Spicing It Up

I was en route with a cup of ice from the refrigerator to the filtered faucet on the sink when he announced, “I loved the book, by the way.” The cup in my hand made an abrupt detour toward the floor—thank God for plastic. Perhaps “jittery” had been an under-statement.

Dylan stood immediately, obviously ready to come around the counter and assist me.

“It’s all right,” I said, more to appease my tattered pride than to answer any unspoken questions he might have, such as whether or not I always startled this easily. “It wasn’t glass. No damage done.”

I bent to retrieve the three ice cubes I’d spilled, chunking them in the sink. On the bright side, they didn’t bounce off the water spout and boomerang back to hit me in the head. So I had that going for my one remaining shred of dignity.

As he sat down, Dylan observed, “I seem to throw you off. I take it this image consulting wasn’t your idea?”

I bit my lip, realizing how little had been my idea lately. What was up with that? The restaurant had been Trevor’s, as had the initial cookbook attempt. Breaking up had been his idea, the few dates I’d been on in the last few months had mostly been Amanda’s…Outside of the kitchen, where I was ingenious and in control, my last independent, rebellious idea had been to sex up my book.

Hm. Maybe that’s why I’d taken a holiday from free-thinking. God knows what I’d come up with next.

“No, it was my publisher’s,” I confirmed as I opened the utensil drawer and grabbed a fork. “But I certainly recognize the wisdom behind it. You don’t have to worry about my being a hostile client or anything.”

He grinned. “Hostile isn’t how I would describe you. Just a bit unstrung. If it makes you feel better, most people are nervous about being on television or radio. Which provides me great job security, so I quite appreciate it, actually.”

I smiled, thinking that I liked this man. Then again, his occupation was based largely on putting people at ease and teaching others to do the same, so I shouldn’t read much into our interactions. “Here.” I handed him the plate of pie and glass of water, managing not to do anything as Lucy Ricardo as dump his drink down his front.

“Sorry I don’t have any ice cream,” I said as he took the first bite. “It’s even better à la mode.”

He sighed. “No, it’s heaven already. You know how often a bachelor in New York City eats something home-cooked?”

“So you—” Don’t have a girlfriend? As if that was any of my business! “—live in New York? Joan mentioned something about Atlanta.”

“Right. Just moved. The weather’s far warmer than either England or New York. So far, I love it, but we’ll see how I fare during the summer. If I stay that long.”

I leaned my elbows on the counter. “Planning to leave already?”

He shrugged one shoulder as he polished off more pie. “Not planning, precisely, but I tend not to sign long leases. I didn’t have what you would call a…a settled childhood. I grew accustomed to the moving around.”

“So is your family from England originally, or did they move there?” Though his words did come out in an occasionally crisp cadence reminiscent of Britain, he didn’t have a native’s accent.

“Transplanted from California—I’ve lived all over. As long as I can generate word of mouth, I can work in almost any city.”

“Joan certainly recommended you highly,” I said. Gushingly, one might say.

“Great lady. Met her while coaching one of her colleague’s bestsellers, and I eventually introduced Joan to her husband.”

This information perked me up, for no real rational reason.

He gestured toward me with his fork. “Someone at Hargrave clearly thinks you have bestseller potential, and I’m here to help you fulfill it. So, as nice a diversion as it’s been to be the center of attention myself, we should focus on you.”

Joy.

“Okay, sure. Just, um, let me get something to pull my hair back with so it’s not falling in my face while you film me.” It was either that or an I-have-to-use-the-bathroom excuse to leave.

I dashed out of the room, making a quick right to retrieve my bra and scan for any other offending under-garments. Then, hoping he was too preoccupied with pie to notice, I hurried past the kitchen/dining room area again to get the clip I’d tossed on my dresser before answering the door. When I moseyed back down the hall, securing my hair in a loose twist as I walked, I found Dylan had rinsed off his plate and unzipped the camcorder case.