There was a wholesomeness about her, a femininity that was a rare find. She liked the softer colors that emphasized her womanly curves in a tasteful way. He thought her sexy as all hell.
The shape of her mouth was pouty, her lips full and kissable. She wore very little makeup—mascara, lipstick, maybe blush. She didn’t need cosmetic help. She was beautiful to him just as she was. The ivory column of her neck was smooth, beckoning a man’s lips to trace her skin from her collarbone to the soft angle of her jaw.
She smelled good. Like flowers. Light, but softly feminine.
Her brown eyes traveled over his naked chest, then darted to his face. “I’m not early,” she blurted.
“I know.” He checked the tuck on his towel, making sure he wasn’t going to lose it. “I lost track of time. I had a phone call.”
Jacquie. And she’d be coming over soon. It had momentarily slipped his mind that Lucy was going to be here. Although looking at her, how she could slip his mind was beyond him.
She attracted him. More than he cared to admit. And deeper than just physical. He saw something in her that he’d been missing in his life. During the last few years, trying to reconcile with Mackenzie, he’d felt himself lacking in stability and self-assuredness. Lucy possessed a strong character, something he admired. She was determined, he gave her that much.
He’d been surprised to get her call, saying she wanted to cook for him and would take him up on his offer. She’d wanted to come over and give him a sampler menu, but he’d told her whatever she wanted to make was fine with him. He didn’t need a demo. She’d brought the contract, an application and a form for his menu selections to one of the Little League games, and he’d signed the papers, hiring her for the summer.
He had no clue what she was preparing tonight. His stomach rumbled with hunger, so he didn’t care what was put on his plate.
“Come on in,” he offered, stepping aside. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I can manage. Why don’t you…”
He was already heading to his bedroom while he pointed in the opposite direction. “The kitchen’s that way. I’ll be right back.”
Lucy was left in the foyer to examine her surroundings. She gazed at the high ceilings, the backyard and the built-in bookcases chock-full of baseball memorabilia. Gloves, baseballs, a plethora of photographs. With her kitchen gear weighing her down and Drew in the next room, she didn’t have the opportunity to look closer, but she recognized his face in many of the photos.
The handles of her travel cases began to cut into her palms, so she proceeded. Bringing all her supplies to a cook job could be an ordeal. If she’d been doing a week’s worth of meals, she would have brought four times the amount of things. Today she’d consolidated everything into two bins with handles.
Taking the hardwood hallway, she passed a dining room on her right. It was decorated in rich tones of red, gold and ivory, with a huge area rug and a black dining table. The walls were a deep crimson, and the large light fixture was made out of twigs. It was unusual, but she liked it for its uniqueness.
Right past the dining room she reached a spacious kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances. The birch cabinets were accented with white, the walls a sage-green.
She loved the tone, the feeling. The comfort.
For some reason, acknowledging that put her on guard. This was a kitchen she could get used to. Several seconds of completely unrestrained fantasy followed, and she envisioned herself here, with Drew, cooking. Together.
Oh, dear Lord. I’m in big trouble.
Lucy deposited the heavy bins on the floor, taking out pots and pans and grocery items. Since the trip to Drew’s house was short, she hadn’t brought her canvas insulated cooler for the perishable food. She arranged everything neatly on the countertop.
Pulling out his folder, she sorted through the paperwork he’d signed, refreshed herself on the menu, then remembered she hadn’t printed labels for freezer storage, since he was eating it tonight. She’d still had him pay her a $25.00 fee for the plastic containers for when she created several entrées and side dishes. In that case, she’d leave the reheating instructions on the fridge. Cooking only one meal the night of serving wasn’t customary, but she had some clients who wanted that option.
She cooked clean, didn’t like clutter or mess. Noticing the way Drew kept his kitchen, she appreciated his neatness and the feel of organization, although there was a starkness about the room, as if nobody lived here. Almost like one of those model homes where only the basic props were out.
Curious, she slid open a drawer. Silverware. Nice stuff, too. Not hearing Drew approach, she quickly peaked into a cupboard, finding shelves of dinner plates and cereal bowls. To her right, she glanced inside a cabinet. Spices. And more than she would have expected.
“Looking for the booze, sugar?” Drew’s voice startled her and she jumped, slamming the cupboard drawer.
“Of course not. I bring my own.”
With that, he laughed. A deep sound that made her want to melt.
“Not to drink,” she explained, fighting off the heat of a blush that was working across her cheeks. That he could unravel her over the slightest thing made her bristle. “For cooking a dish. And I didn’t bring any tonight. I won’t be needing it.”
Drew came into the kitchen wearing a pair of sinful jeans, and she couldn’t help fastening her eyes to the way they hugged his butt as he walked away from her toward the wine rack. “Would you like a glass of wine while you’re cooking?”
“No,” she replied quickly. “I don’t drink on the job.”
“Sugar, you aren’t working any job at my house. You’re a guest and just happen to be using my stove—even though I’m paying. I’m nobody special. Make yourself at home.”
Lucy noted the way his shirt draped across the broad width of his shoulders. He wore a lightweight knit pullover with a ribbed collar. It was a deep green and brought out the color of his eyes. His brown hair had a light gel in it, and spiked at his forehead. He smelled good, too. Not overpowering cologne. Maybe a musky deodorant.
What had she been thinking, calling him up to ask if she could cook for him? And for the entire summer?
This was all Raul Nunez’s fault! If he’d kept his end of the agreement they’d had, none of this would be happening. Settling into Red Duck wouldn’t have turned into such an ordeal. She would be getting clients the normal way—by her good business instinct and word of mouth—instead of latching on to the one man she really would prefer not to hang around.
She wasn’t sure she could trust herself with him.
But Drew had clout. She sorely needed something to draw in clients. Unfortunately, cooking for Drew was like the open stock sale at Williams-Sonoma. Even kitchen-handicapped customers wanted a pan or a lid because the deal was just too good to pass up.
Drew was Lucy’s key to success. Once everyone heard he was her regular client, her phone would start ringing like crazy. Raul wouldn’t be able to do a darn thing to stop the steady influx of clients headed her way.
The fact of the matter was, what Drew Tolman did in this town carried power. Power she couldn’t afford to turn away.
So here she was. In his kitchen. With him looking yummier than a seven bone roast, and her with her confidence being tested. Could she actually go through with this and not botch it?
His presence got to her. Flustered her. She wasn’t sure if she was coming or going. He walked past—more like brushed past—as he went to one of the cupboards and took out a glass. He smelled to die for. She couldn’t place the scent. She just knew that she couldn’t breathe in deep enough to take him inside her lungs.
“You sure I can’t get you a glass of wine? Beer?” he asked.
She momentarily forgot herself, and was unable to reply. Then she muttered, “Uh, no. But feel free.”
“I’m going to have OJ.”
He poured orange juice, then slid out one of the breakfast bar stools
and sat down.
Lucy stared at him, unable to move. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to watch you.”
Her reply was swift and steady. “But you can’t!”
“Why not?” Indolently, he propped his elbows on the marble top as he casually rested his chin in his left hand. His brows furrowed, his forehead creased and he had an expression that made her want to kiss him. It was that adult-male, little-boy look.
“Because you just can’t. I can’t cook under that kind of—”
Pressure.
He grinned. “Lucy, do I make you nervous?”
“Absolutely not.” The lie was about as bold as Colombian roast coffee. “Stay there,” she insisted, back-pedaling as fast as she could so he wouldn’t sense her discomfort any more than she’d already shown it. “I don’t care. You’ll just get bored, anyway.”
“No I won’t. I’m interested in what you do.”
Swallowing, she forced herself to take control. Be collected. Very unconcerned that his gorgeous gaze followed her every move. And then some.
She noticed he appreciated the outline of her breasts in her top. She’d chosen something subdued, nothing overtly sexy. But she did prefer feminine things, and that’s what she’d picked. Pink. It was her favorite color.
Vowing not to let him bother her, she reached into her bin and took out a white chef’s apron.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose when she turned away to set a saucepan and sauté pan on the stove. It was almost as if he had touched her; she felt tingles across her skin and up her spine. Quickly slipping her apron over her head, she tied the bow in front, her fingers fumbling with the knot. She tucked a terry-cloth towel through the tie so she could keep her hands dry and clean as she cooked. Still, she didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t.
He just sat there, watching. Gazing. Slowly. Feasting. It was all she could do not to shiver.
She forced herself to maintain indifference, willed him out of her mind. She was preparing a medallion of beef tenderloin with a roasted sweet pepper reduction, spring mix salad with apples and feta, and garlic mashed potatoes. Preparation time would be approximately fifty minutes.
Lucy clicked back a groan. Could she last fifty minutes?
“How long have you been doing this?” Drew asked.
She slanted him a quick glance. His hand grasped the orange juice glass and raised it toward his mouth.
“About five years,” she replied.
He took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving hers as she watched him over the glass’s rim. “How come you wanted to do it?”
“I love to cook.” Lucy had to turn away. She focused on what ingredients she needed first. The red peppers, onions and shallots.
Spearing the peppers, she turned on one of the range burners and began to roast them. She liked to do that first for flavor, then she cut them up and added them to the large pot of Spanish onions with the golden-brown peels still on. She sautéed everything in oil—peppers, onions, shallots, several cloves of garlic. She even threw in one carrot for sweetness.
“What are you doing?” Drew asked, and this time his voice was a lot louder because he stood directly behind her.
Lucy could feel his body heat surrounding her, and smell him when she breathed. “I…uh, I’m making a sauce.”
“What kind?”
His eyes pierced hers, and she knew this was no accident. He was trying to shake her up, rattle her. Make her fall for him like all the other women in town.
He wanted her.
That became so utterly clear she almost laughed aloud.
My goodness—Drew wanted her? He could have any woman he wanted. Why her? Why now? Was this a game? What about Jacquie? Yes, they’d parted company—but when was that? It felt like only yesterday. He wasn’t ready to start something new with someone so soon.
And yet he was definitely trying to start something with her as he leaned closer.
“A…roasted pepper sauce.” Lucy fought her feelings, fought the magnetism that radiated from Drew. She wanted to curse him, to shove him away. A whole summer of this? She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d break down and do something stupid.
She hadn’t had sex with anyone since Gary—and even then, it had been almost seven months prior to their divorce being finalized. One night, they’d done it, even after she’d found out about Diane. Lucy had thought that maybe if she’d tried harder in bed… But it had been a disaster, and her last memories of intimacy were filled with shame and insecurity. Now she wasn’t even sure if she knew how to make love.
There hadn’t been anyone she’d dated, been interested in since becoming single. In hindsight, perhaps she should have had a one-night stand. A fling. Something meaningless to get the bitter taste out of her mouth. Her neighbor had wanted to set her up with a good-looking man she worked with, but Lucy had turned her down. She just hadn’t been ready. Maybe she’d never be ready.
But with Drew standing so close, fantasy images of slipping his shirt off filled her head to distraction.
Smells of roasting peppers, a charred odor, caught her attention and she quickly took them from the stove, almost burning her hand over the blue flames.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping in closer to assess the peppers. His shoulder brushed her arm. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.
“You have too much time on your hands—don’t you ever go to work?”
“Sure. I coach Little League in the summer and I teach high school baseball in the fall when the school term restarts. Anything in between is leisure time.” He stared at her, the level of heat in his gaze almost making her tremble.
“Drew!” she finally snapped. “You can’t watch me cook. I’m having a hard time concentrating with you hovering.”
He stood back, smiled—slowly. “Well, sugar, all you had to do was ask me to get out of the way.”
But he didn’t go far. He went into the library off the kitchen and sat in one of the high-backed leather chairs. Propping his bare feet on an ottoman, he clicked on the television. The volume was a bit on the loud side, but she wasn’t about to ask him to turn it down. She’d simply have to tune him out.
He flipped through the channels until he found a baseball game. The commentators’ voices droned on and, with great effort, Lucy soon forgot he was there.
Within forty-minutes, she had everything done and was ready to clean up and get out of there. She plated the meal, which wasn’t typical of a cook job. But Drew didn’t want to be bothered doing anything himself, so he’d arranged for her to cook hot meals for him three times a week, and on special occasions if he requested her time in advance.
In exchange for her services, he had agreed to tell everyone he knew that she was working for him. But only if he liked her cooking. She didn’t want him to say he was enjoying her service if he wasn’t. Although that really was a moot point. She knew he’d love it.
The red pepper sauce, thickened with cream, went on the plate first. She arranged the grilled filet on top, put a twig of thyme over it for presentation. Then she shaped the roasted-garlic mashed potatoes, put them next to the beef. On a separate plate, she presented the salad. She had made this up—spring mix, thinly sliced Braeburn apples, candied walnuts, feta cheese and a simple grape seed oil and balsamic vinaigrette. It turned out perfect every time, and people were surprised to find apple in their green salad.
“Okay. It’s ready,” she said. “Where would you like to eat? In your dining room?”
“Not hardly.” He came toward her and she sucked in her breath, refusing to succumb to the erratic beats of her heart. “I never eat in there. Only if I have company or something. Which isn’t real often. I always eat here.”
He motioned to the breakfast bar, so that’s where she put the dinner. He didn’t sit down right away, rather, he made his way to her as she turned to wipe off the stovetop.
In the half breath she took as he reached out to her, she forgot herself. What
ever he was doing, she didn’t care. She leaned toward him, emotions colliding within and every sense on alert.
“You have something on your lip.” He ran his thumb across her lower lip, then brought it to his mouth. “I think it’s that pepper sauce.”
Mortified, erratic, unsteady, breathless—those thoughts and feelings crashed within her brain. “Y-yes…I tasted it to see if I needed more sea salt.”
“You don’t.”
That he could stand there, mere inches from her, so tall and wide and strong and everything that any woman could ever want, was beyond comprehension.
Drew was the epitome of masculinity, of fantasies and bedrooms and nakedness…and sex.
Stef Ann Holm Page 17