Secret Ingredient: Love

He sighed as he settled his very attractive rear end in her big, overstuffed chair. Her want ads still rested on the ottoman in front of him. “This is comfortable,” he said.

“I think so, too. It was my grandmother’s.” Fran sat on the sofa at a right angle to him. “She died a couple years ago.” She smiled sadly.

“I guess she was very special to you.”

Fran nodded. “My father’s mother. She visited all the time. We were very close. She financed my rebellion.”

“Rebellion?”

“Culinary school. My father refused to pay for it. He said that if I liked to cook, I should get married and prepare meals for one man instead of a bunch of strangers.”

“Hmm,” was his only comment. “Where did you go to school?”

“San Francisco.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Chalk one up for your grandmother. And you still miss her.”

“Every day,” Fran agreed. “But that’s why I love that chair. It’s nice to have something to remind me of her.”

“Do you want me to give you my amateur psychological take on that?”

“Nope. And I won’t practice armchair psychology if you won’t.”

“You already have,” he said wryly.

“Okay. No more cracks about second-son syndrome.”

He held out his hand. “Deal.”

“Done,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.

A tingle of awareness skittered through her. If she had foreseen the magnitude of disturbance caused by the warmth of his large hand, she would have kept hers to herself.

She removed her fingers from his, hoping he didn’t notice her abruptness. It smacked of attraction. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Nothing personal. But after her disaster, she wasn’t interested in a flirtation or anything more serious with any man. Especially one in the food service industry. If only Alex didn’t look so darn cute sitting in her grandmother’s chair. What in the world had possessed her to look through that peephole in the first place? Curiosity.

Which reminded her. She was still curious about the second reason he’d dropped by. He’d admitted he was looking for a chef, but he didn’t seem terribly impressed with her verbal credentials. There wasn’t much chance he would offer her the job. Too bad. It was a wonderful opportunity.

But he’d said he was here for two reasons, and he’d only accounted for one. “So what’s the second whammy?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you’re here because of a double whammy. Chef search is number one. What’s number two?”

“Matchmaking.”

Chapter Two

“Why would you assume Rosie was matchmaking?” Fran asked. “Because I’m a female chef?”

“Yes.”

Alex didn’t miss the defensive note in her voice or the way her gaze narrowed at his response. He’d been around the restaurant business long enough to know that women who decided on this career had a tough time. Attitudes were changing, but males still dominated the kitchens in a lot of four star restaurants.

He couldn’t resist adding, “If you were a guy, it would have been the single whammy.”

“Huh?”

“Chef search. No matchmaking.”

She nodded slowly as the corners of her mouth curved in a knowing smile. “Okay. But why would your sister try to fix you up?”

“Because she’s a hopeless romantic.”

“I wouldn’t think a guy who looks like you would have trouble finding a woman on his own.”

She offered the observation without embarrassment or evasiveness. A woman on the make wouldn’t be so straightforward. He found her refreshing.

And more, he thought. Sweat broke out on his forehead as she touched a finger to her full bottom lip. He wondered how it would taste. That thought came out of nowhere. He’d never felt such a strong attraction. Not since Beth, he amended. Guilt hit him hard and fast. Followed by the pain—dull now, but still there, every time he thought about her and what they’d lost. Love like that happened only once in a lifetime. And fate, karma or whatever you wanted to call it had dumped on him in a big way. He’d found the perfect woman, but chance had stolen from him the part where they would grow old together. Fate wouldn’t get another chance to kick him in the teeth.

“I’m not looking for a woman,” he said. With luck, in addition to being direct, Fran wasn’t inquisitive. This subject was off-limits. There was no point in discussing it.

Her eyes glittered, as if she wanted to ask more. But all she said was, “Then that’s why Rosie is trying to fix you up. It’s a delicious challenge. I just don’t understand why she would think I was matchmaking material.”

“There was that cute-as-a-button remark. Rosie said it, not me,” he stated, raising his hands in surrender.

He had to admit Rosie had been right about that. Funny, he could see buttons as cute, but not sexy. And Fran Carlino had sex appeal in spades. Especially her mouth. Straight white teeth showed to perfection when she smiled, which she did often. She had full soft lips. Kissable lips.

“I would prefer stunning or drop-dead gorgeous to cute, but at least she didn’t tell you I need to wear a bag over my head in public.”

He blinked and forced himself to switch his focus from her mouth to the words coming out of it. “Actually, she was right about you. You’re very attractive, Fran.”

“Be still my heart,” she said, touching a hand to her chest. “Now there’s a line to turn a woman’s head. You really are out of practice. You’re not kidding, are you—about not looking for a woman?”

“No.” It wasn’t even a matter of looking. He’d had his shot. It hadn’t worked out. End of story.

“Then if you suspected Rosie was matchmaking, but you’re not interested in participating, why are you here?”

“She said I couldn’t get you. And if I wanted to know why, I had to ask you myself.”

“Ah,” Fran said, with one emphatic nod that said she understood completely. “I get it. Brilliant strategy. And it worked like a charm.”

“What worked?”

“Reverse psychology.”

“What happened to no more amateur analyzing?” he asked.

“I forgot,” she admitted. “But this is too classic, too characteristic of reverse psychology.”