A Maverick's Christmas Homecoming. Teresa Southwick

rolled up suited his dark hair and brought out his eyes, she thought. Designer jeans fit his long legs and spectacular butt as if made especially for him. For all she knew they might have been.

      “Would you like some chardonnay?”

      “Only if it pairs well with what you’re cooking,” she answered.

      “It does.”

      She followed him to the right and into the kitchen with state-of-the-art, stainless-steel refrigerator, dishwasher and cooktop. It was most likely top-of-the-line, not that she was an expert or anything. Ambience she knew something about and his table was set for two with matching silverware, china and crystal. Flowers and candles, too. The ambience had date written all over it.

      “Good to know. Because I’m sure the food police would have something to say about nonpaired wine.”

      “I kind of am the food police.”

      “That makes one of us.” She took the glass of wine and sipped. Not too sweet, not too dry. It was delicious. The man knew his wine and from what she’d been able to dig up on him, he knew his women, too. She was really out of her depth. “And it’s kind of a relief that you know your stuff. Because you know that thing about actors wanting to direct? I don’t think it works the same in food service. Waitresses don’t want to be chefs. At least I don’t. Boiling water I can do. Ham sandwich, I’m your girl. Anything fancy? Call someone else. Call you. You’re famous in food circles for—”

      He stopped the babbling with a finger on her lips. “Call me for what now?”

      “You tell me.” She took a bigger sip of wine and nearly drained the glass.

      “You’re nervous.” He was a master of understatement.

      “I didn’t think it showed.”

      “You’d be wrong.” He smiled then pulled chicken, vegetables and other ingredients from the refrigerator—all obviously prepared in advance—and stuff from a cupboard beside the stove, probably seasoning or spices. Or both. He took out a well-used frying pan and placed it on the stove. “But I’m pretty sure I understand.”

      “What?”

      “Your nerves. Thanks to reality TV, exposure about everything from bachelors to swamp people, we chefs have earned something of a reputation.”

      “What kind of reputation would that be?” She finished her wine, then set the glass on the granite countertop.

      “Bad boy.” The devil was in the blue-eyed glance he tossed over his shoulder. “And I’m no exception.”

      “Oh?”

      “Think about it. What I do involves sharp knives and fire. Very primitive.” As he lit the burner on the stove, the fire popped as the gas ignited.

      “I see what you mean.” And how.

      “On top of that I invited you to my place for dinner. But let me assure you that I have no intention of making you the dessert course.”

      “That never crossed my mind.” But why not? she wanted to ask. It hadn’t been on her mind until just now. Well, maybe a little bit when she saw him in that shirt and those jeans because that kicked up a curiosity about what he’d look like without them.

      He glanced over his shoulder again while tossing in the air over the hot flame everything he’d put in that frying pan. “In spite of what you may have heard, I’m not that type. I like to get to know a woman.”

      If he really got to know her, chances were pretty good that he’d lose interest. And speaking of types, she probably wasn’t his. She wasn’t a businesswoman now, more the still-trying-to-find-herself variety.

      “So, what are you doing for Christmas?” Changing the subject had seemed like a great idea until those words came out of her mouth. Would he think she was hinting for an invitation? The filter between her brain and mouth was either pickled or fried. Or both.

      “My holiday plans are actually still up in the air,” he said.

      There was an edge to his voice that demanded another subject change so she did. “What are you making for dinner tonight?”

      “It’s something I’m experimenting with.”

      “So I’m the guinea pig?”

      “Think of yourself as quality control.” He grabbed the two plates off the table, then slid half the contents of the frying pan onto each one and set them on a part of the cooktop that looked like a warming area. Then he put liquids into the sauté pan and stirred, fully concentrating on the job. After spooning what looked to her like rice from a sauce pan, he said, “Dinner is served.” He glanced at her. “More wine?”

      “Please.”

      After filling her glass and setting plates on the table, he held the chair for her to sit down. If a guy had ever done that before, she couldn’t remember. Then he sat across from her. The star lilies and baby’s breath with candles in crystal holders on either side gave it all a romantic feel.

      Suddenly her appetite disappeared, but she was here to eat and figured she’d better do that. She took a bite of the chicken and the flavors exploded on her tongue. “Oh, my. That is so good. It’s like a party in my mouth and I thought only chocolate could do that.”

      “I’m glad you like it.”

      “What’s in here?” She chewed and swallowed. “Can you tell me or would you have to kill me?” At his wicked look she shrugged. “Bad-boy rep, remember? CIA. Fire. Sharp stuff.”

      “I’ll make an exception for you.” He picked through the food on his plate. “Chicken. Asparagus. Mushrooms.”

      “This looks like rice, but the consistency is wrong.”

      “It’s risotto.”

      “Ah.” The gleam in his eyes started pressure in the vicinity of her chest and she hoped it was nothing more than pre-indigestion.

      They ate in silence for several moments before he said, “So how was growing up in Thunder Canyon?”

      “It was great, but keep in mind that I didn’t know anything else.” She put down her fork and wiped her mouth on the cloth napkin. “The pace is slower here and kids don’t need to grow up so fast.”

      “It’s slower for grown-ups, too.”

      Gianna nodded. “Not everyone is happy about that. Maintaining the balance between status quo and development has been and probably still is a source of conflict here in town.”

      That started a discussion about everything from population growth to weather to large holiday groups scheduled at The Gallatin Room the following week. It was interesting to hear about restaurant management, all that went into a successful business besides just preparing food. Time seemed to both fly and stand still.

      Finally Shane looked at her. “Would you like more?”

      “No, thanks.” Her plate was empty and she was so full. “I guess guinea pig was the correct term.”

      “I don’t think so. Clearly you enjoyed the food. In some cultures burping is high praise and a compliment to the chef.”

      “And in some parts of the country it’s a competitive sport.”

      He laughed, then stood and picked up his plate. She followed his lead and carried hers into the kitchen, where he took it from her and set them in the sink.

      “What can I do to help?” she asked.

      “Nothing. You’re a guest and I have a housekeeper. Why don’t we sit in the living room?”

      “Okay.” But when they walked in, the tall windows were filled with the sight of lights winking in the valley below and she walked over. “That is a pretty amazing view.”

      “I