Rich People Problems

xxxxiii | chiquitita

KIMBERLY

I WAS MARRIED to an overdramatic lunatic who was seconds away from being thwarted with a spatula.

"Jace, it's not that bad," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

The husband-in-question was coughing his lungs up, looking at me in disbelief through tear-lined eyes.

He really was overdramatic.

He was still coughing when he attempted to speak. "Woman, how much salt did you put in that? I swear I can feel the water leaving my cells trying to restore my body to equilibrium. God, this is one way to kill me."

My face flushed as I looked down, embarrassed by the abomination I just created.

Jace has been trying to teach me how to cook for the past couple of days, letting me watch him as he cooked. Now, he handed the reins over to me, giving me a simple recipe to follow. Apparently, given his condition, it wasn't simple.

He found a nasi goreng recipe for me, knowing that I wanted to feel more connected to my Indonesian side. Plus, it would be nice to pull up to my parent's house one day and feed Mom something from her heritage that wouldn't kill her.

"Not that much," I mumbled. Truthfully, looking back, it probably was a little too much. In my defense, when I tasted it, the dish was too bland. It needed something spicy or more salt. Since salt was nearby, I went for it first.

I don't know how much fell in, but I didn't think it would be enough to murder my husband.

Wasn't cooking supposed to have more leeway?

Sighing, Jace downed another glass. "It's okay, baby. Let's remake it together."

I nodded reluctantly, still frowning. There's a reason I wasn't allowed in anyone's kitchen. Jace chuckled deeply, using his index finger to tip my chin up, pecking my lips. "It's okay, Kimberly. I'm just... going to be watching over more carefully from now on."

True to his word, Jace took over the cooking, explaining the steps to me along the way. He looked particularly concerned when I asked how to tell if the chicken was cooked or raw, but he quickly shook it off and answered.

Less than half an hour later—way quicker than the two hours it took me to make the failed dish—Jace placed a plate in front of me, garnishing it professionally.

"You're so stupidly perfect," I said, glaring at him as I took another bite. "It's so stupidly annoying."

"Very eloquent," Jace replied. "But as long as you're not crying, I'm fine."

I groaned. "Don't remind me about that."

"Too bad," he mocked. "I never understood why you cried the first few times I cooked for you. I legitimately thought I broke you."

"Honey," I huffed. "It would take another dinosaur-extinction-level meteor for me to break. Lord knows I've been through it. Moving on, I... just..."

'We're going to be here all night."

I snapped, "Shut up. It's difficult to explain. It's just that... Well, home-cooked meals were rare growing up. It was always either the chefs or restaurants, and I'm not trying to complain. They're amazing at cooking, but there's just something more special about eating food made by someone who loves you and genuinely cares that you're full."

Jace's eyes widened and I realized that I nonchalantly used a certain four-letter word in relation to the two of us.

Shit.