She should be jumping up and down with excitement about that, not fighting this vague depression that he would be out of her life soon.
“We’re ahead of schedule. Another few days should do it, then we’ll leave it to the painters and decorators. And speaking of work...I’ve been meaning to stop by the resort restaurant to have a meal so I can check yours out. Seems only fair, since you’ll see mine every day while you work in here.”
She would think of him. While she stood at that gleaming countertop, she would remember those big hands that had fashioned it. Eventually he would become just another memory in thirtysomething years of them.
That thought shouldn’t have made her suddenly sad, either.
“I would have thought the divine hamburger I fixed you the other day was proof enough of my mad cooking skills.”
He shrugged. “Still. I should have a second taste, just to be sure.”
Was he talking about her cooking or that kiss? She wasn’t quite sure...and wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Out of nowhere, she was struck by the desire to cook him a really fabulous meal in her own kitchen at home. Coquilles St. Jacques, maybe, plump scallops in a dry white wine sauce with baby chanterelle mushrooms and Gruyère cheese.
The impulse unnerved her. She never cooked privately for anyone but close friends, and Sam Delgado was far from that. She swallowed the invitation before it could be anything more than an idea. Her cozy little house on Currant Creek was her haven. Just the idea of him in her comfortable space made her feel as if someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of her shirt.
The restaurant would do. She would make sure they served him a meal he would never forget.
“You do know I’m just the sous-chef there, right?” she said. Technically that was true, but the executive chef, Simon Petit, had two other restaurants, one in Denver and one in Aspen, so she had been doing the heavy lifting for years and had created about half of the items on the menu. With none of the credit, of course.
“Good enough for me. Do I need a reservation?”
She ought to tell him yes and that they were booked out for weeks, but this was the off-season and he probably could walk in any night of the week. “I’ll take care of it. When do you want to come?”
“How about tonight around eight-thirty?”
That meant she would see him three times in one day. So much for trying to keep a safe distance. “Great,” she said, lying through her teeth. “I’ll make sure we have a good table ready for you.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Sorry to interrupt your work. I’d better let you get back to it.”
“I’ll see you tonight then.”
His words were perfectly polite, innocent even, but she shivered anyway. Those nerves skittered around inside her like shallots in hot oil.
Firmly ignoring her reaction, she gripped the dog’s leash, gave Sam a jaunty wave and headed back outside.
Once more in the murky sunlight, she marched briskly down the hill. Only when she was certain she was out of sight of Sam or any of his crew did she lean against a convenient tree trunk and press a hand to her stomach.
She had a serious crush on the man. It was ridiculous at her age and completely counterproductive. She was going to have to do something drastic to exorcise it before she made a complete fool of herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS IN HEAVEN. Complete culinary heaven.
After finishing the best meal of his life, Sam sat back in his chair and wiped at his mouth with his napkin with a sense of total satiation.
Everything had been perfect, from the roasted fennel tomato soup at the beginning to the chocolate mousse layer cake he had just finished. He didn’t consider himself any kind of foodie, though his late wife had done her best to educate his palate, but he did know when something tasted just right. This meal definitely fit the bill.
Though the waitstaff had been attentive and helpful, Sam’s only regret was that he had missed the chance to see Alexandra. What was the point of coming out here to her restaurant if he didn’t have the chance to tell her how delicious everything had been?
He was about to ask his server if he could finagle a few minutes of her time when the kitchen doors swung open and she walked out. All that silky blond hair was gathered under a tall chef’s hat—a toque, he’d learned once when Kelli had been watching the Food Network from the hospital bed—and she wore a white jacket and black trousers. She looked crisply professional but every bit as beautiful as always.
Suddenly the whole evening seemed brighter. He didn’t find that a particularly comfortable realization.
“So?” She gestured to his table.