She wanted to ask him to remove all his clothes and submit to a thorough physical examination. Instead, she pulled herself together and cocked a brow. "I appreciate punctuality as much as the next person, but according to my calculations"-she glanced over her shoulder at the clock-"you're about sixteen hours early for our date."

A slow, sexy grin quirked his lips. "I live by the rule that it's better to be sixteen hours early than one minute late."

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers in a warm, friendly kiss, effectively erasing every thought from her head.

"Nice to see you, Mel Gibson," he said, tweaking one of her curls. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Not on your life, her mind screamed.

"Of course," her lips said. She held the door wide and fumbled with the lock after he walked in. A subtle whiff of his woodsy cologne teased her nostrils and she clamped her lips together to squelch the feminine sigh of pleasure threatening to escape. And clamping her lips together came with the added bonus that it kept her from drooling.

By the time she turned to face him, he was comfortably sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She scooted around him cautiously, not getting too close for fear she'd be tempted to jump onto his lap.

The guy probably had some sort of Star Wars force field surrounding him. If she ventured too close, he'd suck her in and she'd never escape. To be safe, she headed for the sink and nervously crammed several more handfuls of potato peelings down the disposal hole.

"I thought you were out of town," she said, proud that her voice sounded so normal.

When he didn't reply, she looked over her shoulder at him and noticed his gaze was trained on her butt. Heat zinged through her like she'd been shot with a laser. She cleared her throat to attract his attention.

He looked up and winked at her. "Nice view."

"Ah, thanks. I thought you were out of town."

"I was. I finished my audit ahead of schedule and decided to catch a plane home tonight instead of waiting until morning. I was driving down Peachtree and saw the Dodge parked in the lot and thought maybe you were stranded here. Is the car running okay?"

"The best it has in a long time. Thanks to you."

"Do you always work this late?"

"Sometimes. It depends on how busy the day was. We set a new record today. It was our busiest lunch and dinner ever-and all in the same day."

A tired smile lit his face. "That's great. It sounds like the Pampered Palate is off and running."

"You betcha. Just try and catch me."

A devilish gleam lit his eyes. "Hmmm. Sounds interesting. Is that a dare?"

"No!" she all but shouted. "No," she repeated in a calmer tone. "Just an expression."

He rose and came to stand behind her. Leaning over her shoulder, he asked, "What are you doing?"

A legion of chills skittered down her spine when his warm breath brushed her ear. Thank goodness she was finished using her sharp knife-there was no way she could have concentrated with him so close. "Cleaning up some potato peels. I was just getting ready to leave."

"Great. I'll wait and walk you to your car. Protect you from any lurking bandits."

The only lurking bandit that worried her was the one standing right behind her, his breath ruffling her hair, his body radiating sensual heat like a blast furnace.

Who exactly was supposed to protect her from him? He was more lethal than a loaded pistol.

Trying her best to ignore him, she turned on the water and flicked the disposal switch.

A weak grrrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing.

"Problem?" Chris asked.

She shut off the faucet and glared at the dirty water in the sink, complete with floating potato peels, and squelched the urge to stick her tongue out at it.

"You could say that. The garbage disposal is clogged. I must have shoved in too many potato peels at once." She tipped her head back and huffed out an exasperated breath. "Just what I need. A big fat bill from a plumber. And I probably won't be able to get one here tomorrow before noon."

"No need to call a plumber," Chris said. "My mom does this same thing at least twice a year. As long as it's just a clog, I can fix it for you."

Hope bloomed in her chest. "You can? Really?"

"Sure. I'll have you fixed up in no time."

If she hadn't been convinced before this moment that he was the most attractive man who breathed air, this clinched the deal. Jeez, he was just like Superman. Gorgeous, and able to leap clogged garbage disposals in a single bound.

He shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Lowering himself to his knees, he stuck his head and shoulders into the cabinet under the sink, leaving Melanie an unobstructed view of what had to be the best male rear end since the dawn of man.

She wondered if he was wearing boxers again and found herself staring, engrossed in attempting to see through his wool trousers to solve the mystery. Boy, that Superman sure had a good thing with that X-ray vision. He'd be able to find out in a jiffy-

"Are you alive up there?" came Chris's muffled voice from inside the cabinet. "What the heck are you doing?"

Oogling your ass, trying to figure out what kind of Calvin's you're wearing. "Nothing."

"Has the water drained down yet?"

Melanie looked in the sink. "Yup. It's almost all gone." She had to hand it to him. For an accountant, he sure knew his way around kitchen appliances. He'd fixed that clog in nothing flat.

Chris backed out of the cabinet, sat back on his heels, and looked up at her. "What did you say?"

"I said it looks like you've fixed it." She reached over and hit the button.

The disposal erupted like Mount Vesuvius, spewing a geyser of dirty water and potato peels into the air.

Melanie jumped back, out of harm's way, but Chris wasn't so lucky.

She stared down at him and clapped her hands to her cheeks, her jaw slack with shock. "Oh. My. God."

Murky water dripped off his nose and earlobes. His shirt was plastered to his shoulders, his hair flattened to his head.

And he was dotted from head to toe with brown plops of potato peel.

Some of the mess had landed on the floor and the sink backsplash, but not much. Nearly all of it, the gunk from fifty potatoes, covered Chris.

Uh-oh. This is bad. They both remained frozen in a stunned tableau for several seconds, then, without uttering a word, Chris wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand. The water disappeared, but the brown flecks remained, as if they were pasted to him.

She had to say something, but God help her, she had no idea what. The poor guy looked like something that had been fished from a dumpster. If a genie had suddenly popped up and granted her one wish, she would have bypassed world peace and a million dollars and opted for another chance not to flick that damn switch.

Reaching out, she plucked a dish towel from the counter and handed it to him. "I'm so sorry, Chris. I… I guess you weren't quite finished with your repairs."

He wordlessly accepted the towel and wiped his sopping face with a stoic expression that increased her guilt triplefold. His clothing appeared ruined beyond all hope, and it was all her fault.

Now wait a darn minute, her inner voice said. It was actually all his fault. If he hadn't dropped by and gotten her all flustered, she wouldn't have overloaded the disposal. She suspected, however, that he wouldn't appreciate hearing that right now, so she kept that opinion to herself.

And blaming him was a weak argument anyway, and she knew it. It wasn't his fault she'd lost her mind the minute he walked in the door. He couldn't help it if the mere sight and smell of him sent her into a brain-numbing tizzy.

Squaring her shoulders, she knelt beside him and helped him brush off his once pristine white shirt. "I guess I'm in the doghouse, huh?"

"Actually," he said in a perfectly calm voice, "I've always understood that the doghouse is a place for men only." He flicked a potato peel from his bottom lip. "We might have to make an exception in your case." Glancing down at his ruined pants, he shook his head and muttered, "Another one bites the dust."

He was so calm, she couldn't tell if he was holding in raging anger or if he was just an incredibly good sport.

She prayed he was an incredibly good sport.

Plucking a blob of goop from his shirt, she said, "I'm really sorry about this. Of course I'll pay for your cleaning bill…" Her voice trailed off as a particularly large peeling disengaged itself from his hair and flopped down, covering his left eye.

Before she could stop it, a giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she bit her lips to contain it.

One dark blue eye glared at her. "You're not laughing, are you?"

She shook her head, desperately fighting to control her amusement, but each passing second brought her closer to exploding.

"Because laughing," he said, pulling the peel off his eye, "would not be a good idea."

Giggles erupted from between her lips and, unable to contain the torrent, she gave in to her mirth. She stood, staggered to lean against the counter, and laughed until her sides ached.

"You… you look like Mr. Potato Head with brown measles," she gasped.

He was on his feet in an instant, looming over her. Bracing his spud-encrusted arms on either side of her, he all but growled, "Mr. Potato Head?"

She peeked up at him from under lowered lashes. "’Fraid so. Although in all fairness, he was sort of doofy-looking, and you're not."