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He sauntered toward her, shaking his head. “I’m going to have to detox you.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” She sidestepped him. “You come in and eat my food and read my books, and I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t!”
“You’re a great cook,” he said, trying a more subtle maneuver. “I got a sample today, and a couple of your students at the rink last week mentioned it. The kids also said you’ve brought your homemade dishes to school functions in the past.”
She looked surprised and then embarrassed. “And now you have a burning desire for eggplant parmigiana?”
&n
bsp; He let the word desire hang there between them.
“Everything I know I learned from my mother,” she added after a moment.
“Great. My mother has a cooking show on a local cable channel. She’s always looking for guests.”
Marisa held up her hands. “I don’t like where this is heading.”
He flashed his teeth. “Oh yes, you do.” He was becoming a pro at the tit-for-tat game that they had going on between them. “If I’m going to do the rooster strut at Pershing’s big party, then you can cluck your way through a televised cooking show. Fair is fair.”
“We already struck our bargain,” she countered. “You want to renegotiate now? You’re already getting the construction job for the gym, no questions asked.”
“I’m prepared to offer something in return for your appearance under bright studio lights,” he said nobly.
“And that would be?”
“I’ll expand my offer from informal coaching to running that hockey clinic that you want.”
She looked astonished. As if he could never tempt her to appear on TV—but he had.
He was willing to coach the kids without receiving anything in return, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He’d created another opportunity to interact with Marisa, and she was going to find it hard to say no. He was brilliant.
“It’s a big investment of time. I’d need a good recipe, and then I’d have to prep for the show. The hair and makeup alone will take two or three hours...”
His lips inched upward. “You’re starting to sound like I did about the hockey clinic.”
“My mother is the real cook in the family,” she protested.
“Great. We’ll get her involved, too. It’ll take the pressure off you.”
“No!” She shook her head. “How did we get here? I haven’t even agreed to be a part of this crazy plan.”
“We’ll do a giveaway.” He warmed to his subject. “A set of Stanhope Department Store’s own stainless-steel cookware that retails for hundreds of dollars. You said your mother was the new housewares buyer, right? It’ll be great promo. Move over, Oprah.”
He was beyond brilliant.
“I’m busy right now. Parent-teacher conferences. The fund-raiser. The end of the school year... And I’m painting my kitchen cabinets before the weather gets hot because I don’t have central air in this condo.”
He glanced around them. “Yeah, you’ve got a retro vibe going.”
“I like to call it modern vintage.”
He wasn’t familiar with the style but he was appreciating Marisa’s ’50s-style apron, and he had another great idea. “I’ll help with the painting.”
“You don’t need to help. We’re not dating.”
