Kiss The Cook

Chapter 7

The week passed by in a blur for Melanie. Each day at work was busier than the last, but in spite of the hectic demands on her time, she loved every minute of it.

And she hardly thought about Chris and their upcoming date at all.

Yup. Hardly at all.

Except every time she inhaled.

Thursday proved to be one of the busiest days in the Pampered Palate's brief history. Three midtown offices had made large lunch orders based on recommendations from other clients, a group of Japanese tourists wandered in, and an outdoor arts-and-crafts festival drew dozens of walk-ins.

Melanie peeled potatoes at lightning speed for her famous red potato and dill salad and kept one eye on the apple cobblers through the glass oven door. Nana was a veritable whirling dervish, flitting from the stove to the refrigerator to the oven without missing a beat.

If business kept up at this pace-and Melanie fervently hoped it would-she'd soon have to hire an assistant. Maybe two. Maybe she could even lure her parents down to Atlanta to help out. She knew her dad missed the daily hustle and bustle of the restaurant business. He'd sold his family-style eatery in New York several years ago, ready to enjoy his hard-earned retirement, and he had. For a while.

But when she'd spoken to him on the phone yesterday, she clearly detected boredom in his tone. "I'm tired of puttering around the house," James Gibson had grumbled in her ear, "and your mother is grousing about me being constantly underfoot. By gum, I know all the names of those young and restless people on the soap operas. I don't want to know about the trials and tribulations of Erica Kane and all her bold and beautiful children!"

Melanie smiled, recalling his disgruntled tone. She missed Mom and Dad and looked forward to their upcoming visit in September. Maybe when they came down, she'd be able to convince them to buy a retirement home in the area. She knew they weren't happy about the prospect of facing another New York winter. And she suspected that once Dad saw her new catering truck, he'd be eager to be a part of the action.

Finished with the potatoes, Melanie turned her attention to sautéing tender filets for the daily special, veal marsala. Nana was busy packing up orders of southern fried chicken and barbecued ribs, and Mike the delivery man was alternately loading the orders into his van and helping Nana. Voices from customers in the front of the store drifted back to Melanie. Someone laughed, and she heard Wendy's melodic Alabama drawl as she worked the cash register for the takeout orders.

If Melanie's hands hadn't been so occupied, she would have rewarded herself with a hearty pat on the back for hiring Wendy. Not only was the girl smart and a hard worker, but it seemed that half the male student population at Georgia Tech was in love with her and made it their business to drop by the Pampered Palate whenever she was working, which was most afternoons. Nothing like hungry college students to boost the sales.

On several occasions the entire football team had ordered lunch from "their girl" Wendy. Their large, athletic bodies had filled the small storefront to capacity, and Melanie had probably sold more chicken and biscuits those days than the Colonel himself. And Nana had had a grand old time with all that male testosterone crowded into the place. She'd patted her frizzy red hair and flirted like a schoolgirl.

Opening her gleaming professional oven, Melanie slipped out the apple cobblers and placed them on the counter to cool. With quiet concentration, she went about her tasks-stirring the minestrone, adjusting spices in the pasta sauce, basting a turkey breast, preparing thick ham sandwiches on homemade sourdough bread.

She was so busy, her mind so occupied with what she was doing, she almost didn't think about him.

Almost.

But even as she ladled savory minestrone into bright red-and-blue striped to-go containers, she wondered what Chris was doing. Was he thinking of her?

You dummy. He probably hasn't given you a second thought. Which would have been fine, but in the few days since she'd seen him, she'd given him a second thought. And a third, fourth, and fifth thought. Okay, a six thousandth thought, but who was counting?

She removed a succulent pork roast from the oven and cut generous slices, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand and not think about their dinner date tomorrow night.

She failed miserably.

Anticipation curled through her, and a vivid image of Chris popped into her mind; him capturing her lips in a long, slow, drugging kiss. His hands drifting down her body, caressing her, insinuating his warm fingers under her skirt. Then, as in all good fantasies, they were suddenly naked, their clothes mysteriously dissolving into thin air. He leaned over her and…

"Are you all right, Melanie?"

Melanie blinked. "Huh?"

Nana looked at her over her bifocals. "I asked if you're okay."

No, I'm losing my mind. I have sixty-three meals to prepare in the next seven minutes and I'm having a sex dream. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You groaned. Did you hurt yourself?"

Groaned? Swell. The confounded man wasn't even here and he was causing problems. He'd awakened her libido from its long hibernation, and no matter how hard she tried to beat her hormones back into submission, those darn hormones were winning. Hands down.

"I'm fine, Nana. I just had a dry spot on my throat." She cleared her throat several times for good measure and finished slicing the roast, praying her grandmother wouldn't notice the flush heating her face.

Nana noticed.

"You look flushed. Maybe you have a fever."

Nana looked genuinely concerned and Melanie smiled at her. "I'm not sick, Nana. Promise."

A knowing gleam sparkled in Nana's wise eyes, and Melanie suspected that a sly comment was about to be launched with the accuracy of a SCUD missile. Wendy, God bless her, chose that moment to pop into the kitchen and wave a lunch order at Melanie.

"Prepare yourselves," the perky redhead warned with a devilish grin. "The Georgia Tech basketball team just called in this mega order."

Melanie glanced at it and raised her brows. Holy cow! Basketball players ate even more than football players! She gave Wendy a thumbs up and wasted no time in starting to fill the orders.

Dinner proved no less hectic than lunch, and by the time Mike departed with the last batch of deliveries, Melanie's body ached with fatigue and her feet were ready to stage a mutiny.

But her weariness couldn't overshadow her exhilaration. If today was any indication, her business was on its way to succeeding, and if her loan was approved, she knew she could make the Pampered Palate a huge success. After growing up loving her father's restaurant, she'd always dreamed of owning her own eatery. And by God, she was determined to see her dream come true.

"Quite a day," Nana said, easing herself into an oak hard-back chair.

Melanie noted the telltale weary lines around Nana's eyes and her heart squeezed. She couldn't name a more vital, energetic woman than her grandmother, but Melanie worried that she'd overtax herself.

"You must be exhausted, Nana," Melanie said, pouring two frosty mugs of iced tea.

"More tired than a one-legged dog with a gaggle of fleas," Nana agreed, "but I enjoy every minute of it. Keeps me young and fit."

Mike stuck his head into the kitchen. "Last delivery is done," he announced, his relief evident. "Either of you ladies need a ride home?"

"I'm going to stay a while and get some things ready for tomorrow," Melanie said. "Nana, you go home."

When Nana frowned and looked about to argue, Melanie added, "Please. If you don't rest, you won't have the stamina to go out with Bernie the next time he calls."

Standing so swiftly that she almost toppled her chair backwards, Nana said, "Let's go, Mikey."

After they left, Melanie locked the front and back doors and turned off the storefront lights. Alone in the kitchen, she breathed a contented sigh. She loved to spend time here after everyone had gone. While it was quiet, the kitchen had familiar noises all its own that she found soothing and comforting. The swish of the dishwasher, the gentle hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. The purr of the freezer. The occasional drip of the faucet.

She loved the gleaming copper pots, the shiny professional stainless-steel stove and ovens, the gleaming white countertops, the sparkling clean floor.

But most of all she loved the smells. The sweet scent of fresh apple pie, the lingering aroma of fried chicken. She breathed deeply and recognized the tang of lemon and the delicious fragrance of fresh basil. They brought back vivid, wonderful childhood memories of times spent baking at home with her mother, or helping at the restaurant, watching her dad flip juicy burgers and steaks while he entertained his workers with silly jokes.

Humming to herself, she methodically chopped dozens of onions, peppers, carrots, and celery stalks, sealing them in stay-fresh bags and storing them in the fridge. By doing these prep chores at night, her work the next day went much more smoothly. She then set about peeling another mountain of potatoes for tomorrow's vegetable of the day.

That task done, she decided to call it a night and clean up. She'd just shoved a handful of potato peels down the garbage disposal hole when she heard a knock at the back door.

Melanie looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. The knock sounded again, and a frisson of fear zipped down her spine. Was someone trying to break in? But what the heck kind of burglar knocked?

Not willing to take any chances, she reached for the phone, ready to call 911 and let the police figure out what kind of burglar knocked, but before she could even lift the receiver, a muffled but familiar male voice drifted through the door.

"Melanie? Are you in there? It's me, Chris."

Her hormones mapped to attention and her heart jumped. Suspecting she would have been safer with the burglar, Melanie hurriedly unlocked the door and opened it.

Oh, boy. It was Chris all right.

Standing in a bright pool of light from the security lamp mounted above the door, looking tired, rumpled, and sexy as sin. Dressed in a conservative navy blue suit, he looked good enough to eat. The top button of his wrinkled white shirt was undone, his paisley silk tie loosened and askew, his double-breasted jacket unbuttoned. The hint of a five o'clock shadow darkened his square jaw, and his mouth-whoa! Better not even look there!

She wanted to ask him to remove all his clothes and submit to a thorough physical examination. Instead, she pulled herself together and cocked a brow. "I appreciate punctuality as much as the next person, but according to my calculations"-she glanced over her shoulder at the clock-"you're about sixteen hours early for our date."

A slow, sexy grin quirked his lips. "I live by the rule that it's better to be sixteen hours early than one minute late."

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers in a warm, friendly kiss, effectively erasing every thought from her head.

"Nice to see you, Mel Gibson," he said, tweaking one of her curls. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Not on your life, her mind screamed.

"Of course," her lips said. She held the door wide and fumbled with the lock after he walked in. A subtle whiff of his woodsy cologne teased her nostrils and she clamped her lips together to squelch the feminine sigh of pleasure threatening to escape. And clamping her lips together came with the added bonus that it kept her from drooling.

By the time she turned to face him, he was comfortably sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She scooted around him cautiously, not getting too close for fear she'd be tempted to jump onto his lap.

The guy probably had some sort of Star Wars force field surrounding him. If she ventured too close, he'd suck her in and she'd never escape. To be safe, she headed for the sink and nervously crammed several more handfuls of potato peelings down the disposal hole.

"I thought you were out of town," she said, proud that her voice sounded so normal.

When he didn't reply, she looked over her shoulder at him and noticed his gaze was trained on her butt. Heat zinged through her like she'd been shot with a laser. She cleared her throat to attract his attention.

He looked up and winked at her. "Nice view."

"Ah, thanks. I thought you were out of town."

"I was. I finished my audit ahead of schedule and decided to catch a plane home tonight instead of waiting until morning. I was driving down Peachtree and saw the Dodge parked in the lot and thought maybe you were stranded here. Is the car running okay?"

"The best it has in a long time. Thanks to you."

"Do you always work this late?"

"Sometimes. It depends on how busy the day was. We set a new record today. It was our busiest lunch and dinner ever-and all in the same day."

A tired smile lit his face. "That's great. It sounds like the Pampered Palate is off and running."

"You betcha. Just try and catch me."

A devilish gleam lit his eyes. "Hmmm. Sounds interesting. Is that a dare?"

"No!" she all but shouted. "No," she repeated in a calmer tone. "Just an expression."

He rose and came to stand behind her. Leaning over her shoulder, he asked, "What are you doing?"

A legion of chills skittered down her spine when his warm breath brushed her ear. Thank goodness she was finished using her sharp knife-there was no way she could have concentrated with him so close. "Cleaning up some potato peels. I was just getting ready to leave."

"Great. I'll wait and walk you to your car. Protect you from any lurking bandits."

The only lurking bandit that worried her was the one standing right behind her, his breath ruffling her hair, his body radiating sensual heat like a blast furnace.

Who exactly was supposed to protect her from him? He was more lethal than a loaded pistol.

Trying her best to ignore him, she turned on the water and flicked the disposal switch.

A weak grrrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing.

"Problem?" Chris asked.

She shut off the faucet and glared at the dirty water in the sink, complete with floating potato peels, and squelched the urge to stick her tongue out at it.

"You could say that. The garbage disposal is clogged. I must have shoved in too many potato peels at once." She tipped her head back and huffed out an exasperated breath. "Just what I need. A big fat bill from a plumber. And I probably won't be able to get one here tomorrow before noon."

"No need to call a plumber," Chris said. "My mom does this same thing at least twice a year. As long as it's just a clog, I can fix it for you."

Hope bloomed in her chest. "You can? Really?"

"Sure. I'll have you fixed up in no time."

If she hadn't been convinced before this moment that he was the most attractive man who breathed air, this clinched the deal. Jeez, he was just like Superman. Gorgeous, and able to leap clogged garbage disposals in a single bound.

He shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Lowering himself to his knees, he stuck his head and shoulders into the cabinet under the sink, leaving Melanie an unobstructed view of what had to be the best male rear end since the dawn of man.

She wondered if he was wearing boxers again and found herself staring, engrossed in attempting to see through his wool trousers to solve the mystery. Boy, that Superman sure had a good thing with that X-ray vision. He'd be able to find out in a jiffy-

"Are you alive up there?" came Chris's muffled voice from inside the cabinet. "What the heck are you doing?"

Oogling your ass, trying to figure out what kind of Calvin's you're wearing. "Nothing."

"Has the water drained down yet?"

Melanie looked in the sink. "Yup. It's almost all gone." She had to hand it to him. For an accountant, he sure knew his way around kitchen appliances. He'd fixed that clog in nothing flat.

Chris backed out of the cabinet, sat back on his heels, and looked up at her. "What did you say?"

"I said it looks like you've fixed it." She reached over and hit the button.

The disposal erupted like Mount Vesuvius, spewing a geyser of dirty water and potato peels into the air.

Melanie jumped back, out of harm's way, but Chris wasn't so lucky.

She stared down at him and clapped her hands to her cheeks, her jaw slack with shock. "Oh. My. God."

Murky water dripped off his nose and earlobes. His shirt was plastered to his shoulders, his hair flattened to his head.

And he was dotted from head to toe with brown plops of potato peel.

Some of the mess had landed on the floor and the sink backsplash, but not much. Nearly all of it, the gunk from fifty potatoes, covered Chris.

Uh-oh. This is bad. They both remained frozen in a stunned tableau for several seconds, then, without uttering a word, Chris wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand. The water disappeared, but the brown flecks remained, as if they were pasted to him.

She had to say something, but God help her, she had no idea what. The poor guy looked like something that had been fished from a dumpster. If a genie had suddenly popped up and granted her one wish, she would have bypassed world peace and a million dollars and opted for another chance not to flick that damn switch.

Reaching out, she plucked a dish towel from the counter and handed it to him. "I'm so sorry, Chris. I… I guess you weren't quite finished with your repairs."

He wordlessly accepted the towel and wiped his sopping face with a stoic expression that increased her guilt triplefold. His clothing appeared ruined beyond all hope, and it was all her fault.

Now wait a darn minute, her inner voice said. It was actually all his fault. If he hadn't dropped by and gotten her all flustered, she wouldn't have overloaded the disposal. She suspected, however, that he wouldn't appreciate hearing that right now, so she kept that opinion to herself.

And blaming him was a weak argument anyway, and she knew it. It wasn't his fault she'd lost her mind the minute he walked in the door. He couldn't help it if the mere sight and smell of him sent her into a brain-numbing tizzy.

Squaring her shoulders, she knelt beside him and helped him brush off his once pristine white shirt. "I guess I'm in the doghouse, huh?"

"Actually," he said in a perfectly calm voice, "I've always understood that the doghouse is a place for men only." He flicked a potato peel from his bottom lip. "We might have to make an exception in your case." Glancing down at his ruined pants, he shook his head and muttered, "Another one bites the dust."

He was so calm, she couldn't tell if he was holding in raging anger or if he was just an incredibly good sport.

She prayed he was an incredibly good sport.

Plucking a blob of goop from his shirt, she said, "I'm really sorry about this. Of course I'll pay for your cleaning bill…" Her voice trailed off as a particularly large peeling disengaged itself from his hair and flopped down, covering his left eye.

Before she could stop it, a giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she bit her lips to contain it.

One dark blue eye glared at her. "You're not laughing, are you?"

She shook her head, desperately fighting to control her amusement, but each passing second brought her closer to exploding.

"Because laughing," he said, pulling the peel off his eye, "would not be a good idea."

Giggles erupted from between her lips and, unable to contain the torrent, she gave in to her mirth. She stood, staggered to lean against the counter, and laughed until her sides ached.

"You… you look like Mr. Potato Head with brown measles," she gasped.

He was on his feet in an instant, looming over her. Bracing his spud-encrusted arms on either side of her, he all but growled, "Mr. Potato Head?"

She peeked up at him from under lowered lashes. "’Fraid so. Although in all fairness, he was sort of doofy-looking, and you're not."

"He was very doofy-looking."

"Yes. And you're not." Another giggle bubbled up and she coughed to cover it. "Except for right now, of course. Right now you're extremely doofy-looking."

"I'm delighted you think so. Personally, I don't find this all that amusing."

"Then you must have had your sense of humor surgically removed, because this is funny." Reaching out, she flicked a peel from his shoulder. "Trust me on this."

"You realize the timing of that request is not the best."

Unable to stop herself, she allowed her palm to drift over his wet shoulder and settle on his chest. His muscles jumped and his heart thudded against her fingertips. "I'm truly sorry, Chris. Forgive me?"

Chris looked down at her hand resting over his heart and sighed. The woman was an environmental hazard. He wanted to suggest that she consider looking for a nudist for her next boyfriend, since she was such hell on clothes. But since he wanted to fill the boyfriend shoes himself, he kept his mouth shut, not a difficult thing to do as the damn potato starch was starting to tighten his skin.

He should have been furious. Or at the very least angry. Or annoyed.

But when he looked into those big brown eyes, brimming with remorse, a dozen feelings swarmed through him, and not one of them resembled anger.

Desire? Yes. Anger? Not even close.

In fact, he actually found this episode pretty amusing. Of course, he wasn't about to tell her that.

Arranging his stiff face into a stern expression, he said, "I suppose I can forgive you, provided you promise never to do such a thing again."

"You mean the flick-the-switch-before-the-repairs-are-done maneuver?"

"Precisely."

"I promise. I've learned my lesson. Yes, sirree. No more flicking for me. Ever."

He nodded slowly, considering her vow. "All right. But I insist we seal your promise with a kiss."

Mischief danced in her eyes. "Oh, my. I haven't kissed a Mr. Potato Head since I was five. As I recall, he was rather stiff-lipped and his nose poked me in the eye."

"Serves you right." Leaning forward, he touched his mouth to hers and his heart zinged into overdrive.

This is what he'd wanted to do from the moment he'd walked into her kitchen. Touch her. Taste her. Feel her.

The damn woman hadn't left his thoughts the entire time he'd been out of town. In fact, she was the reason he'd been able to come home early. He couldn't sleep for thinking about her. Her smile, her laugh, her kissable lips. So instead of restlessly tossing and turning in an empty bed, he'd worked every night until two or three in the morning, cutting an entire day off his trip.

Never had three days seemed like such an eternity. But now he had her in his arms again. And he certainly wasn't going to allow a few potato peels to come between them.

Crushing her to him, he deepened their kiss.

By damn, he wasn't going to allow anything to come between them.