Part 9 (1/2)
”How come you came back in such a good mood? You were a complete grump when you left.”
”When you kicked me out of my own home, you mean.” He reached down and grabbed the white plastic grocery sack off the floor and started on his halting way to the kitchen. ”I had an epiphany this afternoon.”
”An epiphany? Don't tell me. You realized how lucky you are to have Seattle's finest Realtor at your beck and call?”
He turned to glance at her over his shoulder. ”I thought becking and calling were out, as per our professional relations.h.i.+p.”
She had to bite back an answering smile. He was just so easy to be with, so easy to flirt with, d.a.m.n it. ”So you were listening.”
”Oh, I heard you all right. I just don't happen to agree with you. I think you can mix business and pleasure and make both more interesting. But that's me.”
”Have you ever-” she began and then could have bitten her tongue. What was she thinking?
Having reached the kitchen he put down the sack and turned on the kitchen faucet to wash his hands. ”Have I ever had a relations.h.i.+p with a work colleague? Sure. Haven't you?”
The stab of-what? Surely not jealousy-surprised her. It wasn't any of her business who he got involved with.
”No. Never.”
He turned off the tap and dried his hands. Nice hands, she noted. Long-fingered and strong.
”How about a client? Have you ever been involved with a client?”
”Romantically?”
Even though his face was serious, his eyes laughed at her. ”Yeah, romantically.”
Apart from him? ”No. I told you. I set rules for myself.”
”Didn't you ever hear that nice old saying about rules being meant to be broken?”
”I bet you've broken a few rules in your time.”
He chuckled. ”One or two.” He reached for the bottom of a set of three drawers and drew out an ap.r.o.n with the ease of somebody who's done it frequently. It was green cotton with sprigs of yellow flowers; obviously one of his grandmother's. When he popped the bib over his head and tied the string around his waist without any worry about whether he looked ridiculous or not, her heart melted a little.
He didn't look a bit ridiculous. He looked comfortable in his skin and his grandmother's ap.r.o.n which made her think he was also comfortable with his memories of her. Nice.
She removed her suit jacket, hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and then rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse. ”What can I do?”
He was taking items out of the bag. He placed a bottle of wine on the counter. ”Can you open the wine?”
”Sure.”
He'd bought wine. She wondered if this impromptu dinner date was actually planned. And whether she minded.
She opened the wine-a Was.h.i.+ngton pinot noir-and poured it into two gla.s.ses she found in the cupboard he gestured to.
”What else?”
”Want to sous-chef?”
”Why not?”
He reached for the drawer and took out a second ap.r.o.n. This one was cream sprigged with pink roses. He shook it out and then held the top strap for her, waiting until she stepped closer before looping it over her head. He turned her around, putting his hands on her hips in a gesture that was probably cheflike, but felt ridiculously intimate.
She was deeply aware of his hands moving behind her as he straightened the straps. ”My grandmother was a little more stout than you,” he said, and then brought his arms around her middle, doubling the straps around her waist. She felt him so close to her, felt his breath on her neck as he fastened the ties at her back. She wanted badly to lean against him, let the attraction she felt for him take them wherever it led.
”All done,” he said, stepping away and breaking the spell.
”Thanks.”
He pa.s.sed her the asparagus and potatoes and, as she snapped the ends off the former and scrubbed the latter, he prepared a sauce for the salmon.
They worked companionably, side by side in the kitchen. ”I bought a decent barbecue last time I was here. It's about the only modern thing in the place. I'll grill the salmon.”
”Where did you learn to cook?” she asked.
”From my grandmother. Long before it became trendy she thought every man should be able to cook. The first time she saw Jamie Oliver on TV she said to me, 'There you are, Rob. I told you so. Men who cook make women swoon.'”
Hailey laughed. ”Did she really say swoon?”
”Absolutely. I swear she actually did swoon when he started that program to get healthier lunches in schools. She was a former English teacher, you know.”
”I didn't.”
”You'd have liked her. I think she'd have liked you, too.”
”I'm glad.”
He reminded her a bit of one of those s.e.xy celebrity chefs. Casual, a.s.sured, not bothering to measure things very precisely, but fully in control. She'd never seen a man in a flowered ap.r.o.n look so handsome.
”Do you cook much?” she asked.
”I don't cook when I'm away, and when I'm in New York I mostly eat out. With so many good restaurants, you could eat out every night and never get bored. I do most of my cooking here. In this kitchen.”
He glanced around. ”I'm glad you stayed. It's weird being here without her, you know?”
”I can imagine.”
To lighten the atmosphere she said, ”I'll set the table.”
He looked at her as though she were crazy. ”It's already set.”
”The table's staged. You can't eat off this stuff or mess up the placemats and napkins. Julia would kill us both.”
”My grandmother would not approve of staging,” he said.
”If your grandmother was as smart as you make her out to be she'd love anything that got her more money for her house.”