Susan Mallery - The Million-Dollar Catch

“Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

She followed him out of the foyer and into an open living space. His unit was on the corner, so he had two walls of glass, giving him a perfect view of Hollywood, the Hollywood Hills and to the east, in the distance, the skyline of downtown.

Here the predominate color was gray, accented with wood tones and bright splashes of red and orange from a large canvas of very abstract art. The end tables and dining-area table were glass and steel. The sofa and chairs, a medium gray. The walls were a lighter shade of the same. The hardwood floors and leather ottoman provided the only hint of warmth.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She set her purse on an Ultrasuede-covered chair. “It’s, um, very modern.”

“Not your thing?”

“Not really.” And based on the little she knew about Ryan, she would guess it wasn’t his thing, either.

“I was dating a decorator when I moved in. She offered and I took the easy way out.”

Ah, so it wasn’t his style. Funny how that made her like him a little.

He led the way into the kitchen. It opened onto the rest of the room and was all hard surfaces done in gray. Concrete countertops, various shades of gray in the polished glass tile backsplash, stainless appliances.

“You need to get a couple of plants,” Julie said as she took the bar stool he offered on the far side of the island. “Something green and bushy and alive. Aren’t you afraid all this modern stuff is going to suck the life out of you?”

“It’s okay,” he said with a shrug. “It’s easy to keep clean.”

She grinned. “You would know this how?”

“The cleaning service has mentioned it a few times. That and the fact that I don’t have pets.”

“I’ll bet you mostly eat out, you’re rarely home, you don’t have big, loud parties. You’re the perfect client for them.”

He stood on the other side of the island and began removing things from the built-in refrigerator.

“How do you know I don’t have big parties?”

“Your sofa and chairs are in perfect condition. Nothing crunchy or wet has been dropped on them. Parties are messy.”

“Good point. You’re right. No parties.”

Just a parade of women, she would guess. Even ignoring his sob story about women coming on to him because of his money, Julie knew Ryan was impressive enough to entice the ladies all on his own.

He carried a package of raw chicken breasts, fixings for salad, basil, some jars and bottles she didn’t recognize and—she blinked to make sure she wasn’t seeing things—a cookie sheet with prepared bread dough on it.

Was he serious?

“You’re cooking?” she asked, trying to sound less surprised than she felt.

“I said I’d make us lunch.”

“I thought you meant reservations.”

“Would you rather go out?”

“No. This is great. Shocking, but great.”

“You don’t cook?”

“I can prepare a few basics. I don’t totally live on takeout and frozen dinners. But I don’t make anything that requires baking or takes this many ingredients.” She rested her forearms on the counter. “So what are we having?”

“A goat-cheese-and-arugula salad, followed by a grilled-chicken sandwich with a pesto sauce on warm focaccia bread, with fresh berries and crème anglaise for dessert.”

Color her hungry, she thought as her stomach gave a rumble.

“Impressive. Let me guess. You dated a chef.”

“Hey, that’s a little judgmental. The summer Todd and I were twenty, our parents took us on a Mediterranean cruise for a month. We would rather have hit Europe on our own, but they insisted, so we went. It was a small ship with not much to do and nearly everyone on it was retired. I think the captain was afraid Todd and I would start trouble because he arranged for daily cooking classes. I hated the first couple, but then I got into the whole thing. Now I cook.”

Impressive, she thought. “And Todd?”

Ryan grinned. “He flirted with the cocktail waitress.”

He turned on the oven, set a grill pan on the six-burner stove, then seasoned two chicken breasts. After collecting a small but powerful-looking food processor, he rinsed off the basil, then dried it with a towel.

“You’re really cooking,” she said. “I’m sorry, but this is very unusual for me.”

“You should see what I can do with a potato.”

It wasn’t a side of him she would have expected. With his money and easy good looks, he could have spent his life ordering room service.

As he sprinkled various spices on the bread dough he’d flattened on a cookie sheet, she found herself getting caught up in the way he moved his hands—the confidence and finesse. Without wanting to, she remembered those hands on her body. For a guy who wore a suit and tie, he was very good at manual labor.

And she was an idiot. This was not a good time for R-rated flashbacks. She was here to get to know the father of her child. Oh, but if things were different she would be all over him like mascara on silk.

The bread went in the oven, the chicken went on the grill pan and then he walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher with a pinkish tea mixture, sliced lemons and ice cubes.

“Herbal,” he said as he poured them each a glass. “No caffeine.”

“Thanks.” She sipped. The flavor was more citrus than tea, but it was nice. “It’s good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Okay, you win. I’m officially confused. Is this really you?” she asked.

“Want to see some ID?”

“You know what I mean. You’re …”

“Normal?” he offered.

“Yes. Normal. Nothing like the high-powered entrepreneur who hates women.”

He winced. “I don’t hate women. I like them.”

“As long as you can teach them lessons.” She held up her hand. “Sorry. I’m breaking the rules. Let’s just say this is an interesting side of you. And now we can move on to safer topics. Tell me about what your life was like growing up.”

He eyed her as he tore up the arugula and dropped it into a bowl. “That could get me into trouble.”

“How?”

“Let me count the ways. But I’ll play along. Todd and I were born within a couple of months of each other so we’ve always been close. Our fathers are brothers, so we traveled together a lot, went to the same schools, hung out on vacations.”

“Public school?” she asked sweetly, then sipped her drink. She had already guessed the answer, but she confessed she didn’t mind seeing him defensive.

“Private. Prep.”

“Ah.”

He glared at her, then continued. “We both went to Stanford. There was some talk of Princeton or Yale, but we weren’t interested. Our lives were in California. Snow was for ski vacations, not everyday life.”

“Skiing in Gstaad?” she asked.

“All over. And before you start mocking me—”

“I would never do that!”

He ignored her. “I want to point out that Ruth came from money. This could have been your life, too.”

“I can understand the words, but I’ll admit I can’t make the concept real. Mom always said her parents were dead and we believed her.”

“But if things had been different …” he began.

She looked at him. “Then you and I would have grown up together. We would have been like brother and sister.”

Ryan grimaced. Not exactly the direction he wanted them to go. He thought of Julie as many things, but a sister wasn’t one of them.

As he worked, he kept getting distracted by her presence. She was so alive, so vibrant. It was as if she were the only color in the room.

He liked the way she challenged him, and how she tried to be fair. He also liked the way she looked in her soft pink sweater that just hinted at the curves beneath. Curves he remembered and ached to touch and taste again.