Jacquie ’Alessandro - Kiss The Cook

"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-"

"One Atlanta Plaza, twenty-fifth floor," Melanie finished for him with a smile. "Chris and I have already met." She stood and held out her hand. "Nice to see you again."

Chris stepped into the room and shook her hand. Same soft skin, same lush lips, same deep dimples. And boy, did she clean up nice. A riotous mop of chin-length reddish-brown curls framed an uncommonly attractive face. His gaze traveled downward. She wore a neon-green T-shirt that read KISS THE COOK, faded Levis, and Nikes that had seen better days. Not exactly come-hither clothes. So why did his heart rate suddenly accelerate? And why did the slogan on her T-shirt seem like the best idea since the invention of the telephone?

"I see you took my advice," she said.

He brought his wandering gaze back to her face. "What advice is that?"

"You changed your pants."

He reached out and gently tugged one of her shiny curls. "You combed your hair."

She laughed. "I didn't have much choice. Every dog on the block would have tried to bury me in the backyard if I hadn't."

"Ahem! Remember me?" asked Walter in an amused tone from the bed. "The guy with the broken leg, cracked ribs, and other assorted aches and pains."

Chris leaned around Melanie and smiled at the lawyer. "So sue me. She's prettier than you are." After setting the gift-wrapped book on the nightstand, Chris pulled over a chair. He sniffed the air. "Do I smell cookies?"

Walter nodded. "Home-made double chocolate chunk cookies." He passed a round tin to Chris. "Melanie baked them for me, and they're mine. Since you were kind enough to visit me, you may have one."

"What happens if I take two?" Chris asked, reaching into the tin.

"Lawsuit," Walter said without hesitation.

Chris made a horrified face. "Okay! Only one cookie." He took a bite and groaned. "Wow. I think I might have to risk the lawsuit."

Despite Walter's threats, the cookie tin was soon empty. Chris discovered that Melanie not only made the best cookies on earth, she also had the sexiest laugh he'd ever heard-a low, throaty rumble that reminded him of fine brandy. Warm, smooth, and delicious. He was enjoying himself so much, he forgot the time. When he glanced at his watch, he realized that if he didn't leave immediately, he'd be late picking up his date.

He stood. "I'm afraid I have to get going," he said, surprised at his reluctance to depart.

Melanie leaned over and sneaked a peek at his watch. "Good grief. I need to leave also."

"Thank you both for coming," Walter said, giving Chris's hand a hearty shake and accepting a kiss from Melanie. "And thank you for the dinner, my dear. Best veal piccata I've ever eaten."

"My pleasure, Mr. Rich. When you're feeling better, I'll bake you some more cookies."

"In that case, I see a miraculous recovery right around the corner," he replied, his eyes twinkling.

After a final wave from the doorway, Chris and Melanie headed down the hall together. "He's such a nice man," Melanie remarked once they were in the elevator.

"Very nice," Chris agreed. His gaze wandered over her, studying her profile. He wasn't aware he was staring until she turned toward him.

"Something wrong?" she asked, cocking a single brow.

Chris shook his head. "No. I was just realizing I was right."

She gave an unladylike snort. "Oh, brother. A man realizing he's right. Now there's a shocker. Good thing I'm not in my heart attack years. I might just keel over." She slanted him a pursed-lips look. "What were you right about?"

"You do clean up pretty good."

Chris watched, amused, as a bright pink blush stained her cheeks.

"Oh," she said. "Ah, thanks. You, too."

The elevator door opened and they stepped out. "Where's your car?" Chris asked.

"Parked in my driveway." A sheepish half-smile touched her lips. "I practically dragged my sick delivery man out of bed this morning to help me. He tinkered with the engine a bit and got it started, but I'd no sooner arrived home than the ole Dodge coughed, burped, and spit for several agonizing minutes, then died." She shook her head sadly. "It was painful to watch."

"How did you get here?"

"By cab."

"How are you getting home?"

"By cab. In fact, I'd better call one." She smiled and held out her hand. "It was nice seeing you again."

Chris absently shook her hand. "Yeah. Nice."

She turned and walked away, heading toward the bank of pay phones in the lobby. Chris watched her, his eyes glued to her curvy derrière. He looked at his watch. Even if he set a new land speed record, he would still be late picking up his date.

For reasons he could not logically explain, he found himself jogging across the ceramic tile floor to catch up with her. His mind was saying "I'm outta here," but his feet were not cooperating at all.

"Where do you live?"

She turned, clearly surprised. "Why?"

"I'll give you a ride home."

She eyeballed him. "You look like you're ready for a date. I wouldn't want to make you late."

"I have time," he heard himself say, "provided you don't live in Oklahoma."

She laughed. "Actually, I'm pretty close by. Only about ten minutes from here."

"Great. Let's go."

Chris followed her through the revolving door. The instant they stepped outside, a blast of hot, humid air hit them. He led her to the Mercedes, opened the door for her, then settled himself behind the wheel.

"Where to, lady?" he asked in his best New York cabbie voice.

Smiling, she gave him directions. Except for "Turn left here" and "Make a right at the stop sign," the drive was made in relative silence. Chris spent the ride convincing himself that he'd only offered to drive her home because it was the chivalrous thing to do. It had nothing to do with her. Not a thing.

True to her word, ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a small, neat brick ranch. A profusion of pink and white flowers filled the carefully tended beds, and the postage-stamp-sized lawn was lush and green. The only thing that looked out of place was the lime-green, rusted-out eyesore sitting in the driveway.

A young girl, maybe twelve years old, sitting on the front steps waved. Melanie waved back and said, "That's my neighbor's daughter. I promised to help her bake her mom a birthday cake." She unhooked her seat belt and opened the car door. "Thanks. I really appreciate the ride. Cab fare kinda strains the budget."

"My pleasure."

"Enjoy your date."

Date? He stared into her big brown eyes and lost his ability to think straight. Just looking at her made him swell against his trousers. With an effort he snapped out of it. Date. Right.

She slammed the car door, shot him a dimpled smile, and ran across the lawn to the porch. She ruffled the girl's hair then turned and waved at him before following the child into the house.

Chris stared at the cozy house. His plans for the evening somehow had lost their appeal, and he found himself wishing he could stay and watch her bake that birthday cake. Her kitchen was undoubtedly welcoming and homey, and he bet it smelled great.

He puffed out a breath and shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? He had a date with a real babe, and here he sat, mooning over a woman who was clearly not his type.

Good thing she was gone. Her and her big brown eyes and soft, luscious mouth. He shifted in his seat. His pants felt uncomfortably snug.

Must have been all those darn cookies he ate.

Ten minutes into his date with Claire Morrison the marketing executive, Chris realized she was not cookout material. By the time their dinner was served, he'd summed Claire Morrison up as a self-centered bore, and by the time dessert rolled around, he was ready to stuff his napkin in her mouth just to shut her up.

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.