hunky, he excelled at intelligent conversation. He laughed easily—a sound that zinged through her system, hitting all the important places. He made her laugh too.
Plus, the chef thing. That was so totally hot. She hadn’t known him long, but he had “great catch” written all over him. What made a guy like this so averse to being caught?
The fish in question leaned forward and took the plate from her lap, stacked his on top and put them on the floor beside the couch. “Happy stomach?”
“Very. Do you always cook stuff like that for yourself?”
“Not as much as I’d like. Most evenings I’m at the restaurant, cooking for other people. I eat there, and it’s good, but not the same as making exactly what I want, and eating it in the peace and quiet of my home.” He reached out, caught her chin and stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. “Also, the company tonight sure beats what I’m used to.”
The smile in his eyes seemed genuine. With everything he had going for him, though, if he dined alone—anytime or any place—it must be by choice. Much as she wanted to ask him why, he hadn’t invited her over to have a heart-to-heart or to be psychoanalyzed.
And she hadn’t come over to get attached, something she needed to remember, rather than having these swoony thoughts. “Sounds like we work some similar hours. I pull the noon to nine-thirty shift every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. I usually grab something in the food court those days. I eat at home the other days, though never this well.”
“You don’t like to cook?” he asked, letting his fingers slide from her face as he leaned back again.
“Oh, I love the idea of cooking. I love food and I’m forever bookmarking recipes and stocking my cupboards with ingredients that I have no real clue what to do with. Seriously, what the heck am I supposed to do with ‘cream of tartar’? It’s not even cream.” She forced her flapping hands back to her lap. “Anyway, when it comes to the actual process of making the food…”
After a few beats of hanging silence, Davis prompted her by squeezing her legs between his.
“Let’s just say I have an affinity for creating Cajun dishes—from every recipe.”
“Ah.” He winked. “You burn stuff.”
“ I don’t burn anything. I just haven’t met the oven of my dreams yet.”
Dimples, he had them. Not a feature she usually cared for on a man. Too boyish. On Davis, they didn’t look the least bit juvenile—in fact, they were panty-melting hot.
He leaned forward and curled his hand over her leg, very high on her thigh. “Cooking is like sex. You don’t have to have the best equipment to get great results—it’s all about timing and execution.”
“If I didn’t already know better, I’d think you were putting me on notice that you have a small saucepan, not an oversize stock pot.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Come on, naughty girl.” He grabbed her hands and hauled her to her feet. “I’m going to teach you how to make dessert.”
“Unless it’s Oreos and a glass of milk or scooping ice cream into a dish, it’s not going to work.” The warning fell on deaf ears as he pulled her along behind him. “Seriously, I even fail at instant Jell-O.”
He settled her butt against the breakfast bar once again. “How do you blame your oven for the Jell-O?”
Crap. Totally caught on that one. Figured. He’d been teasing her about her flubs since they met in the store.
Inside the cage of his arms, sparks ping-ponged between them. He leaned in and brushed his lips over the shell of her ear. “No Jell-O tonight. No cookies or ice cream either.”
She shivered, recalling his earlier words. I’m having you for dessert. Now that was a cooking lesson she could get behind. Or in front of. However he wanted to deliver it.
“You’re going to make pudding,” he said, then backed away, grinning. The jerk, tormenting her with his hard body, soft lips and damn sexy voice.
She tugged at the
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