Just One Taste

by Louisa Edwards

  “Oh!” She looked surprised. “I’m not sure what you mean. Can you elaborate, Mr… . ?”

  “Murphy,” Wes supplied, adrenaline buzzing up his spine. It was weirdly intoxicating to have her full attention. “I was interested because it seems like you don’t think there’s anything creative about cooking.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you agree that the process you know as cooking is truly little more than the chemical reaction of ingredients to each other, to heat, et cetera?”

  “Sure, but there’s more to it than that.”

  She frowned. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Murphy. Wes. And I mean, I couldn’t tell you the chemical reasons behind it, but cooking is more than boring, set formulas playing out in some predictable pattern.”

  “Chemistry isn’t boring.” She bristled, clearly stung. “Only an idiot would dismiss the importance of the fundamental building blocks of our world.”

  Wes sat up straighter. “Hey, I’m not insulting the field of chemistry! I just meant—there’s more than the ingredients in the kitchen. There’s the chef, too, and that random human element messes up your clean chemical equations every time.”

  The annoyance cleared from her expression like storm clouds scudding out over the ocean. “That actually brings up an interesting point …”

  And she was off and running, spouting statistics about human error in experimentation and the degree to which every experiment was compromised by the simple fact of having been thought up by a human scientist.

  After the initial scramble to haul out notebooks and pencils, the only noise from the students was the furious scratch of lead against paper as they struggled to keep up with the volume of information spewing nonstop from Dr. Wilkins.

  Wes took notes in the shorthand he’d developed years ago and tried to ignore the eat-shit-and-die glares he was getting from his fellow students. So his question got her onto this topic—it wasn’t like sitting there in an embarrassed silence was that much more entertaining.

  He did take a break occasionally to crack his knuckles and look up at the front of the classroom where Dr. Rosemary Wilkins paced slowly from one end of the blackboard to the other.

  Beside him, Nathaniel was scribbling so hard he snapped his pencil point. “Shit! How many days are left in this term, again?”

  Wilkins flipped one loose, golden braid over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips, shaping them into sweet curves beneath the concealing cloth of her cargo pants.

  “Not enough, man,” Wes said, eyes eating up every motion of her pretty little body. “Not near enough.”

  Chapter 2

  Rosemary sank into the space-age comfort of her ergonomic desk chair. Her bones felt like liquid; she had to stiffen every sinew to keep from sliding straight onto the floor.

  Folding forward, she let her head rest on the polished mahogany surface of her cherished desk.

  There. That was better.

  Instead of contemplating what an intensely awful mess she’d made of her first class, Rosemary smoothed her cheek against the fine-grained wood and thought about the first time she saw this desk, in her grandmother’s study.

  She’d written her first and second dissertations on that exact desk in her dorm room at UVA, and when she left for Bryn Mawr, she took it with her. The administrations were always so nice and agreeable about allowing her to exchange the particleboard monstrosities that came standard to the dorms for her grandmother’s antique George III writing desk.

  Well, they all agreed eventually.

  A few of the institutions of higher learning she’d attended had initially balked at the inconvenience of moving out and storing the inferior furniture, but Rosemary could be quietly insistent when she wanted something.

  Grandmother’s desk, with its gently slanted writing surface and multiple cubbyholes and interesting drawers for stashing bits of research and source materials, was actually something Rosemary needed. She did her best thinking at that desk, and given that she was a genius, that was really saying something.

  The Academy of Culinary Arts president, Wally Cornell, gave in almost without a fuss. He understood a hard limit when he heard one, and when he’d first approached her about moving her research to the academy’s brand-new, state-of-the-art food lab, he’d made it clear that he’d move more than furniture to partner with a scientist of Rosemary’s stature.

  The premier culinary school in the United States, the ACA turned out scores of highly qualified restaurant professionals year after year. Most of the current darlings of the food world were ACA alums, including luminaries like Devon Sparks.

  She couldn’t understand why it had taken so long for such an illustrious learning facility to place a heavier emphasis on the chemistry of food. Not only was it fascinating and Rosemary’s current research obsession, it was an essential area of study for culinary students. Cooking was nothing more than the ways different ingredients with various properties reacted to one another. How could anyone expect to be certified as a competent professional chef without understanding the processes behind those reactions?

  Most people didn’t care how things worked, in Rosemary’s experience. They only wanted to know that they did work.

  She shook her head, confounded as always by that mentality.

  Then she sighed, her circuitous thoughts circling around again to force her to face the unpleasant fact that, genius or not, she hadn’t done her beloved subject justice in that classroom today.

  The overwhelming silence from the students, their blank, apathetic stares, were like pressure in her ears, like diving underwater until the sheer weight of the ocean above threatened to crush her lungs.

  Her mouth had dried, her heartbeat increased, her skin prickling with clammy sweat—unmistakable symptoms of an incipient panic attack.

  She’d been ready to squeeze her eyes shut and just wait for it to all be over, and then … Wes Murphy.

  He of the bright smile, overlong dark hair, and eyes that defied easy color categorization. At first she’d thought they were plain brown, but the longer she looked at him, the more tints registered, everything from mossy green to tawny gold. The word “hazel” didn’t really seem adequate. And that scar through his left eyebrow, barely noticeable except when he arched that brow at her in clear and obvious challenge.

  That challenge somehow cut through Rosemary’s rising anxiety and enabled her to actually start talking about science. She had an uncomfortable feeling that the nonstop lecture format hadn’t truly engaged her students’ minds, but Rosemary wasn’t sure what else to do. Her youth had excused her from teaching duties in graduate school, so she had zero practical experience to draw on.

  She rubbed at the smudge her breath made on the polished surface of the desk and fretted about the class.

  Especially that Wes Murphy. Rosemary couldn’t stop remembering the curl of his lips when he asked her what she meant … Rosemary went hot all over just thinking about it.

  Which felt very strange. Maybe she was coming down with something. Oh no, and her medical kit was still packed in one of the boxes she’d asked maintenance to cart over from her previous office in the lab!

  It’s fine, she told herself. The lab isn’t far. The boxes will be here soon.

  She mourned the loss of her tiny cubicle at the lab. It was more of a converted storage closet, really, which was why President Cornell had made her switch. There was no way she could take student appointments in that cramped little space, he pointed out. Accurate, but still. She missed the privacy, the way the lab was all set up exactly as she preferred, with no surprises anywhere.

  She missed the sterile cleanliness.

  A squeak at the door nearly stopped her heart. For Buffy’s sake, were there mice here? That was all this dirty little room needed.

  No, it was only the ancient hinges protesting the weight of the heavy office door. She’d left it slightly ajar, probably in a subconscious effort to provide herself with an escape route should the
interior of the office prove overwhelming.

  She frowned again. Was the door a little more ajar than it had been a moment ago?

  Another squeak had her jumping in her Aeron chair, which was set to maximum recline and reacted to her quick movement by flipping her backward. Rosemary scrambled to right herself, which was hard to manage while simultaneously drawing her knees up to her chin, but no way was she leaving her poor, defenseless legs to dangle over the edge of the chair into rodent territory! They might swarm!

  A tense moment of silent struggle with the chair later, however, Rosemary still didn’t see any small, furry bodies scurrying toward her. The door was definitely a little more open, though.

  Attempting to wrestle herself back from diving straight into the deep abyss of one of her more potent neuroses, Rosemary regulated her breathing and forced her brain to list the possible reasons for the door’s movement:

  1. Mice. Unlikely, as none had appeared, but it had to be considered. Mainly because she wouldn’t be able to focus on any other possibilities until she at least put the rodent hypothesis on the list.

  2. A breeze. It was an old building, liable to be drafty.

  Rosemary liked that one. It had definite potential. To test it out, she carefully removed her black denim jacket and sat clutching her knees to her chest. She concentrated, trying to detect any movement of air against her bare arms or through the thin material of her favorite EMPIRE STRIKES BACK T-shirt, but felt nothing. Sighing, she went back to her list.

  3. A serial killer who stalked and murdered geniuses.

  Weirdly, this one freaked her out less than the rodent hypothesis. Possibly because even at her neurotic worst, she understood that a psychopath would be unlikely to be able to ascertain her IQ simply by looking at her.

  Even if she did fit the science-prodigy stereotype to a T, from her messy ponytail and tortoiseshell glasses to her Star Wars-dominated wardrobe.

  There was a fourth possibility—it could be one of her students with a question about the lecture or the homework she’d assigned.

  Gulping, Rosemary checked her watch. That last one might actually be the scariest. The door hadn’t moved in two minutes and fourteen seconds. Before she could debate whether or not that was sufficient time to allow a relaxation of the feet-off-floor policy, she heard a distinct snuffling noise.

  Stiffening, her gaze shot to the door, which flew open and banged against the empty bookshelf behind it, sending up a cloud of dust.

  Something rushed into the office, too fast for Rosemary to identify.

  The thing was low to the floor, but still far too tall for any mouse that hadn’t been irradiated or genetically engineered. It rounded the corner of her desk and screeched to a halt, the blur of brown and white resolving into a small dog, tongue lolling out of a wide, panting mouth.

  Rosemary stared at the dog. The dog stared back. Neither blinked.

  Until footsteps sounded in the hall. Rosemary lost the staring contest when she glanced at the unobstructed entrance to her office. The dog took the opportunity to scoot into the enclosed foot well of Rosemary’s desk.

  “What in the name of Joss are you doing?” Rosemary gasped, gripping the edge of her desk and peering underneath. The dog was curled in the dark hidey-hole, its white teeth catching the light as it continued to pant.

  “Come out of there. I mean it! I’m allergic to pet dander! And I haven’t unpacked my Kleenex or my Claritin yet!”

  The dog’s brown eyes glittered in the dim underdesk light, almost as if she’d rolled them dismissively.

  Rosemary didn’t want to panic, she truly didn’t.

  As the philosopher and statesman Douglas Adams had said, Don’t panic. Those were excellent words to live by, and she strove for that, she really did. But sometimes, in some situations, panic was unavoidable.

  Situations such as, for instance, when a knock on the doorframe drew Rosemary’s attention.

  “Anybody home? And, um, anyone seen a short white dog come this way?”

  Low, caressing tones with a hint of bite, like smooth Irish whiskey, and the shiver that ran down her spine and heated her blood told her exactly who it was.

  A moment later, a tousled head of brown hair appeared, followed by a lean-hipped whipcord of a body. He peered inside, an apology in his tawny eyes.

  “You!” she exclaimed, establishing her command of the obvious.

  “Me,” he agreed, mouth quirking into a grin.

  Rosemary straightened and walked around her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, hello, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Just Murphy,” he said. “Or Wes. And hey, sorry about the canine invasion—we were coming to visit you, but Lucille got away from me.”

  “Lucille? Is that the animal’s name?”

  “As in Lucille Ball. Lovable but trouble-prone,” Wes said. “I promise you, she earned it. Like Macho Man Randy Savage or The Undertaker. She could go pro with the causing of trouble, isn’t that right, snooks?”

  That last was said in an affectionate voice to the dog, who’d scrambled out from under the desk to gaze up at Wes in obvious adoration. Rosemary wouldn’t have been surprised to see the thing pee in a circle around him.

  “I believe you,” Rosemary replied, feeling slightly overwarm, hyperaware, and just generally uncomfortable with approximately one-point-eight-two-eight-eight meters of disturbingly attractive man taking up all the air in her office. “So.”

  “So,” he said, scooping Lucille into his arms. The dog heaved a happy sigh and laid her head on his muscled shoulder. “Hi. How’d your first class go?”

  Rosemary narrowed her eyes. Was he mocking her? These things could be so difficult to interpret. Cautiously, she said, “You were there. How do you feel it went?” Then, thinking maybe she didn’t actually want the answer to that question, she added hastily, “I mean, due to the short notice I was given, I wasn’t as well prepared for your class as I would’ve liked. Next week’s will be better.”

  He actually laughed. “Oh, I hope not, Professor. Sincerely. I had a ball.”

  Lucille’s head shot up at the word “ball,” evidently something of a Pavlovian response. When no one appeared to be tossing around a spherical object, however, she put her head back down on Wes’s shoulder.

  It was awfully … cute. Rosemary frowned. Something very odd seemed to be occurring in her midsection. Had she forgotten to eat lunch again?

  “Well, Doc, I really just came over to thank you for an interesting lecture and to … well, to apologize.” He ducked his chin, looking up at her from beneath his lashes. Rosemary swallowed hard.

  “No apology necessary,” she said. “It’s never wrong to ask a question.”

  “Right, but if I said anything that made you think I don’t respect your work, or the course material … that’s not the case, I promise. And I’m very sorry.”

  He smiled winningly, and Rosemary found herself smiling back without meaning to, even though there was something a little off about the whole conversation.

  Not for the first time, she wished she’d made more of a study of facial expressions and emotional cues. She vaguely sensed an undercurrent to this conversation, but she was helpless to decipher it.

  “Are you all settled into your new digs?” Wes asked, changing the subject before Rosemary could decide how to respond to his apology. “I can see you’ve already made some changes—that’s a great desk.”

  “Thank you!” Rosemary stroked it affectionately. “It was my grandmother’s.”

  Wes dragged his intense gaze from the desk to give her another of those slow, lopsided smiles of his, one lean hand scratching at the dog’s head by his ear. “It’s gorgeous. Eighteenth century?”

  “Um, yes.” Rosemary blinked.

  He nodded. “Right. So I guess we’ll be going. Unless you can think of a reason we ought to stay?”

  That smile made Rosemary’s empty stomach clench, the muscles in her thighs tensing and releasing in an odd, quick motion that
sent shivers down her legs. She retreated behind her desk and sank into her chair.

  “No, that’s … good-bye,” she managed to say, though it was faint and reedy, and the gleam in his green-gold gaze let her know he was every bit as aware of her as she was of him. And now her head was whirling, the room too hot all of a sudden, and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears, strangely loud, so loud she almost missed it when he said abruptly, “Shit.”

  Another extra-loud heartbeat later, and he’d whisked himself into the office and shut the door behind him, pressing his back to the wood. Lucille’s legs were stiff against his chest, as if the little dog were pushing away from Wes’s chest and attempting to launch her small body to the floor.

  Rosemary blinked. And then she heard it—footsteps treading heavily down the hallway.

  Chapter 3

  “Sorry, Doc,” Wes apologized. “I didn’t mean to swear. But if it’s okay with you, L-dawg and I’ll be hanging here for just another second or two.”

  This was really not his day. First, Dr. Rosemary Wilkins turned out to be the one woman on the planet who didn’t gush and coo over Lucille’s sweet, furry self, thus rendering his plot to use her as his ace in the hole null and void. He was starting to worry that this whole scheme was about to seriously backfire.

  Wilkins froze, eyes wide. Wes raised a brow and shook his head, trying to plead silently without going over the top. It was a little tricky—he had to make it clear that he didn’t want to be discovered, while not in any way actually impeding discovery.

  Getting in trouble with Cornell was all part of the plan.

  “Why not?” she stage-whispered. Her brows creased in adorable confusion.

  “Come on, just keep quiet for a second. Please? If they catch me with Lucille, it’ll be bad.”

  Another knock, another startled jolt from Wilkins. Flighty little thing, wasn’t she?

  “Dr. Wilkins? Are you in?”

  Right on schedule. Wally Cornell, president of the Academy of Culinary Arts, stickler for rules, and animal-hater extraordinaire.