And for the first time in two years he didn't have his brother for a roommate. To save college housing costs, he’d let Mark live with him his junior and senior years. Much as he loved his brother, living with a “life’s a party” college student had proven a real style cramper. Hard to entertain a date with four frat boys sprawled in the living room playing X-box, cracking bodily function jokes. Not a scenario loved by the ladies.
But Mark had moved out right after graduation and Chris’s condo had immediately turned blissfully peaceful. No more worrying about walking in on each other while a date was there, no arguing over household chores or the remote or Mark’s rowdy college buddies. As much as Chris loved his family, he was thirty years old and for the first time his life was finally his own and he wasn’t responsible for anyone other than himself. He could do whatever, whenever, wherever and with whomever he damn well pleased, which was great because he had a crapload of bachelor living to catch up on. He was free to hang with his buddies or pop off to the Caymans for a weekend. Have a beach fling. Hell, have five beach flings.
But he’d quickly realized that being partner at Waxman, Barnes, Wiffle, and Hodge left little time for jaunts to the Caribbean. Hard to have a beach fling when the nearest beach required a four-hour drive. And as for his buddies, most of them had either gotten married or were shortly due to wander down the aisle. Still, he'd waited a long time to live the footloose, fancy-free bachelor life, and by damn he was going to do it.
Unfortunately Melanie Gibson didn't strike him as a one-night stand sort of girl. Which meant she wasn’t at all the type of woman he wanted to meet now. Maybe in five years. By then he’d probably be looking for long-term. For now he wanted his long-term to be no more than two hours. Three hours tops.
Still, it hadn't been easy to walk away from her. He swallowed a mouthful of baked beans and found himself wondering what she was going to do about her car.
Shaking his head, he forced his thoughts into another direction. He was interested in meeting sleek, blond, model types. Why would he want a lunatic brunette who drove a rusted-out heap?
An image of Melanie sprawled across his lap flashed in his mind and he groaned. Okay, he knew why he would want her, but he had to forget her. He'd never see her or her dilapidated car again. That was good. Definitely very good.
His cell rang, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced at the caller ID then tapped the speaker button so he could keep eating. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Nothing much.”
Uh oh. “Nothing much” meant something was definitely up.
"How was your day, Christopher?"
Double uh oh. She’d called him Christopher instead of Chris. That almost always meant trouble. “Good.” Best to keep his answers short when Mom was in “Christopher” mode. He bit into a chicken leg and prayed she wasn't going to announce that she'd fixed him up with another of her friends' daughters.
"Guess what?" she asked.
Chris's warning antennae shot skyward. He knew that innocent voice, that innocuous question all too well. He stifled a groan. "Can't imagine, Mom."
"Well, you know the family cookout we're having on Sunday to celebrate Mark's new job?"
He'd completely forgotten, but he knew better than to say so. "What about it?"
"Well, Cousin Ralph called. He and Margie are bringing along Margie's second cousin's neighbor's sister for you to meet. Her name is Zoey Kozlowski. Ralph says she has a great personality. She's twenty-nine, looking to settle down, and-- are you ready?-- she's a florist. Isn't that exciting? I just love flowers. I'm sure you two will have so much to talk about.”
The warning bells in Chris's head reached alarming proportions. He had to do something quick, or Mom would be picking out china patterns withZoey Kozlowski the florist within the week.
"Mom, I appreciate this, but I can get my own dates."
"Of course you can," Mom said, her cheery voice masking a layer of steely determination, "but you don't get them. All you do is work, work, work. If you got your own dates, I wouldn't try to fix you up."
Promises, promises. "Mom, I date. I've just been really busy at work."
"Humph. When's the last time you met a nice girl?"
Chris closed his eyes and prayed for patience. An image of Melanie Gibson flashed in his mind, and his eyes popped open.
"Tonight," he improvised in a jiffy. "In fact, I had a date tonight." Sort of. Kinda. Okay, I'm a big fat liar, but these are desperate circumstances. He imagined Zoey I'm-looking-to-settle-down Kozlowski, and the picture wasn't good. God help him. Besides, the story wasn't a total lie. The part about meeting a nice girl tonight was true enough.
"How wonderful! What's her name?"
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. Me and my big mouth, "Her name is Melanie."
Mom chirped out a barrage of questions. "Have you known her long? What's she like? What does she do? Where does she live?"
"I haven't known her long. She lives with her grandmother, and she owns the Pampered Palate."
"Pampered Palate? What's that?"
"A gourmet food takeout place."
Chris could almost hear the wheels turning in his mother's pretty, matchmaking head. "So she cooks."
"Uh, yeah."
"Wonderful! Tell her to bring a dessert to the cook-out. I can't wait to meet her. Your sisters will be so excited you've met someone. We'll see you both on Sunday! Oh, and tell Melanie to bring her grandmother if she wants. Two o'clock. Oops! I have another call coming in. It’s Aunt Margie. Gotta go! Bye.”
She ended the call and Chris thumped his cell phone against his forehead. His mother had missed her calling. She should have enlisted in the military-- she could outmaneuver a five-star general. Now she expected him to bring his "date" on Sunday, not to mention dessert. Great.
He finished his beer in a single gulp then reviewed his choices. There was Zoey Kozlowski, the florist with the "great personality," or Melanie Gibson, the gourmet cook with the killer curves and big brown eyes who had his libido revved up like a race car engine.
Neither one, he suspected, would do his mental health any good.
Well, tomorrow night he had a real date. With Claire Morrison, a marketing executive he'd met two weeks ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party. She was blond, beautiful, and smart, and she'd sent out very definite signals that she had no qualms about kissing-- or "whatever"-- on the first date.
He wondered how she felt about cookouts.
~~~
Late the following afternoon, Chris parked his Mercedes in the Piedmont Hospital lot. Glancing at his watch, he estimated he could spend about thirty minutes visiting Walter Rich and still have plenty of time to pick up his date.
Carrying a cheerfully wrapped copy of John Grisham's latest legal thriller, he strode into the brightly lit hospital, checked in at the information desk, and made his way to Walter's room. When he walked in, he saw his friend sitting up in bed, smiling at a dark-haired woman who had her back turned to Chris.
"Well, hello there!" Walter exclaimed when he saw his new visitor. "What a nice surprise."
Chris opened his mouth to say hi, but the words died in his throat as the woman turned around to face him. Big chocolate-brown eyes stared at him with a clearly surprised expression.
"Don't just stand there in the doorway," Walter said. "Come on in and join the party." He indicated the woman with a wave of his hand. "This is Melanie Gibson, a dear friend who took pity on a starving old man and brought me the most scrumptious feast. Melanie, this is Chris Bishop, an accountant at-- "
"One Atlanta Plaza, twenty-fifth floor," Melanie finished for him with a smile. "Chris and I have already met." She stood and held out her hand. "Nice to see you again."
Chris stepped into the room and shook her hand. Same soft skin, same lush lips, same deep dimples. And boy, did she clean up nice. Her electrocuted hair how surrounded her face in shiny, chin-length reddish-brown curls. His gaze traveled downward taking in her neon-green
T-shirt that read kiss the cook, faded Levis, and Nikes that had seen better days. Not exactly come-hither clothes. So why did his heart rate suddenly accelerate? And why did the slogan on her T-shirt seem like the best idea since the invention of the wheel?
"I see you took my advice," she said.
He snapped his gaze back to her face. "What advice is that?"
"You changed your pants.”
He reached out and gently tugged one of her glossy curls. "You combed your hair."
She laughed. "I didn't have much choice. Every dog on the block would have tried to bury me in the backyard if I hadn't."
"Ahem! Remember me?" asked Walter in an amused tone from the bed. "The guy with the broken leg, a cracked rib, and other assorted aches and pains."
Chris leaned around Melanie and shot his friend a wide grin. "So sue me. She's prettier than you are." He set the gift-wrapped book on the nightstand then sniffed the air. "Do I smell cookies?"
Walter nodded. "And not just any cookies. Homemade double chocolate chunk." He passed a round tin to Chris. "Melanie baked them for me, and they're mine. Since you were kind enough to visit me, you may have one."
"What happens if I take two?" Chris asked, reaching into the tin.
"Lawsuit," Walter said without hesitation.
“Fine. Sheesh. Only one cookie." He took a bite and groaned. "Wow. I think I might have to risk the lawsuit."
Despite Walter's threats, the cookie tin was soon empty. Chris discovered that Melanie not only made the best cookies on earth, she also had the sexiest laugh he'd ever heard-- a low, throaty rumble that reminded him of fine brandy. Warm, smooth, and delicious. He was enjoying himself so much, he forgot the time. When he glanced at his watch, he realized that if he didn't leave immediately, he'd be late picking up his date.
"I'm afraid I have to get going," he said, surprised at his reluctance to depart.
Melanie leaned over and sneaked a peek at his watch. "Yikes, I didn’t realize it was so late. I need to leave also."
"Thank you both for coming," Walter said, giving Chris's hand a hearty shake and accepting a kiss on the cheek from Melanie. "And thank you for the dinner, my dear. Best veal piccata I've ever eaten."
"My pleasure, Mr. Rich. When you're feeling better, I'll bake you some more cookies."
"In that case, I see a miraculous recovery right around the corner," he replied, his eyes twinkling.
After a final wave from the doorway, Chris and Melanie headed down the hall together. "He's such a nice man," Melanie remarked once they were in the elevator.
"Very nice," Chris agreed. He tried to keep his attention on the descending lighted floor numbers, but couldn’t stop himself from looking at her.
"Something wrong?" she asked, turning toward him and cocking a single brow.
"No. I was just realizing I was right."
Her lips twitched. "Wow. A man realizing he's right. Now there's a shocker. Good thing I'm not in my heart attack years. I might just keel over. What were you right about?"
"You do clean up pretty good."
A bright pink blush stained her cheeks. "Oh. Ah, thanks. You, too."
The elevator door opened and they stepped out. "Where's your car?" Chris asked.
"Parked in my driveway." She shot him a sheepish half-smile. "I practically dragged my sick delivery man out of bed this morning to help me. He tinkered with the engine a bit and got it started, but I'd no sooner arrived home than the old Dodge coughed, burped, and spit for several agonizing minutes, then died." She shook her head. "It was painful to watch."
"How did you get here?"
"Cab."
"How are you getting home?"
"By cab. In fact, I'd better call one." She pulled her cell phone from her pocket then smiled and held out her hand. "It was nice seeing you again.”
Chris absently shook her hand. "Yeah. Nice."
She turned and walked toward the lobby where several sofas and tables were located. Chris watched her, his eyes glued to her curvy derriere. He looked at his watch. If he left right now he could still be on time for his date with Claire.
For reasons he could not logically explain, instead of heading immediately to the parking lot, he fired off a quick text to Claire that he was running a little late then jogged across the ceramic tile floor to catch up with Melanie. His mind was saying "I'm outta here," but his feet were not cooperating at all.
"Where do you live?"
She turned, clearly surprised. "Why?"
"I'll give you a ride home."
She eyeballed his dress pants and crisp white shirt. "You look like you have plans. I wouldn't want to make you late."
"I have time," he heard himself say, "provided you don't live in Oklahoma."
She laughed. "Actually, I'm pretty close by. Only about ten minutes from here."
"Great. Let's go."
Chris followed her through the revolving door. The instant they stepped outside, a blast of hot, humid air hit them. He led her to the Mercedes, opened the door for her then settled himself behind the wheel.
"Where to, lady?" he asked in his best New York cabbie voice.
Smiling, she gave him directions. Except for "Turn left here" and "Make a right at the stop sign," the short trip was made in relative silence. Probably because he spent the entire ride convincing himself that he'd only offered to drive her home because it was the chivalrous thing to do. It had nothing to do with her. Nope, not a thing.
True to her word, ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a small, two-story brick house. A profusion of pink and white flowers filled the carefully tended beds, and the postage-stamp-sized lawn was lush and green. The only thing that looked out of place was the lime-green, rusted-out eyesore sitting in the driveway.
A young girl Chris judged to be about twelve sat on the front steps. When she waved, Melanie waved back and said, "That's my neighbor's daughter. I promised to help her bake her mom a birthday cake." She unhooked her seat belt and opened the car door. "Thanks. I really appreciate the ride. Cab fare kinda strains the budget."
"My pleasure."
"Enjoy your evening."
Evening? He stared into her big brown eyes and basically forgot how to speak English. His heart performed some sort of freakish thumpety-thump and his damn libido flared to life like dry kindling to a lit match. The car door slammed behind her, snapping him from his stupor. Evening-- right. He had a date. Right.
He watched her trot across the lawn to the porch. She ruffled the girl's hair then turned to smile and wave at him before following the kid into the house.
Chris stared at the now empty porch where seconds ago she’d once again dazzled him with that dimpling smile and found himself wishing he could stay and watch her bake that birthday cake. Her kitchen was undoubtedly welcoming and cozy, and he bet it smelled great. Like double chocolate chunk cookies.
Cookies? Jesus, he was losing his mind. He puffed out a breath and shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? He had a date with a gorgeous woman, one who perfectly fit all his I’m-a-bachelor criteria, plus she was going to accompany him to the family cookout and save him from Zoey the florist--although she didn’t know that yet-- and here he sat, mooning over Melanie who was completely not his type.
Good thing she was gone. Her and her big brown eyes and soft, luscious mouth. He shifted in his seat. His pants felt uncomfortably snug.
Must have been all those damn cookies he ate.
CHAPTER THREE
Ten minutes into his date with Claire Morrison the marketing executive, Chris realized she was not cook-out material. By the time their dinner was served, he'd summed Claire up as a self-centered, high-maintenance bore, and by the time dessert rolled around, he was wishing he’d brought ear plugs so he wouldn’t have to listen to her any longer.
Tuning out her non-stop blather about her latest spa visit (it was awesome!) and some twelve hundred dollar pair of shoes she’d bought last week (they’re so awesome!), Chris studied her from across
the table with an objective eye. She was undeniably gorgeous. Her tall, slim physique, combined with her shoulder-length blond hair and startling aqua eyes guaranteed she'd attract male attention wherever she went. She had a successful career at a prestigious firm, and had made it plain that sex was in his immediate future-- just the sort of woman with whom he’d envisioned whiling away his bachelor hours.
He couldn't wait to get rid of her.
The woman hated everything-- her mother, her sister, her job, her apartment, her six ex-boyfriends, and the key lime pie she'd ordered for dessert. Unable to stand much more of her, he quickly paid the check and drove her home. The instant he shifted the Mercedes into park in front of her apartment, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid a hot kiss on him that was clearly intended to blow his mind. And probably should have.
Except it didn’t.
Taking her by the shoulders, he gently eased her back and ended the kiss.
She studied him for several seconds through narrowed eyes then turned away to check her make-up in the visor mirror. When she finished she looked at him and said, "Dinner was nice, but I don't think we should see each other again."
Thank you, God. "All right." Surely his male ego should feel deflated, yet all he felt was relief.
"You're a nice guy," she added, apparently thinking he needed an explanation, "but there's really no spark here, you know?"
Chris just nodded, happy that she'd said what was so painfully obvious to him.
She exited the car and he drove away, inhaling his first easy breath in hours.
~~~
When Chris arrived home twenty minutes later, he realized he had two messages on his voicemail. Snagging a beer from the fridge, he slipped off his shoes, plopped on the sofa, and hit the play button.
Kiss the Cook Page 4