The Marriage Recipe

The Marriage Recipe
Michele Dunaway

New York loves pastry chef Rachel Palladia's desserts, and her boss in the A-list Italian restaurant where she works is desperate to make her his wife. A country girl's dream come true–until she catches her fiancé making love to someone else. When her ex-fiancé sues her for the rights to her recipes, Rachel heads home to Morrisville, Indiana, to ask Colin Morris–the town's hotshot lawyer and her former secret crush–for help. But while they're working on an ironclad defense, their relationship really heats up!The two are concocting a recipe for the perfect marriage–except he's determined to stay small-town, and she yearns for the big city's bright lights. A dilemma, for sure, unless they can cook up a solution…

“Umm-hmm,” Rachel mumbled, determined not to open her mouth

She should stop him. Say no. Do something.

But she stood there as Colin started to spread the frosting over her top lip. She stared at him, transfixed. Even with all the time she’d spent in Marco’s kitchen, Marco had never done anything this erotic.

He’d never touched her like this, making her quiver with anticipation.

Sex had been basic. Ordinary. Bland.

Nothing like the high intensity of this moment.

This was sweeter than any dessert. This was…pure bliss.

Dear Reader,

I love to cook. Cakes, pies and pastries are my all-time favorites to bake, especially if the main ingredient is chocolate. I have dozens of cookbooks in my kitchen, and I dug out my favorites when I needed inspiration for this book. While I haven’t made the cupcakes that bring about sparks between Rachel Palladia and Colin Morris, I have made the coconut cake that Rachel brings to Easter brunch.

After her engagement to a New York City restaurateur ends, pastry chef Rachel returns to Morrisville, Indiana. Instead of being able to get legal advice from Bruce Lancaster (Legally Tender, American Romance 1100), Rachel finds that her only hope for keeping the recipes she developed out of the hands of her ex-fiancé is Colin Morris, the boy next door and her former childhood crush. She, Bruce and Colin were best friends, until Colin stood her up for the prom.

But Colin’s behavior was the result of a big misunderstanding. Rachel and Colin quickly discover that when you mix two former next-door-neighbors together and simmer over a rekindled flame, you just might have the perfect recipe for marriage.

Happy reading, and enjoy the romance. And feel free to contact me through my Web site, www.micheledunaway.com.

The Marriage Recipe

Michele Dunaway

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In first grade Michele Dunaway knew she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up, and by second grade she knew she wanted to be an author. By third grade she was determined to be both, and before her high school class reunion, she’d succeeded. In addition to writing romance, Michele is a nationally recognized English and journalism educator who also advises both the yearbook and newspaper at her school. Born and raised in a west county suburb of St. Louis, Missouri, Michele has traveled extensively, with the cities and places she’s visited often becoming settings for her stories. Described as a woman who does too much but doesn’t ever want to stop, Michele gardens five acres in her spare time and shares her house with two young daughters and five extremely lazy house cats and one rambunctious kitten that rule the roost.

For Chris Waldo.

The sky’s the limit and you’re conquering that!

I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished.

And for Marty Smith,

my brother and chef extraordinaire;

and to my fantastic editor Beverley Sotolov,

who helped make this book one of my favorites.

Contents

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

Rachel Palladia was up to her elbows in dough. Unfortunately, none of it was green—the kind she really needed. Specifically, one-hundred-dollar bills, and lots of them.

Damn it all. No, damn him. Rachel let the curse word fly as she thought of her thirty-six-year-old fiancé, Marco Alessandro. Make that ex-fiancé. A woman simply did not marry a man to whom faithfulness meant he could sample the sous chef whenever his libido demanded it.

“I’m Italian,” Marco had proclaimed when she’d caught him and the nubile sous chef buck naked and bopping like rabbits in Rachel’s bed. “Italian men take mistresses. You will always have my heart. You will be my wife.”

Rachel had uttered a few choice expletives, tossed his diamond ring at him, told him to get out of her life and her apartment—and promptly donated her bed and linens to Goodwill. She was sleeping on one of those inflatable single mattresses until she could afford something else, but at least the inflatable was pure, unsoiled.

Rachel sighed, slapped the white-flour blob on the stainless-steel worktable and used a rolling pin to smooth out the piecrust. She was out several thousand dollars in nonrefundable deposits for wedding items and there were charges on her credit cards for other nonreturnable ones.

Even worse was that she was still working for the son of—Rachel bit off the word. Her mom insisted that ever since Rachel had moved to New York City at eighteen she’d started cussing like a sailor. Rachel planned on cleaning up her language, but this fiasco with Marco wasn’t helping any.

She placed the rolled-out dough in the pie pans and began trimming the crusts. To have come this far only to come to this…Rachel resisted the urge to throw the excess dough. She’d been in food service all her life, beginning at her grandmother’s diner in Morrisville, Indiana. Instead of attending college, Rachel had graduated from the CIA—Culinary Institute of America, that is—then worked her way up in a succession of kitchen jobs until she’d landed here as head pastry chef at Alessandro’s, a fine Italian restaurant on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

God knows how many other women had revolved in and out of Marco’s life before she’d caught him with the sous chef one week before Valentine’s Day.

She’d spent the holiday of love alone, nursing her wounds and chastising herself for missing the signs. She had to be an idiot. That mistress stuff only happened on TV, or so she’d thought. Now she was stuck in an employment contract with a noncompete clause that wouldn’t allow her to work within fifty miles of the restaurant. Which left out finding another job in New York City, a town she’d loved from the very first minute she’d stepped foot in Penn Station the summer she’d been eighteen. Unless Marco let her out of her contract she had no option but to keep on at Alessandro’s if she wanted to stay in any of the five boroughs.