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“Okay. Count me in.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “I take it this means you know how to cook.”
She nodded. “Does that surprise you?”
“It’s just that I don’t know much about you.”
“What would you like to know?”
A bunch of questions sprang to mind, like was she seeing anyone? If circumstances were different, would she go out with him? He immediately squelched those inquiries. They were none of his business—no matter how much he longed to know the answers.
He swallowed hard. “How well do you cook?”
A smile lifted her pink lips. “Don’t you think you should have asked before agreeing to this meal? Now you’ll just have to find out for yourself. Come on.”
She didn’t even wait for his reply before she started up the steps to the guesthouse. He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she mounted each step. No one had a right to look that good. And oh, boy, did she look good.
He hesitated. Right now, he was truly regretting agreeing to this meal. And it had absolutely nothing to do with his bad day or his uncertainty about her cooking skills and everything to do with how appealing he found the cook.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Well, come on.”
Not wanting her to notice his discomfort, he did as she said. He started up the steps right behind her. A meal for two. This was a mistake. And yet he kept putting one foot in front of the other.
He’d spent so much time alone that he wasn’t even sure he remembered how to make small talk. Just stick to business. It wasn’t like she wanted to have this dinner for them to get closer. She was just anxious to get on with this fund-raiser—a fund-raiser that he was certain would fail if it had his name attached to it.
* * *
What had she done?
Gabrielle entered the galley kitchen. It was small and cozy. If Deacon were to be in here with her, they’d be all over each other—as in bumping in to each other. But now that the seed had been planted, she started to think of other things they could cook up together that had absolutely nothing to do with food.
Her imagination conjured up a shirtless Deacon in her kitchen. Oh, yes, things would definitely heat up. And then she’d be there in him arms. Her hands would run over his muscled chest. And there was a can of whipped cream—
Heat rushed to Gaby’s face. This was a mistake.
But as she heard Deacon’s footsteps behind her, she knew that it was too late to change her mind. She just had to keep her attention focused on the main course and not the dessert.
She moved to the fridge and pulled the door open. There on the top shelf sat the whipped cream. She ignored it. “What are you hungry for?” She was hungry for... The image of licking cream off Deacon came to mind. She gave herself a mental jerk. “Maybe I, ah, should tell you what I have ingredients for and, um, then we can go from there.”
“Are you okay?”
“Um, sure.” If only she could get the image of having him for dessert out of her mind. “Why?”
“You’re acting nervous. If it’s dinner, don’t worry. We can order in.”
“No.” Her pride refused to give up. “I’ve got this.”
Deacon took a seat at the kitchen counter. “I’m not a picky eater. So anything is good.”
“Let me see what’s in here.” Mrs. Kupps had kindly offered to fill her fridge for the times when she was off and for the evenings when Gabrielle might get hungry.
“I’ve found a steak.” Gaby opened the produce drawer. “There are some fingerling potatoes. And some tomatoes, onions, Gorgonzola cheese and arugula.”
Her gaze skimmed back over that tempting whipped cream, but she absolutely refused to mention dessert. When he didn’t respond, she glanced over her shoulder. “What do you think?”
“Sounds good. I’ll just look over this information about the fund-raiser while you cook the food.”
She closed the fridge and turned to him. “I don’t think so.”
His dark eyebrows drew together as his puzzled gaze met hers. “What?”
