Jacquie D’Alessandro - Kiss The Cook

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-"