Kiss The Cook

Chapter 2

Chris entered his sparsely decorated Buckhead condo and breathed a sigh of relief. He plopped his briefcase in the ceramic-died 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 he couldn't seem to wash away-the ache brought on by Mel Gibson's lush body pressed up against him. He shook his head. He was definitely going to have to call her Melanie. If anyone got wind of the fact that he was having erotic thoughts about Mel Gibson, he'd have some explaining to do.

He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel. Rubbing his hair dry, he tried to recall the last time a woman had turned him on so much so fast, and couldn't think of one. Not one 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." He'd barely made it away from her alive.

He pushed away the unpleasant memory and pulled on a clean pair of 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. He stared at the blue and red logo on the container and frowned. 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 and the name Melanie Gibson struck a familiar chord in him.

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 furious with her. The woman and her dilapidated car had headache written all over them. The next stop for his new suit was the dumpster, and his shoes would probably suffer the same fate.

But 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.

He thought of her, in those wet, clinging clothes, sprawled across his lap, trying to unsnag his pants, and he blew out a breath.

Fried chicken. Yeah. Right.

He'd taken one look at her delectable curves, those big mascara-smudged eyes, and those moist, full lips 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 stank.

His life was just beginning to be uncomplicated. He reflected on the difficulties he'd faced since becoming "man of the house" after his father's sudden death twelve years ago. He'd struggled to put himself through school, then spent the last eight years helping his mother put his sisters and brother through college. The youngest, his brother Mark, had finally graduated two months ago. Chris 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. Mark had moved out right after graduation. No more worrying about walking in on each other while a date was there. No fighting over the bathroom or the remote. And Mark was a neat freak. They got along fine, but Chris was secretly relieved that he could finally leave a dirty dish in the sink without receiving a lecture.

He loved his family, but he was thirty years old and he wanted to play. He wanted to leave his socks on the floor, let dust bunnies grow under the sofa, blast his stereo. He imagined popping off to the Caymans for a weekend, having a beach fling, hanging out with his buddies.

But it seemed that being partner at Waxman, Barnes, Wiffle, and Hodge left little time for jaunts to the Caribbean. Worse, the women interested in beach flings bored him, and his buddies were either married or 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!

Unfortunately Melanie Gibson didn't strike him as a one-night stand sort of girl. No, she was not at all the type of woman he wanted to meet now. Maybe in five years. She had long-term written all over her, and 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 wanted to date sleek, blond, model types. Why would he want a lunatic brunette who drove a rusted-out '77 Dodge?

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.

The phone interrupted his thoughts, and he snatched up the receiver. "’Lo."

"Christopher, how are you, dear?"

"Hi, Mom." He bit into a chicken thigh and prayed Lorna Bishop wasn't going to announce that she'd fixed him up with another of her friends' daughters.

He should have known better.

"Guess what?" she asked.

Chris's warning antennae immediately rose. 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 havin on Sunday to celebrate Mark's new job?"

He'd completely forgotten, but he knew better than to say so. "Yes. The cookout Sunday. 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 Zoë 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."

Uh-oh. The warning bells in Chris's head reached alarming proportions. He had to do something and quick, or Mom would be picking out china patterns with Zoë Kozlowski the florist within the week.

"Mom, I appreciate this, but I can get my own dates."

"Of course you can," Mom said, her voice cheery but determined, "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 Zoë 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."

Lorna 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 cookout. 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! There's the doorbell. Gotta go! 'Bye."

The dial tone sounded in Chris's ear. He placed the receiver back on the cradle and thumped himself on the forehead. His mother had missed her calling. She should have enlisted in the military-she could outmaneuver General Colin Powell. Now she expected him to bring his "date" on Sunday, not to mention dessert.

He finished his beer in a single gulp, reviewing his choices. There was Zoë Kozlowski, the florist with the "great personality," or Melanie Gibson, the gourmet cook with the killer bod who had his libido dancing the Lambada.

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 several weeks earlier. 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 next 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.

"Christopher Bishop!" Walter exclaimed when he saw his new visitor. "What a nice surprise."

Chris opened his mouth to say hello, 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 Christopher 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. A riotous mop of chin-length reddish-brown curls framed an uncommonly attractive face. His gaze traveled downward. She wore a 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 telephone?

"I see you took my advice," she said.

He brought his wandering gaze back to her face. "What advice is that?"

"You changed your pants."

He reached out and gently tugged one of her shiny curls. "You combed your hair."

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, cracked ribs, and other assorted aches and pains."

Chris leaned around Melanie and smiled at the lawyer. "So sue me. She's prettier than you are." After setting the gift-wrapped book on the nightstand, Chris pulled over a chair. He sniffed the air. "Do I smell cookies?"

Walter nodded. "Home-made double chocolate chunk cookies." 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.

Chris made a horrified face. "Okay! 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 the 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.

He stood. "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. "Good grief. I need to leave also."

"Thank you both for coming," Walter said, giving Chris's hand a hearty shake and accepting a kiss 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. His gaze wandered over her, studying her profile. He wasn't aware he was staring until she turned toward him.

"Something wrong?" she asked, cocking a single brow.

Chris shook his head. "No. I was just realizing I was right."

She gave an unladylike snort. "Oh, brother. 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." She slanted him a pursed-lips look. "What were you right about?"

"You do clean up pretty good."

Chris watched, amused, as a bright pink blush stained her cheeks.

"Oh," she said. "Ah, thanks. You, too."

The elevator door opened and they stepped out. "Where's your car?" Chris asked.

"Parked in my driveway." A sheepish half-smile touched her lips. "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 ole Dodge coughed, burped, and spit for several agonizing minutes, then died." She shook her head sadly. "It was painful to watch."

"How did you get here?"

"By cab."

"How are you getting home?"

"By cab. In fact, I'd better call one." She smiled and held out her hand. "It was nice seeing you again."

Chris absently shook her hand. "Yeah. Nice."

She turned and walked away, heading toward the bank of pay phones in the lobby. Chris watched her, his eyes glued to her curvy derrière. He looked at his watch. Even if he set a new land speed record, he would still be late picking up his date.

For reasons he could not logically explain, he found himself jogging across the ceramic tile floor to catch up with her. 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 him. "You look like you're ready for a date. 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 drive was made in relative silence. Chris spent the 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. Not a thing.

True to her word, ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a small, neat brick ranch. 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 young girl, maybe twelve years old, sitting on the front steps 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 date."

Date? He stared into her big brown eyes and lost his ability to think straight. Just looking at her made him swell against his trousers. With an effort he snapped out of it. Date. Right.

She slammed the car door, shot him a dimpled smile, and ran across the lawn to the porch. She ruffled the girl's hair then turned and waved at him before following the child into the house.

Chris stared at the cozy house. His plans for the evening somehow had lost their appeal, and he found himself wishing he could stay and watch her bake that birthday cake. Her kitchen was undoubtedly welcoming and homey, and he bet it smelled great.

He puffed out a breath and shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? He had a date with a real babe, and here he sat, mooning over a woman who was clearly not his type.

Good thing she was gone. Her and her big brown eyes and soft, luscious mouth. He shifted in his seat. His pants felt uncomfortably snug.

Must have been all those darn cookies he ate.