Rules With Roomies

Chapter 4

I looked around the kitchen desperately, I needed to whip up a meal- and quick. Oliver was going to be so mad at me if he got out of the shower and his pancakes weren't ready. This was part of the deal, really, I had said I could cook well- and that was kind of sort of maybe a huge lie. Well, no, maybe that wasn't a lie. Maybe the lie had been that I could, and I quote, "cook with the finesse of Paula Dean".

I grabbed pans as quick as I could, along with spoons and batter. What the heck did you even use to make pancakes? My diner days were spent asking for orders, not preparing food! Where was Chris when you needed him? Why did he have to leave for work early?!

I just threw things together thinking, Hey, yeah, this stuff seems like it would go into pancakes! It's not like Oliver was a pancake specialist, he wouldn't know a Paula Dean pancake from an Ellie Weir pancake!

While preparing these pancakes, all I could think was why they hadn't just bought the quick and easy pancakes. Add water, and shake, then enjoy! I swear, Oliver was testing me, he was setting me up to fail; that was totally something he would do.

I can't say that my pancakes were complete failures, but the burnt smell coming from the kitchen wasn't all that alluring. They were pretty bad, I had to admit. I expected this to be an underdog story, where I came out on top and Oliver wept as he ate the delicious meal I had prepared...

When I heard the shower water turn off, I knew I was dead. He would come out and laugh at my failure as a chef. I was never good at this kind of stuff, cooking was not my strong suit. Had I told them that from the start though, I don't think Oliver would have been as accepting of me joining the household. Too late now though, Ellie was in, and he can't kick me out for messing up pancakes.

"Oh my god, what is that foul smell?! Ellie, leave, you're not allowed to live here anymore." Damn. "Jesus H., how do you mess up pancakes?! It was a simple request, Paula Dean!" He covered his nose and fanned the smoke in the room.

I turned around to look at him, ready to argue like always, but I froze. It was kind of like I forgot how to breathe. I sat there with wide eyes, that he didn't seem to notice, and the inability to regulate my breaths. Shirtless Oliver stood there in all his glory, with a face of disgust (still kind of hot), and abs. Really, really, really, nice abs.

He went to the skillet and picked up my poor pancake with his two fingers, examined it, then flopped it back onto the pan. "That is the saddest excuse for a breakfast I have ever seen."

"Excuse me," I scoffed, "I don't see you in here making anything, jerk."

"That's 'cause it's not my job! You're the one who said you could cook! That's the only reason why you're somewhat useful in this apartment!" The anger boiled. What a jerk! "Your skills as a woman are really poor. Can't cook, you aren't hot, like at all, and to top it all off you have the dumbest obsession with Michael Ja-" Slap! Oliver became stone faced.

I held the lethal pancake in my hand, breathing heavily. "Did... Did you just... Slap me with a pancake?!" Oliver looked so angry, I was honestly terrified. "You. Slapped. Me. With a damn pancake..."

"Yeah, about that, Oliver-" I took off into the living room. He was an angry lion, and due to the failed pancakes, also a hungry one.

"You get back here!" He screamed, his feet stomped at me much quicker than I had imagined. I leapt over the couch, and turned to look at him. He moved to go to the right of the couch, and I moved the opposite way. He had the deadly pancake in his hand. "You're going to eat this godforsaken pancake, that's what you're going to do." His eyes were filled with pure malevolence, and a wicked grin was cast upon his face.