The Hand-Picked Bride. Raye Morgan
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the counter with an evaluating glance and began a catalog. “Bear claws. German Chocolate cake. Almond cookies...”
“I know, I know.” He gave the items another look, then met her gaze. “What I mean is, where did you get these pastries? They look great.”
She shrugged and said simply, “I made them.”
He frowned. “You?”
That certainly set her teeth on edge. This was what she hated about men. It happened every time. Just because she had what many considered a pretty face and a pleasing figure and those startling eyes—just because she was a blonde—it always seemed to come as a total surprise to men that she might have a talent or two up her sleeve. Sometimes she thought they actually resented it—as though she were supposed to concentrate on being attractive and leave the hard work to the homely chicks. Her jaw set. For a moment she’d thought he might be different. Wrong again.
“Yes, me,” she said, barely holding back the impulse to snap. “All by myself in my own little apartment kitchen.”
“You’re kidding.” He gazed at the wares before him and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “If you can do this in a little kitchen,” he murmured almost to himself. “Imagine what you could do with commercial ovens at your disposal.”
She blinked. Just when she’d been ready to pigeonhole him, he’d surprised her again. She hesitated and shrugged. If he was interested in bakery items, far be it from her to discourage him. Customers were what she lived for.
“Would you like to try one?” she asked.
“Yes, I would,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “Let’s see...how about a slice of cheesecake. And a Napoleon. And one of those cherry tarts.”
She blinked and started to laugh. “All three?”
He grinned and nodded as though he were glad she was showing signs that she might warm up eventually. “All three.”
She shrugged, amused but at a loss. “Do you want me to box them?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ll try them here. Put them on separate plates, please.”
Now she was completely confused. It seemed a little early in the morning for gluttony, and he really didn’t seem the type. Then a possible answer occurred to her.
“Oh, do you have friends with you?” she asked, craning to look behind him. There were others on the street. The place was beginning to come to life. But there was no one who looked as though he or she belonged to this strange man.
“No,” he said, confirming her original judgment. “There’s only me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”
The man wanted three pastries and that was what he should have. She glanced back to make sure Kevin was busily playing with his blocks, then pulled out three paper plates and went to work, picking out nice specimens and setting all three plates on a tray. He put a few bills down on the counter and took the tray from her, murmuring his thanks. Taking the plastic fork she’d provided, he took a bite of the cheesecake and rolled it around on his tongue. She leaned back against a stack of boxes with her arms folded, watching curiously, as his eyes seemed to get a very distant look. Either the man loved cheesecake or he was a very discerning connoisseur.
When the bite was finished, he prodded the confection with the fork, examining the crust, mashing the creamy center through the tines in a way that made her wince. Then he turned to the Napoleon and did the same to it before popping a large bite into his mouth.
She frowned, toying with the idea of saying something to him about his unusual way of eating, but before she had a chance, Kevin threw a block out of the playpen and she bent to retrieve it. When she rose again, she turned and found the man breaking apart the cherry tart as though he might find something sinister hidden in its depths. She handed the block to her son absently, frowning as she watched the man put a taste of the tart in his mouth and narrow his eyes. He looked as though he were listening to something she couldn’t quite hear, and as she watched, she had to hold back a flash of annoyance.
What the heck was he doing, anyway? Didn’t he have any respect for decent food? She bit her tongue. After all, he’d bought the pastries. She had no right to complain about the way he ate them. But she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.
Oblivious to her emotions, he looked at her again, nodded with a trace of a smile and put the plate down, reaching for a napkin. “Thanks,” he said as he wiped away a few crumbs. “Great stuff.”
She stepped forward and looked at the tray in dismay. He’d had one bite of each and done a lot of damage along the way. “That’s it? You’re not going to finish them?”
He let out a short laugh. “Are you kidding? I’d turn into a bowling ball if I ate whole portions.” He tossed his napkin into her trash can.
“Listen, I work with food. I have to test it all the time. And I’ve got to say, these are some dam good pastries.”
She looked from him to the demolished plates again, still at sea. “I...I’m glad you like them.”
He nodded, thinking. “I do.” He looked her up and down, assessing more than her baking abilities. A smile lit his eyes and he nodded as though agreeing with something he’d just thought of. “Listen, how would you like to come work for me?”
“For you?” She drew back suspiciously. She hadn’t expected anything like this. “Doing what?”
“Believe it or not, I need a pastry chef.” He pulled out his wallet again and found a business card to show her. “I’ve got a restaurant, the Max Grill in Pasadena. Our pastry chef quit last month and we’ve been making do with a local bakery.” He gestured toward her wares. “I like what you’ve got here. How about giving it a try?”
She studied the card to keep from meeting his gaze. The Max Grill. She’d heard of it, though she’d never eaten there. Her budget ran more to fast-food hamburger stands.
“I don’t think so,” she told him, holding the card out to him. “Thanks anyway.”
He smiled at her, bemused. She didn’t trust him. He could see it in her spectacular eyes, sense it in her body language. He’d never seen anyone like her before and he had an instinctive feeling that he shouldn’t let her slip out of his life without at least thinking it over.
“Listen, just come by one day this week and take a look at our setup,” he suggested, avoiding taking back the card. “I think you’ll like what you see.”
She was shaking her head, but he didn’t let her get a word in. “I’ve got two big commercial baking ovens. They can be yours every morning. Just think of the things you could try there that you’ve never been able to do before.” His smile was contagious. “Come on by and give us a chance. And after you fall in love with the place, we’ll talk. We’ll negotiate your salary. I pay pretty decently.” He jerked his head toward the playpen. “You might even be able to afford to get a baby-sitter for the kid.”
Her head snapped around and she gazed at him levelly. Baby-sitting for her kid, indeed! As if she would let anyone else raise her child for her. Wasn’t that just like a man? Suddenly it all seemed much too familiar. Sure, get the kid out of the way so they could get to know each other better. Where had she ever heard that before?
“I’m afraid I can’t help you out,” she said stiffly, dropping the card into her trash, since he wouldn’t take it back.
He watched her defiant gesture with a slight frown. “You won’t even come take a look at the place?”
She held her head high and gazed at him across the bridge of her nose. “No.”
His frown deepened. “Do you have some other job? Besides this, I mean.”
He was awfully persistent and she looked toward where Mandy was selling pretzels to a young boy. She might have