Free Guilty Pleasures by Cathy Yardley Page A

go.”
    She nodded, trying to stay serious herself, even while part of her felt the tiniest bit bereft. There was none of the double-entendre of last Sunday’s meal-making, she noticed… He barely seemed to register that she was there. He looked like a man possessed.
    By food, that was, she thought ruefully. Not sex.
    She sat down at the table. She wasn’t going to be disappointed. This was what she wanted. This was what had to happen. “So. What ideas have you come up with so far?”
    He sat down next to her, going over his drawings. He smelled like…garlic, she thought with a silent laugh. And oregano, and lemongrass, and cinnamon. All overlaying a basic male scent. It should have been disgusting, but instead it was intriguing.
    He flipped over a drawing. “So far, I’ve come up with three main themes. There’s French, of course…”
    â€œNo French,” Mari said, a knee-jerk reaction. Derek, the owner of Le Pome, had insisted that French was the way to go, too. She didn’t mind eating French food, but damn if she was going to cook it again.
    He frowned. “It was just a start. Okay, then there’s the ‘light food’ approach: natural fruits and vegetables, organic meats…”
    She frowned, looking at the menu he’d come up with. “That’s not us,” she said bluntly. When he frowned back at her, she pointed out, “Going from fried foods and ice-cream sundaes one day to organicveggies and tofu shakes the next? Come on. We’d be schizophrenic. And my crew won’t believe in this kind of food, I can guarantee it.”
    Nick looked disgruntled. It was interesting to see him this way—not trying to charm her or seduce her, but genuinely working.
    It was a bit of a turn on, actually.
    She frowned down at the page he was doodling on. What about this guy isn’t a turn-on, though?
    â€œAll right,” he said. “Now we start to get into the more artsy stuff. I’ve got a couple of ideas: Gypsy, with Moroccan and maybe Spanish influences; Noir, with sort of stark foods and some fifties influences; or maybe Alien, with really weird food combinations.”
    She raised an eyebrow at him. “Alien?”
    He took a deep breath. “That’s why it’s called brainstorming, Mari.”
    She looked over the sketches, reaching for a pencil just as he reached for the same. Her hand brushed against his, and she looked at him.
    He simply shrugged and reached for a nearby pen, not acknowledging their touch, even while she felt the slight jolt from it.
    â€œWe might be able to work with the Gypsy thing,” she said, starting to hunker down. She was focusing, getting serious. “Let’s see what menu ideas you had in mind.”
    Still, she couldn’t get over the lingering feeling that was haunting her. She could have sworn it was disappointment.
    Â 
    S EVERAL HOURS and many failed dish attempts later, she and Nick were at each other’s throats. Sandy-eyed,Mari looked over the long list of themes they’d managed to kick around. They’d moved from Gypsy and Alien to Fiesta, Fusion, Museum—with sculpted food, Pie House—a short-lived idea, and even Circus—even shorter-lived. Now, at three in the morning, Nick ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed at his eyes.
    â€œI think we’ve hit a wall,” he said, stating the obvious. He stretched, giving her a view of his tightly corded abs. “Maybe we should try picking it up again tomorrow.”
    Her mouth went dry.
    Too bad we can’t have a menu about sex.
    The thought was so ludicrous, she wound up laughing. He looked at her with a puzzled smile.
    â€œWhat?”
    She was too tired to come up with a proper lie. “I was just thinking…there’s one theme we haven’t hit on. Sex.”
    He blinked, and she laughed even harder. “Sex, huh?” he finally said. “Well. It can’t be