Andrea Bolter - Her Las Vegas Wedding

He admonished himself for again thinking of his brother’s soon-to-be bride, although he took a strange reassurance in the fact that this was an arranged marriage between people who were not in love.

Still, it was nothing he had any business getting involved in.

What he needed to concentrate on were these scraps of paper that were to become one of those sleek and expensive cookbooks that people laid on their coffee table as a design accessory and never cooked from. A book whose pages held close-up pictures of glistening grapes and of Shane tossing a skillet of wild mushrooms.

“These are my notes.” A scrap from the pile caught his eye. “Feijoada.”

He’d scribbled that idea over a year ago. When Reg had asked him to think about how to make use of the lesser cuts of pork he had left over from other recipes. “I’ve seen Brazilians throw everything into this stew, the ears, the snout, all of it. The whole pot simmers with the black beans for a long time and you squeeze the flavor out of every morsel.”

“Let’s see what you have,” Audrey offered. She leaned close to him to read the note together.

His tendons tightened at the sweet smell of her hair.

“There are no amounts for the ingredients,” she observed.

“Obviously.”

“How are we going to use these notes for recipes then?”

“I have no idea.”

“How do you get the dishes to taste the same every time if you don’t have the measurements written down?”

“I feel it. They don’t come out exactly the same every time.”

“You feel it.” She bit her lip. “Then how would someone at home be able to cook them?”

“They wouldn’t.”

Shane watched Audrey’s expression go from irritated to intelligent as she thought through what she should say next. “You’re not at Shane’s Table in New York and Los Angeles cooking every single dish. How does your staff prepare the food?”

“Of course the restaurant menu recipes are written down. We’ll use a few Shane’s Table guest favorites for the book. But it’s supposed to be all new food. Reg promised we’d deliver fresh, rustic and regional, and I’m still working on the dishes. The measurements are the least of my problems.”

Audrey took a big breath into her lungs and held it there.

She sure looked adorable when she was thinking.

“I’m trying to work with you here, Shane.” She exhaled. He liked hearing her say his name. “The restaurant menu had to have been ideas in your head at the beginning. How did you develop the recipes for those?”

“That was a long time ago.” Before Melina died. Before grief and frustration and anger clouded his mind and heart. Nowadays he went through the motions but stayed under the darkness. Which was how he wanted it. Or thought he did anyway.

Another Shane’s Table was opening. Truthfully, so what? A cookbook as a publicity stunt Reg said would bring their brand to every corner of the world. So what? The Feed U Project with the kids was about all he cared about anymore. Just as he and his family had done in a dozen other locations, he’d turned a warehouse in downtown Vegas into a kitchen where he taught local kids how to cook.

Reg’s call interrupted his musing. His brother wanted to meet right away.

“I gotta go, Sugar,” he said to the five-foot-two ray of light.

“I thought we were supposed to achieve something on the cookbook today.”

He turned to the pan he had cooling on a nearby rack. With his fingers, he broke off a taste of what he had baked earlier. From an old recipe that it had occurred to him to whip up this morning. With Audrey in mind, if he was being honest.

“Pan de dulce de leche. Caramel.” Shane popped the chunk of still-warm cake into her delectable mouth.

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