Simmer

Step 6: Melt, Then Sauté

"Aw, shit!"

Lilah released an anguished groan as the contents of her pan wrongly caught fire yet again. She coughed as she waved her one mitted hand like a wind-swept flag to fan the smoke that filled the air. Her eyes were stinging, and so was her pride.

Instead of spending her Sunday evening watching television, meeting friends for late drinks, or any other typical past-time activities, she was attempting rusty kitchen skills she had never really mastered before. That was also when she was sober, and now she most definitely was not.

Practicing major techniques in a hot kitchen when drunk was not exactly Lilah's finest hour or best decision, but she'd had a rotten day in her supporting role at her job, including having her ass handed to her by Arjun who she'd still deemed the biggest idiot on the job even though he had proved he could flambé...and she couldn't. She'd been passed over and pushed further down the totem pole by Felix when he'd pushed her to admit that, and now alcohol seemed like the only thing she had going for herself as she tried to fine-tune her skills so that she couldn't be belittled any longer.

The only thing she'd managed, however, was three– no, four– failed attempts at mastering the art of flambé, a soon-to-be-overflowing rubbish bin of harshly-cooked ingredients, and an almost-empty bottle of wine that she'd just opened tonight.

Aggravated, Lilah tossed away her ruined pan and threw off her mitts, muttering incomprehensibly to herself as she fumbled for her phone. Chelsea would know how to help her feel less terrible– if she could maybe stop herself for the night, then maybe she wouldn't feel so rough in the morning, when she knew she needed to bring her A-game for round three of her competition with Bobby.

But when the number she pressed to dial gave way to a deeper male voice that was definitely not Chelsea's, Lilah was stunned for a moment about how to proceed. "Hello?"

"I-mmm."

A pause. "Lilah?"

She sighed. "Mhmm?"

She heard a difference in his breath intake. "Did you mean to call me?"

"Mm, not at all," she answered truthfully, slowly. "Sorry."

Another long pause, then, "Are you okay, Lilah?"

"I might be drunk, or close to it," she answered, leaning heavily against her counter. "I was trying to flambé, but I couldn't do it right, not even once in all three– no, wait, four– tries, and... ugh, I'm actually pretty drunk. Wow."

She heard the sound of Bobby's laugh, pitched low and slowed down like he wasn't sure if he could laugh, and found she wasn't bothered by it as usual. In fact, she actually liked his laugh. She wanted him to laugh again. "Are you serious?"

"Don't ask me stupid questions, Bobby. I might not be completely sober, but I'm not drunk enough to not be offended."

He laughed again, louder and more confidently this time, and she soaked in the sound, letting out a contented sigh. "My mistake, love. Are you being safe?"

"What are you, my mother?" She scoffed, indignant. "I know how to work in a kitchen, even when I'm drunk."

"Okay, okay, message received." There was the sound of shuffling from his end of the line, then, "Do you need help with anything?"

Lilah made a face. "Not from you. You're...the- my- competition. You'll mess me up!"

He tried not to laugh, she could sense it in his voice, but the playful edge was there as it almost always was now since their very first encounter. "I promise I won't do that."