"Henry, will you hand me that spoon, please?" Juliet asked, gesturing at the wooden spoon that was lying on the counter just out of her reach.
Henry hesitated, watching the pot that was sitting on the back burner.
The pot she didn't seem even the least bit concerned about, even though the water was clearly boiling…
"It's going to boil over!" He warned, reaching for it.
She shot him a warning glare as she snatched the spoon out of his hand.
"It's not going to boil over." She assured him, stirring it before he could make another move.
"Have you ever done this before?" He demanded, crossing his arms.
"Not really." She shrugged breezily, not seeming the least bit perturbed by this revelation. "I'm not really a cook."
"Well, it's going to boil over!" He insisted again, though he didn't actually reach for the spoon this time.
"It's not going to boil over. I know what I'm doing."
She dropped the spoon on the stove, right next to the spoon rest.
But she didn't actually put it on the spoon rest…even though it was only a few inches away…
Henry quickly picked it up and put it in it's proper place as soon as she opened the oven to check on the chicken that was roasting inside.
"I think it's doing okay…" She murmured, looking at the bird with her head cocked slightly to the side. "I guess…"
She shrugged and closed the door again, standing back up. When she saw the spoon's position had magically changed, she rolled her eyes and picked it up, dropping it on top of the stove again.
"Henry…" She sighed. "Stop."
"Well, it's my kitchen." He grumbled.
"But I'm doing the cooking. It's Shawn's birthday…I want to make him dinner. By myself. My kitchen just isn't big enough. And this one isn't big enough for two cooks…so, don't make me kick you out."
"You can't kick me out of my own damn kitchen!"
She crossed her arms over her white apron and shot him a challenging glare.
"Really?" She intoned.
The two were locked in a stare-down for a moment, until Juliet finally rolled her eyes and laughed.
"Fine." She smiled, gently patting his arm. "If you want to help, you can slice the carrots."
She handed him a small knife and pointed him in the direction of the chopping board…which was on the other side of the room.
Away from her and the boiling water that still wasn't boiling over despite his stubborn insistence it was going to.
"But--" He started to protest, wincing as she dropped a dripping wet dishrag in the middle of his perfectly clean counter.
"Henry." She almost snapped, actually turning him and giving him a soft shove in the right direction. "Carrots."
"Fine." He muttered in defeat, walking over to the chopping board and starting to chop the carrots.
"How much do you need?" He asked after a minute.
"I don't know." Juliet shrugged.
Henry stopped chopping and put the knife down.
"You don't know?" He repeated, slowly turning around to face her. "Don't you have a recipe you're following?"
"Kind of." She shrugged. "I saw it on Martha Stewart…I remember most of it. I think I need…like, a cup of carrots, maybe?"
"Like a cup maybe?" He snorted. "That's not a measurement! Do you need a cup or not?"
"Yes, Henry." She groaned, rolling her eyes. "I need a cup. A whole cup. Not a peeling less."
"Fine."
She smiled to herself and shook her head in amusement as he went back to silently chopping carrots.
"He should be back around six." She offered a few minutes later. "I think everything will be ready by then."
"He'll be late." Henry grunted, dumping the carrots into a measuring cup and leveling the top with the back of a butter knife.
"How do you know?" Juliet laughed.
Henry shrugged, handing her the cup and watching silently as she dumped it into the boiling pot.
"He's always late."
"True." Juliet agreed, smiling. "…He wasn't late for our first date, though. Actually, he was early. I wasn't even ready when he showed up. I had to tell him to drive around the block a few times on his bike to give me time."
"He showed up on his bike? For a date?"
"Of course." She shrugged, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I told him too…I like the bike."
Henry rolled his eyes and finally moved the wet dish cloth that had secretly been driving him insane since she had dropped it on his counter.
"I hate that damn bike." He muttered.
"I know…I guess it's a generational thing. Didn't most of his girlfriends like it?"
"How the hell would I know?" Henry shrugged, stepping back as she stirred the pot one last time. "I never met any of them. And I sure as hell never let them use my kitchen."