Kiss the Cook (12 page)

"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 ou
r busiest lunch and dinner ever-- and all in the same day."

A tired smile
lit his face. "That's great. 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 cloudy 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 w
ondered if he was wearing boxer briefs again and found herself staring, engrossed in attempting to see through his 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 Calvins 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 the water’s almost gone. 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
covered 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 g
unk from fifty potatoes, clung to Chris.

Uh-oh. This was
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 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 suddenly popped up and granted her one wish, she’d bypass world peace and a million dollars and opt for another chance not to flick that damn switch.

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

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

Now wait a darn minute,
her inner voice objected. It was actually all
his
fault. If he hadn't dropped by and gotten her all flustered, she wouldn't have overloaded the disposal. However, since she suspected he wouldn't appreciate hearing that right now, 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.

Grabbing another towel, she dropped to her knees beside him and helped him brush off his once pristine white shirt. "I guess I'm in the doghouse, huh?"

"Actually
, I always thought that the doghouse was a place for men only," he said in a perfectly calm voice. He picked 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.

She plucked
a blob of goop from his shirt and said, "I'm really sorry about this. Of course I'll pay your cleaning bill… " Her voice trailed off as a particularly large peel 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 pressed her lips together 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."

The dam burst and g
iggles erupted from between her lips. Unable to control 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 between laughs.

He was on his feet in an instant, looming over her.
He braced his spud-encrusted hands on either side of her, caging her in. "Mr. Potato Head?"

She peeked up at him from beneath
lowered lashes. “Uh huh. Although in all fairness, he was sort of doofy-looking, and you’re not.”

“
He was
very
doofy-looking.”

“Yes. A
nd you’re not.” Another giggle bubbled up and she coughed to cover it. “Except for right now.  Right now you’re extremely doofy-looking.”

“I’
m delighted you think so. Really. I mean that.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause it doesn’t sound like you mean it.”

“Maybe because I’m not seeing the hilarity in this situation that you are.”

“T
hen you must have had your sense of humor surgically removed, because this is funny.” She reached out and 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, Melanie allowed her palm to drift over his damp shoulder and settle on his chest. His muscles jumped and his heart thudded hard and fast against her fingertips. God, he felt
reeeeally
good. And, in spite of the potato peels, he looked really good. And once again she’d ruined his clothes, a fact that shoved aside her amusement and filled her with genuine remorse. “I’m so sorry, Chris. Truly. I don’t
try
to be such a Disaster Waiting to Happen, it just sort of happens. Forgive me?”

Chris looked down at her hand resting over
the place where his heart raced as if he’d just run a marathon and sighed. Disaster Waiting to Happen? She wasn’t kidding. He should have been angry, or at the very least annoyed. But when he looked into those big brown eyes, brimming with regret, all kinds of feelings swarmed through him, and not one of them even came close to annoyed. No, instead what he felt was desire. Want. Need. And a clawing impatience to yank her against him and put out this damn fire she’d lit in him.

Of course, he couldn’t deny that he a
ctually found this episode pretty amusing-- but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell
her
that.

Arranging his 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?”

“P
recisely.”

“
I promise. I’ve learned my lesson. Yes, sirree, no more flicking for me. Ever.”

Chris drew a slow, deep breath and fought the urge to simply crush her against him. This need, this
craving
she inspired in him bordered on ridiculous. He couldn’t even compare it to anything he’d experienced before because he’d never felt anything like it. The damn woman hadn’t left his mind the entire time he’d been out of town. In fact, she was the reason he came home early. Instead of tossing and turning in an empty bed while thoughts of her chased away all hopes of sleep, 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.

And now, finally, she was only inches away. And if that
meant potato peels all over him, so be it.

He drew her into his arms and sucked in a breath at the sensation of her pressed against him from chest to knee. God, she felt good. In fact, she felt… perfect.
“All right, I forgive you. But I insist we seal your promise with a kiss.”

Mischief twinkled
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.”

“S
erves you right.” Leaning forward, he settled his mouth on hers.

And s
omewhere in the back of his mind the words
dude, your bachelor days are toast
echoed.

And for the first time, he didn’t think he cared.

CHAPTER EIGHT

By Friday evening, Melanie had everything in perspective. Sort of.

So she had a date. And he was picking
her up in five minutes. So what. Big deal. They'd have dinner, share a few laughs, end of story. One date, that was it. Nothing serious. Besides, he'd promised to be ugly.
Totally gross
were his exact words. Gross was good.

It didn't make any difference that he'd kissed her socks off last night in the Pampered Palate's kitchen. And who cared that he'd then helped her clean the potato mess off the floor and walls? What difference did it make that in spite of the disaster she'd caused, he'd proceeded to finish his repair job and unclog her garbage disposal?

So he was a nice guy. A nice, fun, smart, sexy, gorgeous guy whose kisses could melt brain cells into puddles and who had the patience of a saint. Whoop-dee-doo. Lot of guys were just like that. Probably. Just because
she
didn't know any of them didn't mean they weren't out there. Somewhere.

After d
ressing in a pair of white capris and an aqua tank top, she slipped on her favorite wedge sandals and laughed aloud at herself for making such a big to-do over nothing. She'd just finished spritzing on cologne when the doorbell rang.

Perfectly calm, she walked down the stairs, giving herself a last-minute pep talk, like a coach encouraging his team before the big game.

"He's just a guy like any other guy. Probably leaves dirty socks, damp towels, and empty pizza boxes on the floor. His kitchen cabinets are no doubt full of sugar-frosted cereals and Spaghetti-O's. Undoubtedly mixes last week's Chinese takeout with scrambled eggs and calls it Egg-Foo Breakfast. So snap out of it, Melanie! This is just a date. He's just a
man."

She pulled open the door and froze.

Just a man.

Good grief, and what a man.

She took one look at him and all her resolve trickled away like sand drifting through an hourglass.

He stood on her porch, a tall, dark, lethal hunk of manhood dressed in snug Levis faded in all the right places. A baby blue Polo shirt stretched across his chest, accentuating his shoulders and strong arms and bringing out the color of his eyes. A sprinkling of dark, intriguing chest hair peeped above the t
op button on his shirt. Windblown ebony hair, a sexy half smile, stubble-darkened jaw, and the subtle scent of his woodsy cologne completed the picture. The single long-stemmed red rose he held didn't hurt either.

What the heck had happened to ugly and totally gross?

Melanie gulped. She was a goner.

She would have said hello, invited him in,
something,
but it seemed she had suddenly forgotten how to swallow. And talk. Her hormones, however, were annoyingly vocal.
Zippity doo dah,
they sang, strutting their little hormone tushies.

He handed her the rose. "Hi."

Okay. She'd say hello as soon as she remembered how to speak English. In the meantime, she brought the bud to her nose and inhaled its sweet, heady fragrance.
We love roses,
her hormones sighed.

Resisting an urge to pound her chest with her fists
a la
Tarzan and shout, "Me woman, you man, let's mate," she managed to say, "Hi."

"You look great, Mel Gibson," he said
, leaning in to brush his lips over hers in a soft kiss that was over way too quickly.

She cleared her throat and somehow managed to smile at him.
And not beg him to kiss her again.
Good. That's good. You smiled. Now talk.
"Thanks. You look nice, too."
Nice
? That was such an understatement, it fell into the realm of a blatant lie. Steaming hot was more like it. “But you’re not supposed to look nice. You’re supposed to look gross.”

“
I didn’t shave. And these are my grungiest jeans.”

Well, if this was his idea of gross, God help her if she ever saw him in a tux. He
freakin’ looked like sex on a stick. But really, how gross could he possibly look? Even covered in potato peels the man was gorgeous.

"Thanks for the rose. They're my favorite."

"You're welcome." Reaching out, he tugged gently on one of her curls. "You ready to go?"

"Yup." Thank goodness she remembered how to speak. Now if she kept her eyes closed so she didn't see him, and stopped breathing so she couldn't smell him, she just might survive the evening.

He peeked around her into the foyer. "Where's Nana?"

"She and Bernie wen
t to the movies. She said not to wait up and not to call the cops if she wasn't home until morning."

"Sounds like fun. I'm happy for them."

"Me, too." Remembering her manners, Melanie asked, "Do you want to come in? Have a drink before we go?"

"No thanks. We need to leave. It'll be dark soon."

"So?"

"So, I want to get where we're going before there's no light left."

“Where are we going?”

“The sooner we leave
, the sooner you’ll find out.”

Melanie ran inside long enough to put her rose in water, then grabbed her purse and locked the door. She was halfway down the porch
steps when she halted. "Where's your car?"

He grabbed her hand and tugged her along. "Home."

"Home?" He led her past her Dodge, which sat in the driveway. When she saw what was parked behind the Dodge, she halted.

S
he peered at the huge black and chrome machine and felt her stomach roll down to her feet "Wha… what's
that?"

"What does it look like?"

Uh-oh. This smelled like big trouble. "It
looks
like a motorcycle."

"Not just a motorcyc
le. A Harley Davidson."

"This is
yours?"

"Sure is. Had it ever since college." He slapped a shiny black helmet into her hands and swung one leg over the leather seat "Let's go."

She gaped at him, then at the monstrous gleaming steel machine nestled between his long legs. Sweat popped out on her forehead. "Go?" she asked in a weak voice.

"Yeah. Go. You know, the open road, the wind in your hair, the asphalt beneath your feet"

Melanie pursed her lips. It really irked her when someone tossed her own words back at her. And verbatim, no less. What did he have, a photographic memory?

She plastered a false smile on her face. "As appealing as that sounds, I, ah, I'm afraid I can't. Maybe some other time. Why don't we take the Dodge?" She handed him back the helmet. He leaned over and plopped it on her head.

"Better buckle that up." He chucked her under the chin and grinned. "It's the law."

Melanie stood rooted to the spot and watched with mounting trepidation as he released the kickstand and backed the motorcycle down to the st
reet. He strapped on his helmet then turned to where she still stood on the driveway.

"Hey, you're
lookin' kinda green, Mel Gibson. What's up?"

With as much dignity as she could muster, Melanie walked over
to him. So she'd lied. So what? Lying wasn't a crime. Well, in certain cases it was, but since this wasn’t a grand jury/Congressional hearing situation, she was going with it wasn’t a crime. She halted next to the motorcycle. Holy smokes. He looked totally sexy sitting astride all that steel and chrome. She almost swallowed her tongue.

"I'm not green," she reported in her haugh
tiest, queen of England voice. "I simply don't want to ride on that… thing."

He raised his brows. "Why not?"

"I'll, uh, get helmet hair. Bugs in my teeth. A sore butt. Besides, I try to avoid things with a negative fun/risk ratio. You know, three minutes on a motorcycle, eight months in the hospital."

His smile grew broader. "Chicken."

Melanie drew herself up. "I am not chicken."

He leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose. "Then prove it, Miss I-do
n't-want-a-boring-accountant-I-want-a-motorcycle-kind-of-guy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe your exact words were 'My motto is: it's either motorcycle guys or no guys.' "

She shot him a dirty look. "Hasn't anybody ever told you it's impolite to throw people's words back at them? You might piss someone off."

"Hasn't anybody ever told you to be careful what you wish for because you might just get it?"

Yeah, she'd heard it. Blah, blah, blah. She'd always hoped it would apply to winning the lottery. She made one last desperate attempt to save herself. "Nana would be worried sick
if she knew I was on that… thing."

“Bull
. Ten bucks says Nana would love to go for ride on this 'thing.' "

Darn
it, he was right. A lump of real fear lodged in Melanie's throat. She'd never even been close to a
motorcycle before. No doors, no seat belts, no nothin'. It gave her the willies.

"Look," she said, giving up all pretense
s at bravery. "I lied. I don't want a motorcycle guy. Wind in my hair gives me split ends and I'm allergic to asphalt." She swallowed the rest of her pride. "I just can't get on that thing. I'm not ready to die. There are too many things I still want to do."

He leaned his forearms on the handlebars and regarded her with interest
. "Such as?"

"Such as…
go canoeing. Play in a tennis tournament. Teach a cooking class. Try a martini. Bake the chocolate cake I found the recipe for in yesterday's newspaper. Skinny-dip. Lots of stuff."

"Great. I'll help you with five out of six. Let's go."

"Five out of six?"

"I'll take you canoeing, be your partner in a tennis match, and you can teach me how to cook something. I make a great martini and
," his grin turned wolfish, "I'll arrange for the skinny-dipping any time you say. You're on your own with the cake."

Melanie couldn't smother
her laughter. She shook her finger at him. "If Nana knew how you were talking to me, she'd take a rolling pin to you."

"Good. We'll use it to make your cake. Now I'm six for six." He held out his hand. "C'mon, Melanie. Climb on. Take a chance. Do something wild."

"Hey, I do plenty of wild things. Lots of 'em. Wild is my middle name."

He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with amusement. "Oh, really? What's the last wild thing you did?"

She shuffled her feet. "Uh, well, yesterday I handwashed a rayon shirt that said dry clean only."

He hooted out a laugh. "
Oh, yeah, you’re a real daredevil."

"Ha, ha, ha. I once
put bubble bath in the Jacuzzi-- "

"Now that's more like it
."

She sent him a withering look. "I was twelve."

He made a
tsking
sound and shook his head. "That's pathetic. Absolutely pitiful. Boy, are you lucky I came along to save your sorry butt."

"It's my sorry butt I'm attempting to save by not getting on that thing."

A warm, teasing, utterly sexy expression entered his eyes. Melanie felt the pull of that look and groaned. "Don't look at me like that," she protested, knowing she was going down for the third time with no lifeboat in sight. "Time out. No fair."

"C'mon, Mel. Ride with me." He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers. Their helmets bumped. "I promise you'll like it."

Riding on a Harley with the sexiest guy east of the Rockies, arms wrapped around him, pressed into his body? She'd probably like it no end. That was exactly what she was afraid of. And if the motorcycle didn't kill her, the overdose of potent male sexuality no doubt would. She took a deep breath.

Oh, well. What the heck. Everybody's
gotta go sometime.