Kiss the Cook (5 page)

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 th
e 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 pul
led 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 y
oung 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 law
n 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. H
e 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, lusciou
s 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.  

S
he 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 arrive
d 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.

"Hi, C
hris,” said his mother’s voice, “just calling to tell you to bring your bathing suit tomorrow. We're all looking forward to meeting your
friend
Melanie. And don't forget, Zoey the florist will be there, too. Looks like you'll be busy! Bye!"

The second message kicked in. "It's Mom again.
Don't forget to bring dessert! Bye!”

Groanin
g, Chris laid back his head, and closed his eyes. For reasons he didn't understand, he felt irritable and out of sorts. Of course, spending the last few hours listening to Claire Morrison either piss and moan about everything under the sun or extol the virtues of pricey footwear didn't help, but it was more than that.

It was
her.

Her
and her darn cookies. And those big, brown eyes that reminded him of yummy melting chocolate. 

Melanie Gibson.

It really irked him that he couldn't seem to get the damn woman off his mind. Her, or the fact that the name Pampered Palate
was so familiar. While Claire had incessantly blathered on, his thoughts had wandered to Melanie dozens of times. But what good did that do him? What was the point of thinking about a woman who was all wrong for him, and whom he'd probably never see again?

He recalled his mother's messages and puffed out a breath. Mom expected him to bring a date to the cookout tomorrow. Claire was out of the question, and being fixed up with
Zoey the florist held no appeal.

Chris suddenly sat up straight. Actually, his mot
her didn't expect him to bring just any old date-- she expected him to bring
Melanie.
If he could convince Melanie to go, he'd be saved from Zoey
and
satisfy his mother's matchmaking tendencies in one fell swoop. He looked at his watch. It was past eleven-- too late to call Melanie. He'd have to phone her in the morning. Or even better, maybe he'd stop by her house. Offer to take a look at her car.

Yeah, that's the
ticket. Fix her car, and she'd come to the cookout. Boy, was he a genius or what? Everybody would win. Melanie would get her car repaired, he’d be saved from the horrors
of a fix-up, and Mom would get off his back about not dat
ing.

Of course, his plan meant havin
g to spend the day with Melanie-- a woman who was all wrong for him and whom he’d had no intention of seeing again. A slow smile spread across his face.

Oh, well.
He'd suffer through it. Somehow.

~~~

At 7:45 the next morning, Melanie checked the weather report on her cell phone and groaned. Already eighty-six degrees, heading toward a high of one hundred and two. Another pizza-oven day.

After t
ossing on her favorite denim cut-offs and a turquoise tank top, and slipping on a pair of flip flops, she gave her hair a quick finger comb-- no point wasting time on her out-of-control curls when today’s humidity was already winning-- she headed into the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee. Caffeine was a must as she planned to spend the morning making sure all her business documents were in order before her appointments tomorrow, first at the bank then later with the accountants regarding her loan to purchase her new catering truck. Expanding the Pampered Palate
into private catering was something she desperately wanted and needed for the future of her business. In order to succeed, she had to grow. Having her own eatery and catering business had been her dream since she’d popped her first tray of cookies into the oven at age nine. With the storefront she was half-way there. The truck would allow her fulfill the rest of her dream and she was determined to succeed.

She entered her sun-filled kitchen and scooped fresh grounds into the coffee maker. While the scent of brewing java filled the air, she set her file folder on the round oak table and fired up her laptop. She’d just settled herself in front of the screen
when the doorbell rang.

S
he walked to the door fully expecting to see one of her neighbors, all of whom knew she kept a well-stocked kitchen, and was the go-to person when a cup of this or a pinch of that was needed. Melanie didn't mind-- her neighbors were great and showed their support by frequent visits to Pampered Palate.

When she opened the door, however, it w
asn't a neighbor but Chris Bishop, a.k.a. the most beautiful man on the planet, who stood on her porch. With his hair just-out-of-the-shower damp. Wearing a white T-shirt that hugged his broad chest in a way that proved that while he might be an accountant, he definitely crunched more than numbers all day. Her gaze wandered downward, taking in tan cargo shorts, muscular legs dusted with dark hair and Reeboks. He looked delicious and smelled good enough to eat. She dragged her gaze back to his face and was rewarded with a lopsided grin.

"Good morning," he said
.

Melanie knew he was talking to her because she saw his lips moving, but she had no idea what he was saying. Her hormones, however, were appare
ntly very aware that he was in the area. After hibernating for more than a year, those little suckers were suddenly wide awake and anxious to be entertained.

Yesterday,
at the hospital, the sight of Chris had jump-started them like they'd been shot in the ass. They’d started a veritable hormone-cheerleader kickline. Rah rah rah, sis-boom-bah, they yelled at the top of their tiny hormone lungs. Some action. At last.

Melanie rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. So he was gorgeous. So he smelled great. So he was nice. So what? He was a man, and therefore not to be trusted. A man who'd
obviously had a date last night--no guy wore dress pants to hang out with his buddies.  He’d probably spent the evening with some woman who'd jetted into town between modeling assignments.

She had no time, no space, and no inclination to start something with anyone.
Least of all an anyone who surely had women fighting over him. Her gaze flicked down to the bakery bag he held. Besides, wasn't there some dire warning about men bearing gifts?

He waved his hand in front of her face. "Hello? You okay?"

Melanie mentally shook herself. "I'm fine. Just surprised to see you. Here. So early."

"I
was hoping you’d be awake.” He peered around her. "Is this a bad time?"

“F
or what?"

He held up the bakery bag
and smiled. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast?"

"Yeah. You know, that meal in the morning that starts off your day." He paused. "Can I come in?"

Oh boy. She was
in trouble. Big gigantic, whopper-sized
trouble.
Six feet, two inches of the most delectable-looking male she'd ever clapped eyes on stood on her porch, wanting to come in. Her hormones let out a cheer and did the wave.

"Who's at the door?" came Nana's gravelly voice. She
joined Melanie in the doorway. "Why, if it isn't the hunk!" Nana conducted a thorough inspection of their guest. "Wow, Mel, he's got great legs." She sniffed the air. "Do I smell doughnuts?"

Chris nodded. "Boston cream. Freshly made
."

Nana elbowed Melanie out of the way. "Well, come on in, honey, and bring your doughn
uts. I'll pour the coffee." She hustled off toward the kitchen.

Chris stepped into the terra cotta
tiled foyer. "I hope you don't mind me dropping by like this,” he said as Melanie closed the door, “but I thought you might need some help with your car."

Melanie's common sense
kicked in. He'd brought breakfast
and
he wanted to fix her car? She narrowed her eyes and told her hormones to pipe down. Something was definitely fishy here. "Why would you want to fix my car?"

A slow smile curv
ed his lips. "I admit I have an ulterior motive."

"Don't all men?"

He laughed. "Actually, it’s more of a proposition."

Uh-oh. This
guy probably dated supermodels-- hell, be probably
broke up
with supermodels-- and he had a proposition for her? Holy smokes. What if it was one of those propositions like Robert Redford made in that movie
Indecent Proposal
-- a million dollars for one night of naked splendor and unbridled lust?

Near panic set in. A million dollars? She'd never ra
ise that kind of cash. But wait-- no,
she'd
get the money.
And
get to sleep with him, too. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her hormones switched to the Cha-Cha.

"So what do you think?"

I think I've lost my marbles.
Seriously.
He showed up and all her
brain cells liquefied and drained out of her body.
She licked her dust-dry lips. "What do I think about what?"

His dark blue gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her mouth. "My proposition," he said in a deep, velvety voice that reminded Melanie of candlelight, champagne, and bubble baths. "I think it would work out well for both of us."

Sure as heck was working for her. Her hormones abandoned the Cha-Cha and started dancing the Peppermint Twist

He stepped closer. Now
less than an arm’s length separated them. Heat radiated from his body and she squelched the urge to fan herself with her hand. The air conditioner clearly had gone kaput because it was suddenly
hot
in here.
He smelled like freshly showered man and doughnuts-- a potent combination that rendered her all but woozy. Indeed it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.

"You'
re staring at me," he murmured, "in a very distracting way."

Well, yeah, but really who could blame her? She’d be hard pressed to name anyone with ovaries who’d be able to tear their eyeballs away from his guy-- even without the added incentive of Boston cream doughnuts.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and her heart stuttered. Ohmigod. Was he going to kiss her? Right here in the foyer? Surely not.  But, whoa-- the way he was looking at her-- like he was starving and she was the last Boston cream on earth-- and holy crap now he was leaning closer! She was going to push him away. No, she was going to yank him closer. No, she was going to faint. No, she was going to--

"Coffee's ready!" Nana
’s voice exploded in the foyer like a sonic boom.

Melanie jumped back with a gasp. Her hormones groaned in protest
.

"Coffee's ready," she repeated in a shaky voice.

"Coffee. Right. That's exactly what I wanted. Coffee."