One More Taste by Melissa Cutler Page A

the sink and the huckleberries cooled in a pan on the stove, but she barely gave the room a look before pushing through the swinging door to the house’s great room.
    What Emily considered her greatest skill and the secret to her culinary success was that she was part fortune teller. She read people, their past and their future and their emotional temperature. She could spend a little time with a couple and understand what was missing in their lives, what they needed, what food could provide for them beyond their own limited understanding of taste and nourishment. She’d been perfecting the art for years, but as she’d told Knox that morning in his office, she couldn’t get a clear read on him, try as she might.
    She’d spent the afternoon trying to read him through his home and the land he’d chosen, but something was missing from her analysis. She had no inspiration at all. Clearly, he craved beauty and solitude, as evidenced by the view. The house itself was modern and cavernous. Though she suspected it had come fully furnished, she bet the cold, minimalist aesthetic appealed to Knox’s need for control. Beauty, solitude, and control did not a satisfying meal make, especially for Knox, especially after stepping into the warm, inviting aura of his study.
    In the study, on a table against the wall, she’d found a record player attached to a high-end sound system. Next to it, a collection of classic rock. Near to that were photographs of Knox’s family sitting on the lowered tailgate of a truck, his parents crouched behind the three kids. Knox sat in the middle, looking to be seven or eight years old, and had his arms around his brother’s and sister’s shoulders. Emily had never seen a photograph of Knox’s father, Clint, before. The family resemblance to Knox and Ty and Tyson Briscoe was strong. The same nose, the same angular jaw and high cheekbones, the same looks of intensity in their dark eyes. Clint, on the other hand, drew his looks from Granny June’s side of the family, as Carina did. Emily recognized Carina’s smile on Clint, as well as the shape of her head and the shading around her eyes.
    There was only one room Emily had yet to explore. After a quick check of the driveway and the garage to make sure Knox wasn’t home yet, she stole upstairs through the waning light. She counted five bedrooms on the second floor and as many bathrooms, but the master suite at the end of the hall was the only one with any semblance of personal touches to it.
    The moment she stepped through the threshold, she expected to be overcome with warnings from her conscience that she was trespassing, but her drive to slay the challenge Knox had set up for her superseded any ethical or moral concerns about invading his private space. How could she mind overstepping some boundaries when her future was at stake?
    The room smelled clean, fresh. Several sets of cufflinks sat in a dish on a darkly stained wood vanity near the entrance to the ensuite bathroom. One window in the long row of them had been cracked open. Beyond the glass, the bedroom boasted an expansive view of the lake. Behind the hill on the opposite shore, she spied the rooftops of Briscoe Ranch and the chapel.
    She flicked on a light switch near the door, and a row of tasteful, recessed lights came to life above a large, masculine-looking bed. After another glance down the hall and a quick listen to make sure she was still alone, she walked into the room, heading straight for the bed. She smoothed her palm over the gold, black, and red duvet, in a style that reminded her of the Far East, covering his king-sized bed. An embroidered image of a black rose adorned one corner, the petals tumbling away from the stem like shaved slices of black truffle over a golden sauce.
    Her spine snapped straight and she gasped aloud, rocked by a sudden explosion of inspiration. She’d been right about the peach soup. About foie gras and