactly what Mom’s tasted like,” I said between forkfuls of tenderly cooked Brussels sprouts taken straight from their skillet.

Andrew frowned.

“It’s better.” I went for more. “So, so much better!”

“Hey hey hey,” he replied, waving off my fork with a flapping, frustrated hand. “Save room for dinner.”

“Steaks?” Jericho barked as he came into the kitchen, one hand holding a pair of server tongs, which he rapidly clacked for emphasis. “I need steaks for the flames, soldiers.”