Stef Ann Holm, Lucy Back [paper ebook reader .TXT] 📗

“Looking for the booze, sugar?” Drew’s voice startled her and she jumped, slamming the cupboard drawer.

“Of course not. I bring my own.”

With that, he laughed. A deep sound that made her want to melt.

“Not to drink,” she explained, fighting off the heat of a blush that was working across her cheeks. That he could unravel her over the slightest thing made her bristle. “For cooking a dish. And I didn’t bring any tonight. I won’t be needing it.”

Drew came into the kitchen wearing a pair of sinful jeans, and she couldn’t help fastening her eyes to the way they hugged his butt as he walked away from her toward the wine rack. “Would you like a glass of wine while you’re cooking?”

“No,” she replied quickly. “I don’t drink on the job.”

“Sugar, you aren’t working any job at my house. You’re a guest and just happen to be using my stove—even though I’m paying. I’m nobody special. Make yourself at home.”

Lucy noted the way his shirt draped across the broad width of his shoulders. He wore a lightweight knit pullover with a ribbed collar. It was a deep green and brought out the color of his eyes. His brown hair had a light gel in it, and spiked at his forehead. He smelled good, too. Not overpowering cologne. Maybe a musky deodorant.

What had she been thinking, calling him up to ask if she could cook for him? And for the entire summer?

This was all Raul Nunez’s fault! If he’d kept his end of the agreement they’d had, none of this would be happening. Settling into Red Duck wouldn’t have turned into such an ordeal. She would be getting clients the normal way—by her good business instinct and word of mouth—instead of latching on to the one man she really would prefer not to hang around.

She wasn’t sure she could trust herself with him.

But Drew had clout. She sorely needed something to draw in clients. Unfortunately, cooking for Drew was like the open stock sale at Williams-Sonoma. Even kitchen-handicapped customers wanted a pan or a lid because the deal was just too good to pass up.

Drew was Lucy’s key to success. Once everyone heard he was her regular client, her phone would start ringing like crazy. Raul wouldn’t be able to do a darn thing to stop the steady influx of clients headed her way.

The fact of the matter was, what Drew Tolman did in this town carried power. Power she couldn’t afford to turn away.

So here she was. In his kitchen. With him looking yummier than a seven bone roast, and her with her confidence being tested. Could she actually go through with this and not botch it?

His presence got to her. Flustered her. She wasn’t sure if she was coming or going. He walked past—more like brushed past—as he went to one of the cupboards and took out a glass. He smelled to die for. She couldn’t place the scent. She just knew that she couldn’t breathe in deep enough to take him inside her lungs.

“You sure I can’t get you a glass of wine? Beer?” he asked.

She momentarily forgot herself, and was unable to reply. Then she muttered, “Uh, no. But feel free.”

“I’m going to have OJ.”

He poured orange juice, then slid out one of the breakfast bar stools and sat down.

Lucy stared at him, unable to move. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to watch you.”

Her reply was swift and steady. “But you can’t!”

“Why not?” Indolently, he propped his elbows on the marble top as he casually rested his chin in his left hand. His brows furrowed, his forehead creased and he had an expression that made her want to kiss him. It was that adult-male, little-boy look.

“Because you just can’t. I can’t cook under that kind of—”

Pressure.

He grinned. “Lucy, do I make you nervous?”

“Absolutely not.” The lie was about as bold as Colombian roast coffee. “Stay there,” she insisted, back-pedaling as fast as she could so he wouldn’t sense her discomfort any more than she’d already shown it. “I don’t care. You’ll just get bored, anyway.”

“No I won’t. I’m interested in what you do.”

Swallowing, she forced herself to take control. Be collected. Very unconcerned that his gorgeous gaze followed her every move. And then some.

She noticed he appreciated the outline of her breasts in her top. She’d chosen something subdued, nothing overtly sexy. But she did prefer feminine things, and that’s what she’d picked. Pink. It was her favorite color.

Vowing not to let him bother her, she reached into her bin and took out a white chef’s apron.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose when she turned away to set a saucepan and sauté pan on the stove. It was almost as if he had touched her; she felt tingles across her skin and up her spine. Quickly slipping her apron over her head, she tied the bow in front, her fingers fumbling with the knot. She tucked a terry-cloth towel through the tie so she could keep her hands dry and clean as she cooked. Still, she didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t.

He just sat there, watching. Gazing. Slowly. Feasting. It was all she could do not to shiver.

She forced herself to maintain indifference, willed him out of her mind. She was preparing a medallion of beef tenderloin with a roasted sweet pepper reduction, spring mix salad with apples and feta, and garlic mashed potatoes. Preparation time would be approximately fifty minutes.

Lucy clicked back a groan. Could she last fifty minutes?

“How long have you been doing this?” Drew asked.

She slanted him a quick glance. His hand grasped the orange juice glass and raised it toward his mouth.

“About five years,” she replied.

He took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving hers as she watched him over the glass’s rim. “How come you wanted to do it?”

“I love to cook.” Lucy had to turn away. She focused on what ingredients she needed first. The red peppers, onions and shallots.

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