before she could do any damage and carried her to the back door, where she put her outside. Careful to prevent the cat from getting back in, she filled the bowl next to the door with dry food. For some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, being there made her uneasy.
The inner hotel telephone extension on the wall rang, startling her.
She backtracked to the stove, wiped her hands on her apron and answered it.
“He’s on his way to the kitchen.”
Josie’s heart nearly beat straight out of her chest.
She thanked Philippe, then hurried back to the pot, trying to regain control over herself.
It was just a meal, for crying out loud. No reason to be so nervous.
She supposed it might be because she had half expected him not to show and had gotten used to the idea. That must be the reason for the butterflies in her stomach. But when she turned her head at the sound of the door swinging open and saw Drew, she knew she was dead wrong.
It was the fact that her attraction for him seemed to have doubled since earlier that had her heart pounding in her chest.
And if the dark awareness in his eyes was anything to go by, his desire for her was just as strong.
She smiled, trying to force a swallow down her tight throat. “Come on in. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we’d eat in here.”
He blinked as if just breaking from some sort of trance, then looked at the chopping block in the middle of the room she had set with checkered placemats, linen-wrapped silverware and a dozen candles in different colors and sizes. A bottle of red wine was breathing next to two sparkling crystal glasses.
She’d done so much rattling on during their walk earlier that she was armed with a thousand and one questions she wanted to ask him. Questions that vanished now. She could barely focus enough to keep from ruining the simple yet very Creole meal she’d prepared.
Drew hadn’t moved from the doorway.
She stopped stirring and picked up two bowls from the sideboard. After filling them, she switched on the flame beneath the boil pot, then carried the bowls to the cutting board.
“Pour the wine?” she suggested.
Finally, he moved from the doorway, slowly doing as she asked. After she finished cutting the thick, crusty bread she’d placed on the board earlier, he handed her a glass. She looked to find his eyes regarding her soberly.
“To the strangers we meet along the way,” she said quietly.
He clinked his glass lightly against hers and drank.
She broke eye contact then climbed up on one of the two stools. “This is best eaten hot.”
He sat across from her. “What is it?”
“Yam and crabmeat bisque. Have you ever had it?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
She took a piece of bread. “It’s best eaten this way.” She scooped a bit of the thick soup with the bread then reached to put it in front of his mouth. He cracked his lips and accepted the soup-drenched morsel. He chewed silently.
“Do you like it?”
“My compliments to the chef.”
Josie looked away quickly. The recipe was one her granme had shared with her, teaching her how to make it when she was eight and was no longer a danger around an open flame. Over the years, she’d learned to experiment with the spices herself and even her granme had proclaimed hers the best she’d ever tasted.
“Most Creole food is meant to be eaten with your fingers,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
His gaze seemed to linger on her hands as she licked bread crumbs from the pad of her thumb. “I think I can get used to it.” His eyes smiled at her.
“After this morning, I feel at a disadvantage,” she said.
“Oh?”
“You know more about me than I do about you.”
His gaze dropped to his soup as he expertly scooped up a dollop of it from the side before it could drip onto the place mat.
“I mean, did you always want to work in the auto industry? I can see a little boy dreaming of growing up to be a race-car driver, or even fixing up classics,