Kiss the Cook

by D'Alessandro, Jacquie

  Why the heck should he be able to sleep when she knew darn well she wouldn’t be able to?

  “Listen,” he continued, “I called to tell you that my strictly businesslike behavior today was to avoid any conflict of interest. And if you think we're not involved, you're nuts. Maybe you don't want it, and I certainly don't want it, but it's there, and it's not going away."

  "It will if we ignore it"

  "Not an option. I've been trying that since we met, and it doesn't work."

  "This is ridiculous," Melanie said, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes. "If you hadn't taken Mr. Waxman's place tonight, we never would have seen each other again."

  "Do you really believe that?" The soft, husky question raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Before she could even think of a reply, he went on, "We absolutely would have seen each other again, Melanie. I would have made sure of it."

  Good thing she was sitting down, because the sexy undertone in his deep voice melted her insides like wax to a flame. If she wasn't careful she'd slip under the water and the next thing he’d hear would be glub, glub.

  "You're not saying much," he said, "so I'll take that as a good sign. At least you're not arguing. So, on to the next thing. What are you doing Friday night?"

  "Friday night? Why?" Good grief. Was that squeaky noise her voice? She coughed to clear her dust-dry throat.

  "I'd like to have dinner with you."

  "Dinner? You mean like a date?"

  "That note of horror I hear in your voice is pretty deflating to my ego."

  "We've been through this. I don't date. And even if I did, I don't want to date you."

  "I don't want to date you either. Something we have in common. And since you don't date, I guess that means you don't have plans Friday night. I'll swing by and pick you up at eight."

  "But-- "

  "I'll be out of town for the rest of the week on a client visit. I’ll give you my cell number, but it’s only for friendly calls-- not for backing out of our date.”

  "I don’t want your cell number and there’s no date so there’s nothing to back out of. Listen, you can't fool me. I know your type. Smooth. Good-looking. Good-looking guys are nothing but trouble, and that makes you trouble with a capital T."

  "So you don't want to have dinner with me because-- "

  "You're too handsome. That's right."

  "I have to say, I've never been turned down for that reason before."

  A snort escaped her. "Ha. I bet you've never been turned down, period."

  "Have, too."

  "Really? When? Fourth grade?"

  He chuckled. "No. Fifth."

  "Any turn downs prior to puberty are null and void. Besides, if-- what was her name? The one in fifth grade?"

  "Betty Waterhouse."

  "If Betty Waterhouse could see you now, she'd kick her own ass black and blue."

  "I had a blind date a few months back who didn’t like me at all.”

  “Why not?"

  "She doesn't like accountants. Bad experience with the IRS. She practically broke out in hives when I told her I'm a CPA."

  Melanie's eyes narrowed. "You planning to audit me?"

  "Only if you want me to."

  His tone was so suggestive she almost dropped the phone into the bathwater.

  Before she could find her voice he continued, "C'mon, Mel Gibson. Whaddaya say? You. Me. Dinner. I can do ugly. Really."

  "Oh, sure. You probably look good when you wake up in the morning."

  "I’m happy to put that theory to the test.”

  "Forget it. Besides, I thought accountants were nerdy guys with leaky pens in their shirt pockets who wore high-water pants, white socks with black shoes, and held their glasses together with safety pins. You're not an accountant. You're a menace to female hormones."

  "No menace. No audit. Just dinner. Maybe a movie."

  "You'll be ugly?"

  "Totally gross. Promise."

  A sigh escaped her. "Are you always this persistent?"

  He paused, then said, "No. Actually, I'm never this persistent. Friday night. Eight. Dress casual. 'Bye, Melanie."

  The dial tone sounded in her ear. Melanie held the phone away from her and stared at it as if it were the Loch Ness monster come to life in her tub. Dazed and confused, she clicked the off button and carefully laid the instrument on the bathmat She had a date. With Chris. Friday night.

  How the heck had that happened?

  “Probably because I didn't open my mouth and say no,” she muttered. But Melanie had a feeling that Chris wouldn't have taken no for an answer anyway, a fact she should have found annoying but instead found annoyingly romantic. And irritatingly exciting.

  Nana stuck her head in the door. "'Bout time you got off the phone. I was getting a crick in my neck from pressing my ear against the crack in the door."

  Melanie leaned back and thunked her head against the tiles. "You heard?"

  "Only your side. What's the scoop?"

  "We have a date Friday night."

  Nana stuck two fingers between her lips and let loose an ear-piercing whistle. "Praise the Lord! It's about time you came out of mourning over that two-timing gigolo Todd. Hot damn! A date with the hunk. I might even get me some great-grandchildren to spoil."

  Melanie almost choked. "Nana! It's only a date. One date. That's it."

  Nana regarded her steadily through very wise eyes. "If that's what you think, honey, then you'd better brace yourself, because one date is not what that young man has in mind."

  "I have no intention of getting involved," Melanie said with a sniff.

  "Intentions, inschmentions. Your heart doesn't listen to intentions. His won't either." Leaning down, Nana patted Melanie's waterlogged hand. "Sweetie, don't close yourself off from someone who might bring you happiness just because your last beau was an idiot. Sometimes the least expected path is the one that leads to the treasure." After uttering those sage words, Nana left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Treasure. Phooey. Melanie opened the drain then stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a thick pink towel. Chris Bishop wasn't a treasure. He was a hazard. Granted he was sexy, yummy, and goose-bump-inspiring-- but he was a hazard just the same.

  And she had a date with him Friday night.

  God help her, she couldn't wait.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The week passed by in a blur for Melanie. Each day at work was busier than the last, but in spite of the hectic demands on her time, she loved every minute of it.

  And she hardly thought about Chris and their upcoming date at all.

  Yup. Hardly at all.

  Except every time she inhaled.

  Thursday proved to be one of the busiest days Pampered Palate ever experienced. Three midtown offices had made large lunch orders based on recommendations from other clients, a group of Japanese tourists wandered in, and an outdoor arts-and-crafts festival drew dozens of walk-ins.

  Melanie peeled potatoes at lightning speed for her famous red potato and dill salad and kept one eye on the apple cobblers through the glass oven door. Nana was a veritable whirling dervish, flitting from the stove to the refrigerator to the oven without missing a beat.

  If business kept up at this pace-- and Melanie fervently hoped it would-- she'd soon have to hire an assistant. Maybe two. Maybe she could even lure her parents down to Atlanta to help out. She knew her dad missed the daily hustle and bustle of the restaurant business. He'd sold his family-style eatery in New York several years ago, ready to enjoy his hard-earned retirement, and he had. For a while.

  But when she'd spoken to him on the phone yesterday, she’d clearly detected boredom in his voice. "I'm tired of puttering around the house," Dad had grumbled in her ear, "and your mother is grousing about me being constancy underfoot. By gum, I know all the names of those young and restless people on the soap operas. I don't want to know about the trials and tribulations of those fictional characters and all their bold and beautiful children!" />
  Melanie smiled, recalling his disgruntled tone. She missed Mom and Dad and looked forward to their upcoming visit in September. Maybe when they came down, she'd be able to convince them to buy a retirement home in the area. She knew they weren't happy about the prospect of facing another New York winter. And she suspected that once Dad saw her new catering truck, he'd be eager to be a part of the action.

  Finished with the potatoes, Melanie turned her attention to sautéing tender filets for the daily special, veal marsala. Nana was busy packing up orders of southern fried chicken and barbecued ribs, and Mike the delivery man was alternately loading the orders into his van and helping Nana. Voices from customers in the front of the store drifted back to Melanie. Someone laughed, and she heard Wendy's melodic Alabama drawl as she worked the cash register for the takeout orders.

  If Melanie's hands hadn't been so occupied, she would have rewarded herself with a hearty pat on the back for hiring Wendy. Not only was the girl smart and a hard worker, but it seemed that half the male student population at Georgia Tech was in love with her and made it their business to drop by the Pampered Palate whenever she was working, which was most afternoons. Nothing like hungry college students to boost the sales.

  On several occasions members of the Tech football team had ordered lunch from "their girl" Wendy. Their large, athletic bodies had filled the small storefront to capacity, and Melanie had probably sold more chicken and biscuits those days than Colonel Sanders himself. And Nana had had a grand old time with all that male testosterone crowded into the place. She'd patted her frizzy red hair and flirted like a schoolgirl.

  Her nose told her the cobblers were done seconds before the oven timer beeped. She opened her beloved gleaming professional oven, slipped out the perfectly browned desserts and placed them on the counter to cool. With quiet concentration, she went about her tasks-- stirring the minestrone, adjusting spices in the pasta sauce, basting a turkey breast, preparing thick ham sandwiches on homemade sourdough bread.

  She was so busy, her mind so occupied with what she was doing, she almost didn't think about him.

  Almost.

  But even as she ladled savory minestrone into bright red-and-blue striped to-go containers, she wondered what Chris was doing. Was he thinking of her?

  “You dummy,” she muttered. “He probably hasn't given you a second thought.” Which would have been fine except she'd given him a second thought. And a third, fourth, and fifth thought. Okay, a six thousandth thought, but who was counting?

  She removed a succulent pork roast from the oven and cut generous slices, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand and not think about their dinner date tomorrow night.

  She failed miserably.

  Anticipation curled through her, and a vivid image of Chris popped into her mind; pulling her into his arms and melting her knees with a long, slow, drugging kiss. His hands drifting down her body, caressing her, insinuating his warm fingers under her skirt. Then, as in all good fantasies, they were suddenly naked, their clothes mysteriously dissolving into thin air. He leaned over her and--

  "Are you all right, Melanie?"

  Melanie yelped and swung around. Nana stared at her over her bifocals. "Huh?"

  "I asked if you're okay."

  No, I'm losing my mind. I have sixty-three meals to prepare in the next seven minutes and I'm having a sex dream. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

  "You groaned. Did you hurt yourself?"

  Groaned? Swell. The confounded man wasn't even here and he was causing problems. He'd awakened her libido from its long hibernation, and no matter how hard she tried to beat her hormones back into submission, those darn hormones were winning. Hands down.

  "I'm fine, Nana. I just had a dry spot on my throat." She cleared her throat several times for good measure then finished slicing the roast, praying her grandmother wouldn't notice the blush heating her face.

  Nana noticed. "You look flushed. Maybe you have a fever."

  Nana looked genuinely concerned and Melanie smiled at her to relieve her worry. "I'm not sick, Nana. Promise."

  A knowing gleam suddenly sparkled in Nana's wise eyes, and Melanie suspected that a sly comment was about to be launched with the accuracy of a cruise missile. Wendy, God bless her, chose that moment to pop into the kitchen and wave a lunch order at Melanie.

  "Prepare yourselves," the perky redhead warned with a devilish grin. "The Tech basketball team just called in this mega order."

  Melanie glanced at it and raised her brows. Holy cow! Basketball players ate even more than football players! She gave Wendy a thumbs up and wasted no time in starting to fill the orders.

  Dinner proved no less hectic than lunch, and by the time Mike departed with the last batch of deliveries, Melanie's body ached with fatigue and her feet were ready to stage a mutiny.

  But her weariness couldn't overshadow her exhilaration. If today was any indication, her business was on its way to succeeding, and if her loan was approved, she knew she could make the Pampered Palate a huge success. After growing up loving her father's restaurant, she'd always dreamed of owning her own eatery. And by God, she was determined to see her dream come true.

  "Quite a day," Nana said, easing herself into an oak hard-back chair.

  Melanie noted the telltale weary lines around Nana's eyes and her heart squeezed. She couldn't name a more vital, energetic woman than her grandmother, but Melanie worried that she'd overtax herself.

  "You must be exhausted, Nana," Melanie said, pouring two frosty mugs of iced tea.

  "More tired than a one-legged dog with a gaggle of fleas," Nana agreed, "but I enjoy every minute of it. Keeps me young and fit."

  Mike stuck his head into the kitchen. "Last delivery is done," he announced, his relief evident. "Either of you ladies need a ride home?"

  "I'm going to stay a while and do some prep work for tomorrow," Melanie said. "Nana, you go home."

  When Nana appeared about to argue, Melanie added, "Please. If you don't rest, you won't have the stamina to go out with Bernie the next time he calls."

  Standing so swiftly that she almost toppled her chair backwards, Nana said, "Let's go, Mikey."

  After they left, Melanie locked the front and back doors and turned off the storefront lights. Alone in the kitchen, she breathed a contented sigh. She loved to spend time here after everyone had gone. Although it was quiet, the kitchen had familiar noises all its own that she found soothing and comforting. The swish of the dishwasher, the gentle hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. The purr of the freezer. The occasional drip of the faucet.

  She loved the gleaming copper pots, the shiny professional stainless-steel stove and ovens, the gleaming white countertops, the sparkling clean floor.

  But most of all she loved the smells. The sweet scent of fresh apple pie, the lingering aroma of fried chicken. She breathed deeply and noted the tang of lemon and the delicious fragrance of fresh basil. They brought back vivid, wonderful childhood memories of times spent baking at home with her mother, or helping at the restaurant, watching her dad flip juicy burgers and steaks while he entertained his workers with silly jokes.

  Humming to herself, she methodically chopped dozens of onions, peppers, carrots, and celery stalks, sealing them in stay-fresh bags and storing them in the fridge. By doing these prep chores at night, her work the next day went much more smoothly. She then set about peeling another mountain of potatoes for tomorrow's vegetable of the day.

  That task done, she decided to call it a night and clean up. She'd just shoved a handful of potato peels down the garbage disposal hole when she heard a knock at the back door.

  Startled, she looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. The knock sounded again, and unease rippled down her spine. Was someone trying to break in? But what the heck kind of burglar knocked?

  Not willing to take any chances, she reached for her cell phone, ready to call 911 and let the police figure out what kind of burglar knocked, but before she could even grab the devi
ce, a muffled but familiar male voice drifted through the door.

  "Melanie? Are you in there? It's me, Chris."

  Her hormones snapped to attention and her heart jumped. Suspecting she would have been safer with the burglar, Melanie unlocked the door and opened it.

  Oh, boy. It was Chris all right.

  Standing in a bright pool of light from the security lamp mounted above the door, looking tired, rumpled, and sexy as sin. Dressed in a conservative navy blue suit, the top button of his wrinkled white shirt dress undone, his red silk tie loosened and askew, and the hint of a five o'clock shadow darkening his square jaw, he looked good enough to eat.

  She wanted to ask him to remove all his clothes and submit to a thorough physical examination. Instead, she pulled herself together and cocked a brow. "I appreciate punctuality as much as the next person, but according to my calculations"-- she glanced over her shoulder at the clock-- "you're about sixteen hours early for our date."

  A slow, sexy grin curved his lips. "I live by the rule that it's better to be sixteen hours early than one minute late."

  She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers in a warm, friendly kiss, effectively erasing every thought from her head.

  "Nice to see you, Mel Gibson," he said, tweaking one of her curls. "Are you going to invite me in?"

  Not on your life, her mind screamed.

  "Of course," her lips said. She held the door wide so he could enter then fumbled with the lock after he walked in. A subtle whiff of his woodsy cologne teased her nostrils and she clamped her lips together to squelch the feminine sigh of pleasure that threatened to escape. And clamping her lips together came with the added bonus that it kept her from drooling.

  By the time she turned to face him, he was comfortably sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She scooted around him cautiously, not getting too close for fear she'd be tempted to jump onto his lap.

  The guy probably had some sort of Star Wars force field surrounding him. If she ventured too close, he'd suck her in and she'd never escape. To be safe, she headed for the sink and nervously crammed several more handfuls of potato peelings down the disposal hole.