Her Mistletoe Magic. Kristine Rolofson
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with the aroma of garlic and bread just out of the oven.
Grace greeted the staff and trotted across the stone floor in her ruby-red heels. Suddenly her right foot slipped from underneath her. Her ankle twisted and she was falling backward into the arms of the handsome chef.
“Whoa,” he said from somewhere above her head. “What the hell—”
“Sorry,” she managed to say, until he attempted to set her back on her feet and her ankle buckled again.
“Hold on.” He gripped her waist so she was lifted off her feet. “Chair!”
Three white-coated interns rushed to find a chair and within seconds an intern set one down in front of Nico and Grace. Nico placed her carefully on its brown leather seat.
“Thank you,” Grace said, surprised at how much her ankle had started to hurt. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I do. I think you slipped on these.” He bent over to pick up a tiny cluster of metal jingle bells and held them in the air to show his staff. “Ideas, anyone?”
“The cookie platters, Chef,” one of the young women said. “They must have fallen off the cookie platters.”
“Ah.” He frowned at the bells and shoved them in his jacket pocket before turning back to Grace. He knelt down to peer at her foot. “Those are ridiculous shoes.”
“I’m glad the heel didn’t break. I love them.”
“I loved them, too,” he muttered, lifting her foot to his thigh. “Until a few minutes ago.”
“Just give me a minute to catch my breath and then I’ll limp out of here.” It was so embarrassing. One minute she’d been ready to discuss business and then she’d landed against a surprisingly wide chest and into a pair of extremely muscular arms.
Must be all that chopping and whipping and stirring, she decided. Cooking was not for wimps.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Chef?” An intern pushed an empty chair closer. Nico positioned it in front of Grace and sat down, then carefully removed her shoe. Grace held her breath until he was finished. “Joan, check to make sure there are no more hazards on the floor. Check the dining room, too. Where’s Brian?”
“Here, Chef.” The young man looked at Grace and gulped. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Clarke. They must have fallen when—”
But his boss interrupted. “Yes, yes, it was an accident, Brian. Now, get some ice. And a towel.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“It’s all right, really.” She smiled when Brian returned. “I’ve tripped over all sorts of things in this job. Fallen, too. Don’t worry. This is nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Nico said, forming an ice pack with the towel. He placed it near the top of her foot. “It’s swelling. You may need X-rays.”
“Ow.” She made a move to pull her foot back, but Nico held her calf to keep her still. She smoothed her dress and made sure no one could see her matching red panties. She was sure Nico was the type to appreciate such things. And she wasn’t going to give him any more reasons to flirt with her.
“Definitely X-rays,” he said.
“It’s just a little sprain,” Grace countered. “I’ll take the ice and go back to my office—”
“Don’t we have doctors staying here for Thursday’s wedding?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll see if Noelle or Patsy can track one down, give us an opinion. Brian? Go ask at the desk. Otherwise, we’ll head to town.”
“Patsy can take me. You’re busy with ravioli and sauce and dinner and the twenty-six sightseers.”
“Patsy can’t carry you. And my staff is perfectly capable of making ravioli.” He arched a brow in their direction and a chorus of “Yes, Chef!” followed.
Grace didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want her toes to tingle every time his fingers shifted the ice pack. She didn’t want to believe he was actually pleased to be taking care of her.
There were rumors he’d dated three actresses at the same time. His picture had been on the cover of In Touch magazine, along with his glamorous raven-haired producer and the caption hinting at a surprise pregnancy. He’d cooked for George Clooney and been featured in Oprah’s magazine along with his recipe for eggplant Parmesan.
“You must salt the eggplant and let it rest,” he’d been quoted as saying, as if that information unlocked the secrets of the universe, eternal life and the cure for cancer.
“Why do you let eggplant rest?” she said suddenly.
He beckoned one of the interns over. “More ice, please.”
“Yes, Chef.” The college student hurried to do Nico’s bidding.
“Okay,” he said, looking at her with those dark blue eyes of his. “Why do you let eggplant rest?”
It took her a moment to realize he thought she was making a joke. “No,” she said. “You told Oprah to let the eggplant rest.”
There was that sexy smile again. She couldn’t stop herself from blushing, but she hoped he would assume the heat of the kitchen was to blame. The pain in her foot blossomed, burning toward her ankle and up her leg.
“It must be salted to sweat—to release liquid—so it won’t be soggy.”
“That’s interesting.” She was babbling about eggplant. Could this be any more embarrassing?
“Would you like some? Dinner service doesn’t start until five, but I will put aside—”
“Thank you, that’s very nice of you, but—”
“You don’t like Italian food.”
“I love Italian food. Who doesn’t?” She shivered as he ran his index finger along her ankle. His touch was so gentle she didn’t feel any pain. Or maybe her skin was frozen from the ice. She was just being silly. Grace gulped. Time to get back to business. “I came to tell you that the Barrett wedding has been canceled.”
He frowned. “I heard. Why have you waited hours to tell me about it?”
“You knew?”
Nico smiled. “There are no secrets around here. One of the house cleaners heard the mother talking about it. Would you like a cup of tea, Grace? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you. About the wedding, Julie and Mason have apologized for the inconvenience. And they know the refund policy.”
“I’ll let some of the staff know they will have that night off, after all, but they were looking forward to making the extra money. And I will have beef Wellington specials on the menu for the next ten days.”
“I know. We’ve all worked so hard getting ready.” She wondered why he was taking the news in stride. Maybe in Hollywood, canceled weddings happened all the time. “Well, I’d better get back to work. If you would help me stand up—”
“Is there someone I can call to help you?”
“No, I’ll manage.”
“Give it another minute,” Nico advised. “Has anyone ever told you that you should always wear red?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. She wanted to roll her eyes, but caught herself. “You are such a flirt.”
“Grace!” He pretended to look insulted. “It was merely an observation. You’ve made it clear you aren’t interested in going out with me, so I won’t ask you again. Think of me as an impartial observer. And a paramedic.”
“Right.”