Free Taste: A Love Story by Tracy Ewens Page B

suddenly uncomfortable.
    “What?” she asked.
    “There were a lot of things we probably should have asked in Paris, don’t you think?”
    She nodded. “I guess the details didn’t seem important then.” She stepped back down the stairs, deciding she’d had enough for one morning.
    “Don’t you want to see the upstairs?” he asked.
    “I need to get going, but I would like to see your kitchen. Did you change it when you moved in?” Kara knew bringing the conversation back to food or his kitchen would rescue her from what felt far too intimate.
    “I did, so I guess I lied before when I mentioned that I hadn’t changed anything. It wasn’t a complete remodel because I have the kitchen at The Yard, but,” he paused as they walked into the kitchen and he turned on the lights, “I changed out the appliances and the countertops.”
    “More wood,” tumbled out of Kara’s mouth as she walked further into the small kitchen and noticed the well-used surface, one section still coated with flour. She touched it with the tips of her fingers.
    “Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t have time to clean up when the pipe broke and I had a geyser in the yard.”
    “What were you making?”
    “Bread, we don’t seem to ever have enough of it at the restaurant. I never realized when we decided to put bread on the tables, but holy shit, people can pack it away.”
    They both laughed.
    “Your kitchen is smaller than I imagined, but I like that you kept with the design of the house.”
    “Size doesn’t really matter.”
    Kara looked up to find him standing in the small entry of the kitchen, his hands overhead, gripping the molding, and a wicked smile on his face that promised trouble.
    “Very funny.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing.
    “I thought so.” He smiled and dropped his hands from the molding. “But seriously, it’s true. As long as I have counter space and there’s a place for everything, I’m good.”
    “Well, it’s a great place, Logan.” She turned to take in the feel of his home one more time. “I think I have enough for the first piece and anything else I need, I’ll get online.”
    His gaze traveled over her as if he saw something new, or old, Kara couldn’t tell. “Can I make you lunch before you go?” His voice was a little raspy.
    “No, thank you. I’m not hungry and I don’t think that’s a good idea. Things are almost pleasant between us,” she joked. “Let’s leave it there.”
    “Are you ever hungry, Kara?”
    Their eyes met and she felt the weight of his question. What does that mean? She wasn’t going to answer him because something shifted in his eyes and things were suddenly about her—not a topic she liked to discuss. Kara put her notebook in her purse, and Logan walked her to the door.
    “Thanks for the tour,” she said, not able to meet his eyes.
    “You’re welcome. Make me look good, princess.”
    “I’ll do my best.” Kara was now certain she was blushing again.
    She got into her car, drove around the corner, and pulled over. Then she took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. The few months she’d spent with him in France had taught her so many things. What she wanted, and eventually, what she wasn’t allowed. He was playing with her, and that was all. The house, the stories, those were in his world, not hers. She needed to remember that.

Chapter Seven
    T he annual Halloween craft cocktail contest was a bit of a tradition in Pasadena. Local bartenders and some from Los Angeles competed for the coveted onyx shaker. Sage Jeffries, lead bartender for The Yard, had competed last year and lost to “some guy who made a damn milkshake in a martini glass,” as she put it. That explained why nearly two weeks before Halloween and shortly after they opened for lunch, Logan was sitting at the end of the bar, taste testing drinks while trying to remain sober.
    “I’ve narrowed it down to two drinks. This first one”—Sage pushed an orange drink across the