Guilty Pleasures by Cathy Yardley Read Free Book Online

to focus on what he was cooking. He had the makings of a salad, she noticed, and some gorgonzola. He had a small bag ofjasmine rice. He had also grabbed some of the chicken.
    Just as well, she thought, her desire and distraction ebbing for a moment. The chicken wasn’t selling well. One more thing to worry about.
    â€œSo. What am I in for tonight?” she said, hoping to lighten her mood.
    His expression was smug. “It’s a surprise.”
    â€œHmm.” She made a show of looking skeptically at his selection. “I’m still waiting to be impressed.”
    â€œGive me time,” he murmured.
    She watched, and she hated to say it…she was impressed. He was deft with a knife, cutting the chicken with almost artistic motions, like it was some sort of martial art. He was showing off, she knew, but he was still damned quick about it, browning the chicken in butter, juicing Meyer lemons, adding white wine and the juice and some capers. The sauce smelled heavenly, and her stomach rumbled in response.
    â€œYou’re killing me,” she said, walking to stand next to him and inhale deeply. “Tell me you’re going to be ready soon.”
    â€œYou keep this up,” he said, his eyes glowing, “and I’m going to blindfold you.”
    She started to make a quick comeback, but he was quicker. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching around her to get a bag of pecans. His arm brushed gently against her breasts, and she almost moaned at the quick tightening of her nipples in response. She shot an accusing look at him.
    â€œSorry,” he said, and she could have sworn hemeant it. “You’ve got a small kitchen. Maybe you should sit at the table?”
    His voice was innocent. Still, his eyes smoldered—she wasn’t just imagining that.
    Considering the unexpected heat currently jetting through her system, she agreed with him. She sat down, giving herself time to cool off…and wonder if maybe this wasn’t as bright an idea as she had originally thought.
    In a surprisingly short period of time, he said “dinner’s on” and presented her with two courses…a pear-and-gorgonzola salad with pecans he’d candied on the stovetop, and lemony chicken piccata.
    â€œThis is it?” She felt relief burst through her. Saying no to him would be easier than she’d thought. “A salad and Chicken Piccata? Third graders could make this.”
    The smug expression didn’t waver. “Just taste it first,” he said, sitting down with his own plates.
    She looked at him dubiously, then took a bite of the salad. The mix of the sharp cheese and the mild pear contrasted with the bitterness of endive, the sourness of the balsamic vinaigrette, and the surprising sweetness of the pecans. She let out a low moan as the taste processed through her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the complexity.
    When she opened them, she saw that his eyes were low-lidded and fixed on hers.
    â€œStill simple?” he said mildly.
    â€œShut up,” she said. “I’m having a religious experience.”
    He grinned and did as told.
    They were simple foods—deceptively simple. But the chicken was tender as a dream, and the Meyer lemons made the concoction sweeter than the recipe normally called for. He’d cut the sweetness with olives, unusual for the dish but still a good choice.
    He was showing her: If I can do this with something this basic, imagine what I could do if you let me loose.
    She could just imagine, she thought, studying his smile.
    When she finished, she sighed, feeling the warm, sated feeling of someone who had eaten truly inspired good food. “What, no dessert?”
    His responding grin made him look boyish. “Are you kidding? Dessert’s the best part of the meal.”
    She batted her eyes at him. “A man after my own heart.”
    He got up, and she noticed a bag she hadn’t seen before. He pulled out a plastic