Miranda Bliss - Cooking Up Murder

“But I can’t cook!” I wailed.

Jim laughed. He reached for my hand again and settled it between both his own. “I won’t deny that,” he said. “You are truly the worst cook I have ever come across.”

“Then why-”

“Do I want you to be my partner? Because you’re intelligent. And you’re clever. Because you’re better at numbers than anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m going to need that kind of talent on the business side of things.”

“You mean I don’t ever have to go into the kitchen?”

He held up one hand, Boy Scout style. “I swear it. You can have Angus’s old office. It’s in a nice wee bit of a room just off the side of the bar. You’ll be snug in there, and you can organize it until your heart’s content. I promise, it’s far from the kitchen.”

“And you’ll do all the cooking.”

“Cross my heart.” He actually might have if he’d had a free hand. But one of them was still holding mine. And the other-and his arm along with it-had somehow managed to encircle my shoulders. “No cooking.” I swear he knew what the sound of those long, delicious ooooo ’s did to me, because he leaned in close and murmured them against my lips.

Could I argue with logic like that?

“When do we start? Not before tomorrow. Or should I say today?” I glanced at the clock over on the bookcase-it was nearly time for the sun to be up. “Tonight we have dessert class.”

“Aye, dessert!” Jim moved a hairsbreadth closer, and my eyes drifted shut when his mouth came down on mine. “I was thinking we could get started on dessert right now.”