Before Jurassic World

Chapter 16

"I want to build an extension for the bungalow here," Owen explained, standing in the front of his house, waving his hands animatedly around in what I guessed was supposed to display his intentions.  I do DIY even less than I cook (which was saying something) so I had no idea what he was talking about at the moment.

He was making dinner while I lounged on his porch drinking sweet tea instead of beer.  Accordingly to Owen the Safety Monitor, "mixing alcohol and narcotics was a bad idea".  I pretty much made my living on bad ideas so I didn't see the issue.  Unfortunately for me Owen held the keys to the kingdom, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.  He currently had all the beer in his fridge, and he was heaven in the kitchen.  The thinly veiled threats to stop cooking for me made me break out in a cold sweat at the mere thought.  I couldn't go back to ham, mustard and potato chip sandwiches after experience the culinary orgasms that were Owen's cooking.  I just couldn't.  So I played nice and drank my sweat tea with a minimal amount of grumbling.

 We'd returned from the raptor paddock a little over an hour ago, and Owen went right to cooking dinner.  In an attempt to at least pretend like I wasn't 100% addicted to his food I tried telling him I was fine eating cereal at my house.  He just shook his head, muttered something about wondering how I was still alive, and drove past my house without even slowing down.  I gave him a half-ass scowl as a rebuttal, but inside I was leaping for joy. I approach cooking the same way I calm myself down after reading science fiction novels, with a stern shake of the head and the knowledge that it will never happen.

"Why?" I asked regarding his impending bungalow expansion.  I thought our houses were pretty legit, why go through all the trouble to build an addition?  That sounded like way too much work, especially in the Costa Rican climate.  Plus, I was simply too lazy to even entertain this notion.

"A workshop.  I still have a storage unit full of stuff stateside." 

A workshop?  He would go through all that just so he would have a place to store his crap?

"I'm not helping.  I don't care what food you withhold as punishment."

Owen had the upper hand in the cooking department.  In reality it wasn't even really a contest.  My favorite thing to make for dinner was reservations.  Owen had skills the likes of which made me wonder why he'd chosen the Navy and not culinary school.  His mother's macaroni and cheese recipe alone was enough to put me in a food coma.  I survived mostly on junk food, alcohol, and cereal.  Lately Owen and I had been spending so much time together it had morphed into also sharing meals.  I found comfort in his presence, and it made the slow process of healing somewhat bearable.  Plus, there was the added bonus of having someone around to do all the grown-up stuff I was incapable of completing. 

At least that's why I told myself I was slightly disappointment every night when he left for his bungalow.  If I thought the disappointment was hard to reconcile it was nothing compared to the anxious feeling that fluttered in m stomach when I saw him for the first time each morning.  When I caught myself inventing reasons to touch him or how I felt instantly better the moment he stepped into the room I knew I was seriously screwed.         

"Oh, I think you could be persuaded," he smirked. 

I shook my head.  This was non-negotiable.  I wasn't engaging in manual labor in my free time no matter what he did.

"I'm sorry to hear that.  I guess I won't need to make my fettuccini alfedo anytime soon."

My mouth started watering immediately.

"I was going to make my chili sometime this week too," he pondered, looking contemplative.

I told myself to stay strong.  It was only chili, no big deal.  I'd survived without it for years.  I could go back to a world devoid of the delicious beefy, tomato, onion and bean chili with just the right amount of smoke to heat ratio.  Oh shit, I might cry.