Afternoon Delight by Anne Calhoun Page B

slipping transmission, trying to find the correct gear for the road. When his fingers flexed with the urge to hoist her over his shoulder and take her into the nearest bedroom, he cleared his throat and said, “Where’s your roommate?”
    â€œThe Hamptons?” she said with an uplift to her voice. “Something about a summer share. She’ll be gone every weekend for the rest of the summer.”
    â€œYou didn’t get one, too?”
    â€œWe’re living together and working together. I thought it might not be a good idea to be in each other’s pockets twenty-four-seven,” she said with a quick smile. “How about you?”
    â€œYes, but mine doesn’t start until later in May,” he said.
    â€œI hear it’s a quintessentially New York thing to do.”
    He shrugged. “The city’s pretty hot and humid in July and August. Better to be by the ocean. Either way, you’re not going to want to make soup.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” she said, although her smile was a pale shadow of itself. “I’m not really ready to make it again anyway.”
    She watched him take his first bite of mushroom and polenta. To his total shock, it was really, really good, and he said so.
    â€œBetter than you expected?”
    â€œYeah,” he said, and watched her smile at his honesty. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s not just okay for now. I’d ask you to make it again.”
    â€œBest compliment you can pay a chef,” she said, as if she were relieved that he enjoyed it. She speared a bit of salad with her fork, and they dug into the meal.
    Making conversation was step one in both distracting him from the tension simmering in the room and changing her mind about not sleeping with him. “What brought you to New York?”
    â€œMy aunt died of ovarian cancer a few months ago. I took care of her, and afterwards, was at loose ends. Trish’s cousin handled my aunt’s financials. Towards the end she told me about Trish opening Symbowl and asked if I’d be willing to help her get the business off the ground. I was looking for a new challenge, something different, a change of pace. I’m picking up extra cash working private dinner parties a couple of nights a week as a sous-chef-slash-server.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said quietly.
    â€œShe lived a good life. A full life. Towards the end she was greedy for the smallest things. Sunshine on her face. Fresh air. Flowers and butterflies in her garden.”
    His gaze flicked from her face to the windows, then down to his empty plate. “This was delicious. Thank you.”
    She’d made him uncomfortable. “You’re welcome. It’s a pleasure to cook for someone who really enjoys food.”
    â€œIs that a crack at how fast I eat?”
    Her eyes widened. “Thirty minutes for a single course is pretty good,” she said.
    A quick glance at the clock confirmed her words. “Usually it’s in and down in less than five.”
    â€œSometimes we have to eat to live,” she said with a smile. “Other times we can live to eat.”
    â€œYou mentioned dessert?”
    â€œThey take a few minutes,” she said. “I’ll put them in the oven now.”
    He cleared the table while she placed twelve small ramekins onto a cookie sheet and slid that into the oven. The open kitchen window kept the room’s temperature comfortable as he washed the dishes and she whipped powdered sugar into heavy cream and mashed raspberries. The scent of chocolate blended with an earthy smell rising from her skin.
    â€œWhat perfume do you wear?” he asked absently.
    â€œI don’t,” she said over the churning beaters. “I got out of the habit when I worked the front at Greens. It competes with the food, and diners who appreciate good cooking want to smell the food, not my scent du jour.”
    He bent over and