Kiss the Cook (4 page)

"How awful. Which hospital was he taken to?"

"Piedmont, I think."

"I'll have to call and find out how he is," Melanie said. "He's such a nice man, and one of my bes
t customers. He looks just like-- "

"Santa Claus without the beard,"
they said in unison. Chris grinned. "My firm audits them. Walter's a great guy."

He
maneuvered the Mercedes into the small parking lot adjacent to the Pampered Palate. "Here we are. I'll help you with the box."

Melanie held the door for him and they walked into the small front room of the brig
htly lit store. No one stood behind the glossy dark green granite counter, decorated with a vase of cheerful flowers and a stack of takeout menus. The gleaming parquet floor lent the small space a cozy feel, while the cream-colored walls gave it a dignified air. No tables. Until she could afford a larger space, the Pampered Palate was strictly takeout.

When she saw him looking around, Melanie said, "I know it's small, but I'm hoping to
grow. I want to buy a delivery truck and do private catering on the weekends then eventually expand into a full restaurant."

"Ambitious goals," he said, nodding, "but if your food is any indication of your talents, I'm sure you'll succeed."

"Thanks." She set her purse on the counter. "I really appreciate the ride. It was very nice of you, especially considering the inconvenience I caused you."

"What are you going to do about your car?"

Melanie shrugged. "I'm not sure. The only person I know who knows anything about cars is my delivery man, and he's sick."

"You can't leave it parked in that driveway the whole weekend. It'll get towed."

Towed. She hadn't thought of that. Just what she needed-- another expense. "I'll think of something," she said.

He set the box down on the counter, and Melanie smothered a laugh. The rip in his pants was a good six inches across. A patch of white boxers stuck out, complete with a smear of barbecue sauce. She smiled and pulled out two dinners.

"Hey, Melanie!" Nana's scratchy voice reached them. The woman who walked in from the kitchen was a cross between Julia Child and the Energizer Bunny. She stared at Chris. "Jiminy Cricket. Who's the babe magnet?"

Melanie coughed to cover up a laugh. "Nana, this is Christopher Bishop. I had some car trouble and he gave me a ride."

"Sylvia Gibson," Nana said, sticking out flour-dusted fingers.

Chris shook her hand.
"Nice to meet you. You make the best fried chicken I’ve ever tasted."

Nana blushed and patted her short, frizzy, bright red hair. "Call me Nana. So, you after my granddaughter or what?"

"Nana!"

"She's a great cook and she's single," her grandmother continued, unrepentant. "Drives a piece of crap for a car, but she won't give it up. She's stubborn but good-hearted, and loves kids and pets." She peered at him over her bifocals. "What do you think?"

Melanie groaned and covered her eyes with her hands, but Chris just smiled. He leaned close to Nana's fire-engine red hair and said, "I think I'm going to charm her out of some more chicken, then see if I can talk her into parting with a piece of that cheesecake in the display case.”

Nana laughed and slapped her knee, sending her knee-high stocking down to her ankle. "Well, good luck, son. Mel hasn't parted with any cheesecake in quite a while. I keep telling her to loosen up a little, but does she listen to me? No. All she does is work, work, work."

She turned to Melanie, who felt as if the fires of hell were burning in her cheeks. "I'd hold onto this one if I were you. He's cute, smart, and he's got a great butt. Needs some new pants, though. I don't care for this fashion of lettin' your drawers hang out of holes in your britches. At least the hole's in the back, otherwise we’d see his-- "

"Thank you, Nana," Melanie broke in hastily. "Why don't you head back to the kitchen? I'll be right there."

Nana fixed Chris with a stern glare. "You fix up those pants, young man, before you call on my granddaughter.''

Chris gave a smart salute. "Yes, ma'am."

"And clean that barbecue sauce off your ass," Nana said over her shoulder as she exited.

Melanie smothered a chuckle
, not sure what amused her more-- Nana's remark or Chris's bemused expression.

“Sorry about that. Nana’s sort of o
utspoken.  She’s loveable, but keeps forgetting I'm not six years old."

Chris nodded.  I know the type.
”

Melanie
opened her mouth to ask him… something, but she completely forgot what as she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in the bright light. Whoa. His good looks were no illusion caused by darkness or rain. He was a veritable DNA masterpiece.

Whatever gene pool he swam out of deserved its own display
at the Smithsonian. His thick mahogany hair beckoned her fingers to ruffle through it. And his eyes reminded Melanie of her favorite color from her childhood Crayola crayons, midnight blue. Her gaze settled on his lips. How they managed to look soft and firm at the same time she didn’t know, but it proved a potent combination. An unbidden image of him kissing her flashed through her mind. Full-blown lust slammed into her so hard she gasped.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Do I have chicken stuck between my teeth?"

She yanked her gaze up and heat scorched her cheeks at the speculative look in his eyes. Crap.  It was one thing to ogle a guy, but totally another to get caught doing it. An embarrassed laugh escaped her. "No, no chicken. I was, er, just… "

"Staring." He took a step closer to her, and Melanie's heart shifted into overdrive. "You were staring at me."

Melanie averted her eyes, ready to deny his words when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door. Her short, curly hair stuck up from her head at all angles-- like hundreds of tiny vacuum cleaner hoses had sucked it up. No shoes, wrinkled shirt, and her face… good grief, her face. No need to wonder if she’d used waterproof mascara this morning.

She hadn’t.

Just her luck. Here she stood, looking like the creature from the black lagoon, while Chris appeared as if he’d just wandered in from some modeling assignment. Story of her life. She was cursed with permanent
when-my-ship-comes-in-I'll-be-at-the-airport syn
drome, while
he looked as if he'd never miss the boat.

“Y
ou okay?" he asked.

Melanie shook her head. "I just caught a glimpse of myself. Yikes. I'm surprised you didn't run screaming from the store the moment we arrived."

He tilted his head and studied her like an art patron assessing a Picasso. "You look like a raccoon.”

She pasted a sticky-sweet smile on her face. "Thanks. I guess I won't take offense, since the source of that opinion is a guy whose ass is hanging out of his pants."

"
Touché
." Laughing, he touched a finger to the black smudge under her right eye. "I have three sisters. I'm used to this look. Besides, I bet you clean up pretty good."

Melanie tried to swallow and couldn't. The moment he touched her with that single gentle finger
tip, all the spit in her mouth dried up and left her tongue feeling like dust.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Listen, it's late and I need to go before I fall asleep on my feet
." He picked up the two boxed dinners she'd set aside. "Thanks for the chicken."

Melanie cleared her throat. He was the most gorgeous man she'd ever met, and he was leaving. She'd never see him again. Good. Fine. She didn't have time for men anyway. Men were nothing but pains in the
tush. She knew that all too well. Yes, indeed. She could thank her ex-fiance for that lesson. And the better-looking they were, the worse they were. This guy probably had more notches on his bedpost than a rock star. Yup, it was a good thing he was leaving. She wanted nothing to do with--

He touched her arm. "Okay?"

Uh oh. Clearly he'd been talking to her while her thoughts ran away. "Huh? Okay what?"

"You must be more tired than I am. I said I have to go." He held out his hand. "It was,
er,
interesting
meeting you. Thanks again for the dinner."

"Thanks for the ride."

Melanie thought she sensed a momentary hesitation in him, almost as if he was reluctant to leave. She discovered she was holding her breath. Was he going to suggest seeing each other again?
Oh, sure,
her inner voice sneered.
You look like something the cats dragged in that the kittens wouldn't eat.
No, of course he wasn’t going to ask for a date.
Not that it mattered. She didn't want a guy cluttering up her life.

"Good luck with your car." He flashed her a smile. "Brush your hair, okay?"

Smart aleck. "Change your pants, okay?"

He laughe
d. "Deal." Balancing the boxes in one hand like a professional waiter, he walked out the door.

"Jiminy Cricket," came
Nana’s voice from behind her. "He's a real hunk."

Melanie turned
around to face her grandmother's knowing eyes and adopted what she hoped was a casual air. "I suppose a certain type would find him attractive."

"What type is that?"

She sighed. No point trying to fool Nana. "The female type."

"So why'd you let him get away?" Nana smacked her lips. "I
woulda hog-tied that sucker and made him my love slave."

Melanie couldn't help but smile. "I'm not looking for a love slave. I'm not looking,
period. A man is the last thing I need."

"Phooey. A man is
exactly
what you need. A little passion, a little lust, they're great for the soul."

Maybe. But Melanie had a sinking feeling that a
little
passion and a
little
lust would not be the problem where Christopher Bishop was concerned. The man had
distraction
written all over him, and a distraction-- of any kind, but most especially one that could lead to heartbreak-- was exactly what she didn’t need.

Thank goodness she’d
never see him again.

CHAPTER TWO

C
hris entered his sparsely decorated Buckhead condo and breathed a sigh of relief. He plopped his briefcase in the ceramic-tiled foyer and was half undressed by the time he reached his bedroom. Leaving his ruined clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, he stepped into the shower and allowed the stinging spray to massage away his stress-induced aches.

It didn't take long for his neck and shoulders to feel better, but there was one ache that
the steamy water wasn’t washing away. The one brought on by Mel Gibson's lush body pressed up against him. He shook his head. He definitely needed to call her
Melanie.

Not that he needed to call her anything because he didn’t plan to see her again. Hell no. Her and her beat-up car had
headache
—no, make that
migraine
-- written all over her. And he needed a migraine like he needed a ball gown.

After turning off the shower he
grabbed a towel. Rubbing his hair dry, his thoughts annoyingly remained on Migraine Melanie and he tried to recall the last time a woman had turned him on so much so fast, and couldn't think of one. None of the women he'd dated in the last several years had ignited more than a fleeting spark.

And neither had any of the women his determined-to-see-her-single-son-married mother constantly threw in his path. He shuddered, recalling the last "perfect girl" Mom had introduced him to. Turned out Miss Perfect was looking for a candidate to father her child. She had a thing for accountants and was anxious to discuss "loopholes."
Thanks, Mom.

He pushed away the unpleasant memory and pulled on a clean pair of
boxer briefs and sweats, then headed toward the kitchen. Popping the top on a beer, he settled in at the built-in snack bar with his Pampered Palate dinner.

Pampered Palate.
That name set off a chorus of bells in his mind, but he still couldn't pin down the source. His gut told him it was work-related, but his memory refused to cooperate and tell him why the Pampered Palate struck a familiar chord in him. He knew he’d never seen Melanie before. No way he would have forgotten meeting her.

Melanie Gibson. Hmmm. Chris washed down a bite of
cole slaw with a swig of beer and shook his head. By all accounts he should be royally pissed at her. Her double parking drama had wrecked his new suit and his shoes would probably never be the same.

Ye
t something about her had prompted him to offer her a ride. Maybe it was her forlorn expression when her car died the second time. Or maybe it was because if one of his sisters had been in a similar fix, he'd want someone to give them a hand. Maybe it was simply her fabulous fried chicken.

An image of her
in those wet, clinging clothes, sprawled across his lap, trying to unsnag his pants flashed through his mind and he blew out a long breath.

Fried chicken. Yeah. Right.

He'd taken one look at her delectable curves, those big mascara-smudged eyes, and that lush mouth and lost his mind. Lust had smacked him with the force of a two-by-four to the face. She was cute, funny, and unassuming-- definitely very attractive in spite of her disheveled appearance. And he really liked the way she'd laughed off her raccoon eyes and Bride of Frankenstein hair. Something about her strummed a chord in him-- a note no one had plucked in a long, long time.

But the timing sucked
.

In spite of his killer work schedule, his
life was finally just beginning to be uncomplicated. Twelve years ago he’d been thrust into the role of "man of the house" when his dad suddenly died from a heart attack-- a big responsibility for an eighteen-year-old, and one he took seriously. He'd changed his plans to go away to college and instead attended a local university. Balancing school and work and helping out with his younger siblings had been a struggle, but in the end well worth the sacrifices he’d made.  His sisters were all happily married and Mark, the youngest in the family, had graduated from college two months ago. Chris had made partner soon after that, and now his life, and his finances, were finally unencumbered.

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 h
ad 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."

Chr
is 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 h
er glossy curls. "You combed your hair."