Jacquie D’Alessandro - Kiss The Cook

Tuning out her plaintive complaints about her last boyfriend, Chris studied her from across the table with an objective eye. The woman was undeniably gorgeous. Her tall, slim physique, combined with her shoulder-length blond hair and startling aqua eyes guaranteed she'd attract male attention wherever she went. She was savvy, successful, and had made it plain that sex was in his immediate future-just the sort of woman with whom he envisioned whiling away his bachelor hours.

He couldn't wait to get rid of her.

The woman hated everything-her mother, her sister, her job, her apartment, her six ex-boyfriends, and the key lime pie she'd ordered for dessert. Unable to stand much more of her, he quickly paid the check and drove her home. The instant he shifted the Mercedes into park, she slid across the seat. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth.

Chris knew he should be thinking yippee .

Instead he was thinking yuck .

He let the kiss go on for nearly a minute, hoping she'd ignite some sort of response in him, but she left him totally cold. It was as if his hormones had suddenly packed themselves up in little suitcases and left the country.

She lifted her head and stared at him briefly before scooting back to her seat. After checking her makeup in the mirror, she turned to him. "Dinner was nice, but I don't think we should see each other again."

Thank you, God . "All right." He suspected his male ego should feel deflated, but all he felt was relief. Profound relief.

"You're a nice guy," she added, apparently thinking he needed an explanation, "but there's really no spark here, you know?"

Chris just nodded, happy that she'd said it first.

She exited the car and he drove away, inhaling his first easy breath in hours.

When Chris arrived home twenty minutes later, he had two messages on his machine. Snagging a beer from the fridge, he slipped off his shoes, plopped on the sofa, and pushed the playback button.

The first message was from his mother. "Hi! It's Mom. Just calling to tell you to bring your bathing suit tomorrow. We're all looking forward to meeting your friend Melanie. And don't forget, Zoë the florist will be there, too. Looks like you'll be busy!, Bye!"

The second message kicked in. "It's Mom again. Don't forget to bring dessert!, Bye!"

Groaning, Chris stretched out his legs, laid back his head, and closed his eyes. For reasons he didn't understand, he felt irritable and out of sorts. Of course, spending the last two hours listening to Claire Morrison piss and moan about everything under the sun didn't help, but it was more than that.

It was her .

Her and her darn cookies. And those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes.

Melanie Gibson.

He couldn't seem to get the damn woman off his mind. Her, and the fact that the name Pampered Palate was so familiar. While Claire had incessantly blathered on, his thoughts had wandered to Melanie dozens of times. But what good did that do him? What was the point of thinking about a woman who was all wrong for him, and whom he'd probably never see again?

He recalled his mother's messages and puffed out a breath. Mom expected him to bring a date to the cookout tomorrow. Claire was out of the question, and being fixed up with Zoë the florist held no appeal.

Chris suddenly sat up straight. Actually, his mother didn't expect him to bring a date -she expected him to bring Melanie . If he could convince Melanie to go, he'd be saved from Zoë and satisfy his mother's matchmaking tendencies in one fell swoop. He looked at his watch. It was past eleven-too late to call Melanie. He'd have to phone her in the morning. Or even better, maybe he'd stop by her house. Offer to take a look at her car.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Fix her car, and she'll come to the cookout. Bishop, you're a genius. Everybody wins. Melanie gets her car repaired, I'm saved from the horrors of a fix-up, and Mom will get off my back about not dating.

Of course, his plan meant having to spend the day with Melanie. A slow smile spread across his face.

Oh, well. He'd suffer through it. Somehow.

At 7:45 the next morning, Melanie looked at the thermometer just outside her bedroom window and groaned. It was already eighty-six degrees. Another pizza-oven day.

She dressed in a bright lime-colored sleeveless shirt and neon tangerine shorts. She checked herself in the mirror and gave her mop of curls one last swipe with the comb. A slash of peach lipstick, scrunchy lime socks, and her beat-up Nikes, and she was ready to face the day.

Since she had an appointment with the bank tomorrow, she planned to spend this morning making sure all her business documents were in order. If all went well with the loan officer, she'd soon be buying her new catering truck. Expanding the Pampered Palate into private catering was something she desperately wanted and needed for the future of her business. In order to succeed, she had to grow.

But first, she needed caffeine. She brewed herself a cup of tea in the bright, sunny kitchen and spread the newspaper on the large, round oak table. She'd barely tasted her chamomile when the doorbell rang.

Mug in hand, she walked to the door, fully expecting to see one of her neighbors. All the neighbors knew Melanie kept a well-stocked kitchen, and someone was always stopping by to borrow a cup of this or a pinch of that. Melanie didn't mind-in fact, she enjoyed the easy camaraderie she shared with the people who lived nearby.

When she opened the door, however, it wasn't a neighbor but Christopher Bishop, a.k.a. the most beautiful man on earth, who stood on her porch.

His hair was just-out-of-the-shower damp. He wore a pale yellow Polo shirt, Docker shorts, bright white socks, and Reebok tennis shoes. A dusting of dark hair was sprinkled on the most gorgeous legs she'd ever seen on any man. And he smelled good enough to eat.

"Good morning," he said with a lopsided grin.

Melanie knew he was talking to her because she saw his lips moving, but she had no idea what he was saying. Her hormones, however, were apparently very aware that Christopher Bishop was in the area. After hibernating for more than a year, those little suckers were suddenly wide awake and anxious to be entertained.

Yesterday, the sight of Christopher Bishop had jump-started them like they'd been shot in the ass. They had started a veritable hormone-cheerleader kickline. Rah rah rah, sis-boom-bah, they yelled at the top of their tiny hormone lungs. Some action. At last.

Melanie rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. So he was gorgeous. So he smelled great. So he was nice. So what? He was a man, and therefore not to be trusted. A man who'd had a date last night, probably with some woman who'd jetted into town between modeling assignments.

She had no time, no space, and no inclination to start something with anyone. Besides, he was holding a bakery bag. Wasn't there some dire warning about men bearing gifts?

He waved his hand in front of her face. "Hello? You okay?"

Melanie mentally shook herself. "I'm fine. Just surprised to see you. Here. So early."

"I figured you were up because there was no newspaper out front." He peered around her. "Is this a bad time?"

"A bad time for what?"

He held up the bakery bag. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast?"

"Yeah. You know, that meal in the morning that starts off your day." He paused. "Can I come in?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out . Oh boy. I'm in trouble. Big, gigantic, whopper-sized trouble. Six feet, two inches of the most delectable-looking male she'd ever clapped eyes on stood on her porch, wanting to come in. Her hormones let out a cheer and did the wave.