"You do clean up pretty good."

Chris watched, amused, as a bright pink blush stained her cheeks.

"Oh," she said. "Ah, thanks. You, too."

The elevator door opened and they stepped out. "Where's your car?" Chris asked.

"Parked in my driveway." A sheepish half-smile touched her lips. "I practically dragged my sick delivery man out of bed this morning to help me. He tinkered with the engine a bit and got it started, but I'd no sooner arrived home than the ole Dodge coughed, burped, and spit for several agonizing minutes, then died." She shook her head sadly. "It was painful to watch."

"How did you get here?"

"By cab."

"How are you getting home?"

"By cab. In fact, I'd better call one." She smiled and held out her hand. "It was nice seeing you again."

Chris absently shook her hand. "Yeah. Nice."

She turned and walked away, heading toward the bank of pay phones in the lobby. Chris watched her, his eyes glued to her curvy derrière. He looked at his watch. Even if he set a new land speed record, he would still be late picking up his date.

For reasons he could not logically explain, he found himself jogging across the ceramic tile floor to catch up with her. His mind was saying "I'm outta here," but his feet were not cooperating at all.

"Where do you live?"

She turned, clearly surprised. "Why?"

"I'll give you a ride home."

She eyeballed him. "You look like you're ready for a date. I wouldn't want to make you late."

"I have time," he heard himself say, "provided you don't live in Oklahoma."

She laughed. "Actually, I'm pretty close by. Only about ten minutes from here."

"Great. Let's go."

Chris followed her through the revolving door. The instant they stepped outside, a blast of hot, humid air hit them. He led her to the Mercedes, opened the door for her, then settled himself behind the wheel.

"Where to, lady?" he asked in his best New York cabbie voice.

Smiling, she gave him directions. Except for "Turn left here" and "Make a right at the stop sign," the drive was made in relative silence. Chris spent the ride convincing himself that he'd only offered to drive her home because it was the chivalrous thing to do. It had nothing to do with her. Not a thing.

True to her word, ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a small, neat brick ranch. A profusion of pink and white flowers filled the carefully tended beds, and the postage-stamp-sized lawn was lush and green. The only thing that looked out of place was the lime-green, rusted-out eyesore sitting in the driveway.

A young girl, maybe twelve years old, sitting on the front steps waved. Melanie waved back and said, "That's my neighbor's daughter. I promised to help her bake her mom a birthday cake." She unhooked her seat belt and opened the car door. "Thanks. I really appreciate the ride. Cab fare kinda strains the budget."

"My pleasure."

"Enjoy your date."

Date? He stared into her big brown eyes and lost his ability to think straight. Just looking at her made him swell against his trousers. With an effort he snapped out of it. Date. Right.

She slammed the car door, shot him a dimpled smile, and ran across the lawn to the porch. She ruffled the girl's hair then turned and waved at him before following the child into the house.

Chris stared at the cozy house. His plans for the evening somehow had lost their appeal, and he found himself wishing he could stay and watch her bake that birthday cake. Her kitchen was undoubtedly welcoming and homey, and he bet it smelled great.

He puffed out a breath and shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? He had a date with a real babe, and here he sat, mooning over a woman who was clearly not his type.

Good thing she was gone. Her and her big brown eyes and soft, luscious mouth. He shifted in his seat. His pants felt uncomfortably snug.

Must have been all those darn cookies he ate.

Chapter 3

Ten minutes into his date with Claire Morrison the marketing executive, Chris realized she was not cookout material. By the time their dinner was served, he'd summed Claire Morrison up as a self-centered bore, and by the time dessert rolled around, he was ready to stuff his napkin in her mouth just to shut her up.

Tuning out her plaintive complaints about her last boyfriend, Chris studied her from across the table with an objective eye. The woman was undeniably gorgeous. Her tall, slim physique, combined with her shoulder-length blond hair and startling aqua eyes guaranteed she'd attract male attention wherever she went. She was savvy, successful, and had made it plain that sex was in his immediate future-just the sort of woman with whom he envisioned whiling away his bachelor hours.

He couldn't wait to get rid of her.

The woman hated everything-her mother, her sister, her job, her apartment, her six ex-boyfriends, and the key lime pie she'd ordered for dessert. Unable to stand much more of her, he quickly paid the check and drove her home. The instant he shifted the Mercedes into park, she slid across the seat. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth.

Chris knew he should be thinking yippee.

Instead he was thinking yuck.

He let the kiss go on for nearly a minute, hoping she'd ignite some sort of response in him, but she left him totally cold. It was as if his hormones had suddenly packed themselves up in little suitcases and left the country.

She lifted her head and stared at him briefly before scooting back to her seat. After checking her makeup in the mirror, she turned to him. "Dinner was nice, but I don't think we should see each other again."

Thank you, God. "All right." He suspected his male ego should feel deflated, but all he felt was relief. Profound relief.

"You're a nice guy," she added, apparently thinking he needed an explanation, "but there's really no spark here, you know?"

Chris just nodded, happy that she'd said it first.

She exited the car and he drove away, inhaling his first easy breath in hours.


* * *

When Chris arrived home twenty minutes later, he had two messages on his machine. Snagging a beer from the fridge, he slipped off his shoes, plopped on the sofa, and pushed the playback button.

The first message was from his mother. "Hi! It's Mom. Just calling to tell you to bring your bathing suit tomorrow. We're all looking forward to meeting your friend Melanie. And don't forget, Zoë the florist will be there, too. Looks like you'll be busy!, Bye!"

The second message kicked in. "It's Mom again. Don't forget to bring dessert!, Bye!"

Groaning, Chris stretched out his legs, laid back his head, and closed his eyes. For reasons he didn't understand, he felt irritable and out of sorts. Of course, spending the last two hours listening to Claire Morrison piss and moan about everything under the sun didn't help, but it was more than that.

It was her.

Her and her darn cookies. And those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes.

Melanie Gibson.

He couldn't seem to get the damn woman off his mind. Her, and the fact that the name Pampered Palate was so familiar. While Claire had incessantly blathered on, his thoughts had wandered to Melanie dozens of times. But what good did that do him? What was the point of thinking about a woman who was all wrong for him, and whom he'd probably never see again?

He recalled his mother's messages and puffed out a breath. Mom expected him to bring a date to the cookout tomorrow. Claire was out of the question, and being fixed up with Zoë the florist held no appeal.

Chris suddenly sat up straight. Actually, his mother didn't expect him to bring a date-she expected him to bring Melanie. If he could convince Melanie to go, he'd be saved from Zoë and satisfy his mother's matchmaking tendencies in one fell swoop. He looked at his watch. It was past eleven-too late to call Melanie. He'd have to phone her in the morning. Or even better, maybe he'd stop by her house. Offer to take a look at her car.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Fix her car, and she'll come to the cookout. Bishop, you're a genius. Everybody wins. Melanie gets her car repaired, I'm saved from the horrors of a fix-up, and Mom will get off my back about not dating.

Of course, his plan meant having to spend the day with Melanie. A slow smile spread across his face.

Oh, well. He'd suffer through it. Somehow.


* * *

At 7:45 the next morning, Melanie looked at the thermometer just outside her bedroom window and groaned. It was already eighty-six degrees. Another pizza-oven day.

She dressed in a bright lime-colored sleeveless shirt and neon tangerine shorts. She checked herself in the mirror and gave her mop of curls one last swipe with the comb. A slash of peach lipstick, scrunchy lime socks, and her beat-up Nikes, and she was ready to face the day.

Since she had an appointment with the bank tomorrow, she planned to spend this morning making sure all her business documents were in order. If all went well with the loan officer, she'd soon be buying her new catering truck. Expanding the Pampered Palate into private catering was something she desperately wanted and needed for the future of her business. In order to succeed, she had to grow.

But first, she needed caffeine. She brewed herself a cup of tea in the bright, sunny kitchen and spread the newspaper on the large, round oak table. She'd barely tasted her chamomile when the doorbell rang.

Mug in hand, she walked to the door, fully expecting to see one of her neighbors. All the neighbors knew Melanie kept a well-stocked kitchen, and someone was always stopping by to borrow a cup of this or a pinch of that. Melanie didn't mind-in fact, she enjoyed the easy camaraderie she shared with the people who lived nearby.