Owen stood over the braised duck still in its oven dish and simply stared. He'd only stepped out for a second to hang up laundry and drag the bins back in. Sure, he'd gotten distracted with some weeding. And he'd noticed the dirt he'd dragged in and had to clean that up. But this?
Charred meat? Carrots and potatoes reduced to cinders? Curls of red onion that looked like bits of tree bark? A red wine glaze that had congealed like blood, sealing the whole mess to the pan?
He yanked off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, but the sorry state of the lunch he'd been working on for the past three hours remained unchanged. Worse, the entire house smelled. He glanced warily in the direction of Mike's study. His nose wasn't the keenest, but he'd have to be…
Don't think about that.
He'd probably noticed. Any minute now, he'd come out and wonder what the hell had happened to his lunch – not that he'd asked for duck, or even seemed to like it that much; not that anyone had made Owen pick this stupid recipe out of all the ones in his repertoire –
Bird and pan hit the bottom of the bin with a clatter so loud it even startled Owen, though he was the one responsible. No point trying to save the unsalvageable. No point at all.
Breathing hard, he plucked at the knot that held his apron in place and pulled it off. "Mike?" he called out. "How about we got out for lunch instead?" His one day off. He'd wanted to do something nice, the only way he knew how. Don't. Think. About. That.