"Why the heck not?"
"The same reason. What sort of example will we be setting for our children if we tell them we were in bed together when you popped the question?"
"Jeez. We don't even have these kids yet, and already they're sounding like bratty teenagers." He looked around for somewhere she might deem appropriate and came up blank. "What do you suggest? I'm not about to lug you outside. We'll get arrested."
"We have to get dressed, Chris."
"Dressed?"
"Yes. We can't be naked."
He set her on her feet "Who makes up these crazy rules? And the reason we can't be naked is… ?"
"Your mother, your sisters, Nana-- they'll all ask me what I was wearing when you proposed. I cannot tell them I was buck naked."
He wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or amused. But one thing was for sure-- life with Melanie would never being boring. "Can't you tell them you were so overcome with happiness you forgot what you were wearing?"
"No can do. I'm not a good liar." She patted his cheek. "Besides, it's a girl thing."
He supposed his impromptu proposal did lack some finesse, but jeez, he hadn’t considered it would go like this. Resigned, he walked to his closet, pulled out his robe and tossed it to her. "Here. You can say you were wearing Ralph Lauren."
She checked the designer tag and nodded. "Okay." She slipped on the robe and belted it.
He grabbed a pair of Nike sweatpants and quickly slipped them on. "Is this acceptable?"
"Perfect. Thank you. Now you may propose."
"Terrific. So what do you say?"
"About what?"
"Getting married. Yes or no?"
She raised her brows. "Wow. How excruciatingly romantic."
He dragged his palms down his face. "I'm sorry. But I've never proposed before. I wasn't aware all this crazy protocol was involved." He took her hands and entwined their fingers. "I love you, Melanie. I want to spend my life with you. I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?"
A brilliant smile lit her face. "Yes." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Now I'll ask you. Will you marry me?"
"Oh, no. If you're gonna ask me, we have to do it the guy way."
"The guy way?"
"Yeah." He untied the robe and slid it from her shoulders. Then he shucked his sweatpants, scooped her up, and carried her back to the bed.
Once they were lying in each other's arms, he said, "Okay. I'm ready. Go ahead and ask. Now when all my buddies ask me about popping the question, I can say we were in bed and naked." He kissed her nose. "It's a guy thing."
She laughed. "Will you marry me?"
He scrunched up his face and pretended to consider the question. "Well, let's see. On the plus side, you're really cute, sweet, and a great cook. Of course you're kinda bossy sometimes-- ouch!" He rubbed his shoulder where she'd lightly jabbed him. "Okay! I'll marry you, Mel Gibson." He grinned. "Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd say."
She shot him a belligerent glare. "Wanna change your mind?"
He rolled them so she sat astride him. "No way."
"When should we do it?"
He ran his hands up her body and cupped her breasts. "Hmmm. How about right now?"
"You want to get married right now?"
"No. I want to make love to you right now. We can get married tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Next week?"
"That doesn't give us much time to plan a wedding."
"I vote the wedding take place soon since starting next month you'll be too busy with your new catering enterprise to take time any time off. We need some time for a honeymoon.”
"Hmmm. Yes. The honeymoon."
“So how much time do we need? All you need for a wedding is a bride, a groom, and a minister. We have two out of three. How long can it take to find a minister?”
“I wouldn’t think very long. And since I’ve already planned a huge wedding, I don’t have any desire to do it again. Frankly, it was a pain in the butt.”
"How does two weeks from now sound? That’s two weeks to plan then two weeks for a honeymoon.”
"That sounds perfect."
"Great. Are we done talking now?"
"Yes."
“Thank God.” He lowered his mouth to hers. "Finally I can kiss my cook and seal the deal."
EPILOGUE
It poured on their wedding day.
The rain fell in a blinding sheet, but Melanie didn't care. The simple ceremony, attended by their family and close friends, followed by a champagne and dessert reception in the church’s lower level had been elegant, intimate, and perfect. Now, holding Chris's hand, they squeezed together under a huge umbrella and made a mad dash down the church steps while their guests waved and tossed the traditional rice. Seconds later they were ensconced in the white stretch limo waiting to whisk them off to the airport.
"Nothing like keeping with our tradition of getting wet,” Melanie said, shaking raindrops from the full skirt of her simple ankle-length wedding dress. “I've never seen such rain. Maybe we should build an ark."
“Don’t worry,” Chris said, settling himself next to her. "In a few hours our plane will land in sunny Florida. Then we'll board the cruise ship and spend the next week frolicking around the Caribbean." He kissed her nose. "I trust that meets with your approval, Mrs. Bishop."
Mrs. Bishop. Boy, did that sound nice. Mrs. Bishop smiled at her husband. "I can't wait. I've never been on a cruise before-- except for our canoeing excursion. Hopefully this boat is a little bigger."
"Not to worry. I'll keep you safe."
“Oh? And who’s going to protect me from you?”
“No one. You’re stuck with me. Didn’t you hear what that minister said?”
She snapped her fingers. “Darn, I’d already forgotten.”
He dragged her onto his lap and laid one of those toe-curling kisses on her. When he raised his head he said, “Good thing you’re stuck with me to remind you.”
“Yeah, good thing,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “So, a week-long honeymoon, then as soon as we get home, there's another wedding to attend."
Chris smiled. "Nana and Bernie. Are they great together or what?"
"Perfect," Melanie agreed. "Although I think Nana scandalized the minister when she announced that she and Bernie had to get married. The poor man needed to sit down."
"He did look sort of pale," Chris said with a chuckle.
"At least I don't need to worry about the Pampered Palate while I'm away," Melanie said. "My dad is so excited about watching the place. I hope you won't mind if your new in-laws move to Atlanta."
"I won't mind at all. Having your folks around to pitch in at the Pampered Palate means more free time for you, and that sounds great to me." He slipped a handkerchief from his tuxedo jacket pocket and when he gently dabbed a few stray raindrops from her cheeks, her heart skidded to a halt.
He was her husband.
Hers to have and to hold. From this day forward.
How incredibly lovely was that?
She blew out a deep breath of utter contentment. Her gaze traveled over him from head to foot. Holy smokes. He looked so outrageously handsome in his black tux, she couldn't decide if she wanted him to keep it on forever, or if she wanted to tear it off him with her teeth.
"You okay?" he asked, halting his ministrations and giving her a searching look. "You look flushed."
Was she okay? She'd just married the most wonderful, gorgeous, incredible man on earth. Okay was a pretty lukewarm word to describe how she felt.
"I'm fine. I'm incredibly happy." She touched his face with trembling fingers. "I can't believe we're married."
"You're legally stuck with me forever," he said, taking her hand and placing a warm kiss on her palm. "You don't mind that you're not Mel Gibson anymore, do you?"
Melanie heaved another blissful sigh and wrapped her arms around him. "Do I look like I mind?"
"No. You look beautiful. S
tunning. The most perfect bride I've ever seen." He kissed her, tenderly at first, then with increasing ardor. Melanie's hormones sighed, oooohhhhh baby!
Several seconds later, however, she pulled back. "What was that noise?"
"What noise? I didn't hear anything."
Grrrrrrr.Grrrrrr.
Chris frowned. "That's sounds strangely familiar."
Grrrrrr.
Silence.
"Uh-oh," Melanie said. "That didn't sound good. And have you noticed we're not moving?"
The limo driver lowered the smoke-glass partition separating them from the front seat and looked at them through the rearview mirror.
"Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, but there appears to be a, er, problem with the car."
"What sort of problem?" Chris asked.
"It won't start. Sounds to me like the battery's dead."
Melanie and Chris stared at each other.
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought I recognized that growling noise."
A knock sounded on the rear window. Smothering a laugh at Chris's expression, Melanie touched a button and lowered the window.
Nana and Bernie stood outside, huddled under the protection of a red-and-blue-striped umbrella.
"What's up?" asked Nana, sticking her head in the open window.
"The battery's dead," Melanie answered.
Nana shook her head. "Jiminy Cricket. You two are always soaking wet or stranded." Pulling open the limo door, she said, "Come on. Everybody’s gone except me and Bernie. We’ll drive you to the airport." She marched off with Bernie, heading toward the lime-green Dodge.
Chris groaned. "Please tell me we're not going in the Dodge. Please."
Melanie laughed and kissed him. "Don't worry. With the way Nana drives, we'll definitely get to the airport on time. Besides, we started off in the Dodge, so it's only fitting that we finish there."
"That's just what I'm worried about-- finishing there. Didn't you tell me Nana drove like a Mario Andretti/Mr. Magoo combination?"
Melanie framed his face between her hands. "Relax. This isn't the finish of anything. This is just the start. And lead-foot Nana sees much better since she got her new glasses." She gave him a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. "Besides, we can neck in the backseat. C'mon. Let's go before they leave without us."
Hand in hand, they dashed to the Dodge and settled themselves in the backseat. Melanie choked back a laugh at the look of utter relief on Chris's face when he saw that Bernie was driving.
Bernie turned around and grinned at them. "Where to, kids?" he asked in a chauffeur-like voice.
"To the airport, my good man," Melanie answered. "How long will it take?"
Bernie stepped on the gas and pulled out of the parking lot at whiplash-warp speed. Grinning over his shoulder, he said, "Don't worry. We'll be there before you can say 'Kiss the cook'!"
DEAR READER,
Thank you so much for reading KISS THE COOK! I hope you enjoyed Melanie and Chris’s adventures. KISS THE COOK was my very first contemporary story and was originally published way back in 2000. The book had been out of print for many years, so when I decided to make it available as an ebook, I knew it needed some serious updating as a few things had changed in a decade and a half (like cell phones, for one thing!). I hope this updated version brought a smile as Melanie and Chris navigated their way to their Happily Ever After. Those Happily Ever Afters are why I enjoy romance novels so much-- both reading and writing them. I just adore happy endings where love conquers all. There’s so much sorrow in the world-- let’s hear it for love! Yay!
If you’re so inclined, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d consider leaving an honest review for this book (seriously, an honest review-- it’s okay if it wasn’t your cup of tea. If all I wanted was compliments I’d call my mom, LOL!). Reader reviews are very important to authors, especially for self-published e-books. Here’s the Amazon link if you’d like to leave a review:
Review Kiss the Cook on Amazon.com
Thank you again for reading KISS THE COOK. I wish you a lifetime filled with much happiness and romance, and many delightful reading hours!
Best regards,
Jacquie D’Alessandro
The Only Sauce You'll Ever Need
The great thing about this recipe is that the ingredient amounts do not need to be exact. If you prefer more garlic, less onion, whatever-- go for it! But fresh basil is a must-- not dried. The amounts of ingredients listed below are simply guidelines. Don't panic if you use a little more or a little less of something.
10 ripe plum tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1 sweet onion, finely chopped
1-2 heaping tsp of minced garlic (for an easy shortcut, use the jarred kind from the supermarket)
1 bunch fresh basil leaves finely chopped
1/4-1/2 cup good quality olive oil
fresh ground pepper and salt to taste
Combine all ingredients in bowl. Stir gently with wooden spoon. Cover and set at room temperature for 2-3 hours before serving.
Unused portion should be refrigerated. Serve with tostado chips for a deliriously different salsa. Spoon over toasted slices of Italian or French bread for an authentic bruschetta appetizer. Serve warm over your favorite pasta and sprinkle with Parmesan or Romano cheese for a light main course. Also delicious on salads and scrambled eggs or omelets. Wonderful over your favorite fish. Use your imagination! And don't forget to tell your guests to kiss the cook! Enjoy and bon appetit!
HE’S NO ANGEL excerpt
A Contemporary Paranormal Romance
The first book in my new Heaven Can Wait series
Tristan Barrington, Earl of Ryland, has been stuck for nearly two centuries in a prison-like limbo between Heaven and Hell, ever since his death in 1820. The only way out is to perform the good deeds assigned to him by his nemesis, the mysterious angel Task Director, Alessandra Foscari. Unfortunately for him, she always assigns him tasks that involve helping human couples find True Love, and cynical Tristan is not a romantic guy. After a bunch of failures, he now has one final chance to earn his angel wings– or it’s off to Hell for him. Not good. And even worse? He only has a few weeks to make this latest couple fall in love. And worst of all? His couple is not cooperating.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
It’s hell being an angel.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking-- being an angel is great, all floating around on fluffy clouds, eating anything you want without worrying about weight gain or cholesterol, a euphoric stress-free existence in a place where the weather’s always perfect and everybody’s friendly.
Well, it is-- if you’re a Full-Fledged Angel. But if you’re like me-- not quite an angel (or my official title, Angel in Waiting), it ain’t no picnic in the park.
And who am I? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tristan Barrington, 4th Earl of Ryland. I died nearly two hundred years ago, on a frigid January morning in 1820. If I’d been given a preference, I would not have chosen to die at the age of thirty-four. And I certainly wouldn’t have picked to do so on a non-descript patch of brown, ice-encrusted dirt on a field just west of London. Most undignified, really. And truly, I shouldn’t have died-- I was a far superior shot to the dolt who stood across from me on the dueling field.
As our seconds-- my childhood friend Albert and the dolt’s bug-eyed solicitor-- counted off the paces, I marched ahead, my pistol gripped in my chilled fingers, resigned to get this over with. Then suddenly something happened to me… an unprecedented, overwhelming weariness at the reality of my situation-- that I was about to turn around and kill a man two decades my senior who’d challenged me on the field of honor for tupping his young wife. A nuisance really, having to do this, especially as I was still hung over from the previous evening’s frivolities. He wouldn’t be the first man I’d killed, nor was his bored wife the first married woman I’d entertained. Yet it occurred to me that at least the dolt had a modicum of honor. And something he believed was worth fi
ghting for. Whereas I had…
And that’s where my mind went blank. What did I have? What was all this for?
I had no answer.
I didn’t love his wife. Indeed, I didn’t even particularly like her. A selfish, shallow shell wrapped in a beautiful package. Being selfish and shallow myself, I would have forgotten her name in a fortnight’s time. She was but a momentary diversion in a privileged, dissolute life filled with self-indulgent debauchery.
As I continued crossing the field, my future suddenly flashed before my eyes with crystal clear clarity: years of drifting from one empty, meaningless depravity to another, my fortune wasted, my health destroyed, abandoned by fair-weathered friends. Alone. Utterly, completely alone. My conscience, an inner voice I’d believed long dead, coughed to life, and in that instant self-disgust and something that felt exactly like terror nearly choked me. And with that, an insight struck me with the power of a lightning bolt: I didn’t want that existence. I didn’t want to die alone, my insides rotted by drink, with nothing to show for my immoral life but a string of paramours, broken friendships, and cuckolded husbands challenging me to duels. In fact, I didn’t want this duel. I didn’t want to take this man’s life.
In the space of a single heartbeat I felt as if my life changed. That I’d changed. And I was going to implement that change immediately.
I decided to delope.
Of course dueling tradition dictated I’d still have to allow my opponent to fire, but given his advanced age, poor eyesight, and reputation as a dreadful shot, I didn’t consider he’d even come close to hitting me.
Boy, was I wrong.
Albert and the bug-eyed solicitor reached the end of the count and shouted, “present!” With my weapon aimed toward the sky, I prepared to turn, but before I could so much as blink, a pistol shot rent the air. Searing pain exploded in my head. My last thought was bloody hell, that doddering old blind dolt shot me.
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