Write It Up!. Elizabeth Bevarly
Читать онлайн книгу.
often hip to hip, so tiny was the kitchen—putting together a meal that was more elaborate, and doubtless more delicious, than anything she’d had since leaving home.
Never before had she realized how intimate—and sensual—creating a meal could be. Along with the sound of jazzy music, the aromas and textures and tastes of the food—to which they frequently helped themselves and then fed to each other—there was the jolt of electricity and the thrill of anticipation that shot through her every time their bodies touched. By the time they sat down to eat, they’d already finished one bottle of wine and opened the second, and they’d sampled enough of the meal to make them leave fully half of their dinners on their plates.
They did, after all, have to save room for ice cream.
But first, Julia wanted to simply bask in the happiness that was dinner with Daniel. He was amazing. Incredible. Too good to be true. Gorgeous, funny, smart, decent. He smelled great—and not just from the garlic, either—was easy to talk to and made her feel as though nothing in the world would ever go wrong again. And he could cook.
There had to be something wrong here, she told herself. No guy could be this perfect and still be available. And she wasn’t the sort of woman who experienced this kind of good luck.
So maybe, she thought, finally, her turn had come. Maybe it was possible to meet Mr. Right through a venue like speed-dating. Maybe, just maybe, her prince had finally come.
“THAT WAS WONDERFUL,” Daniel said at the end of dinner as he twirled his wine idly by the base of the glass.
He hoped Julia would realize he was talking about a lot more than the meal. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself this much on a date. Probably, he thought, because he’d never enjoyed himself this much on a date.
He still wasn’t sure what had come over him to make him offer to cook for Julia. That was a side of himself he normally never showed to anyone, male or female. It wasn’t that he thought cooking wasn’t a masculine pursuit, or that he was ashamed of what his father did for a living. On the contrary, not only was Steven Taggart one of the most celebrated chefs in Indianapolis, whose restaurant commanded four stars from the Michelin Guide, he was also the one who had fostered Daniel’s love of both basketball and hockey.
But as adept at cooking as Daniel was, it was neither a vocation nor a hobby he had wanted to pursue, and he hadn’t done much of it since leaving home. Cooking reminded him too much of home. It was something he did with family, in a family environment, something that roused feelings of comfort and affection and happiness and domestic tranquility. Which, now that he thought about it, might be why he’d never wanted to share it with women.
So why had he been so eager to offer to cook for Julia?
She looked great tonight, he thought, pushing the question away without answering it. He liked her better in the jeans and T-shirt and sock feet than he had in the party-girl outfit of the night before. If she was wearing any makeup tonight, he sure couldn’t see it. And instead of the curly, flyaway do her hair had been arranged in the night before, tonight it fell in soft waves over her shoulders, enough of it clipped back in a barrette to make Daniel’s fingers itch to loosen it.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” she agreed, looking at him in a way that told him she was talking about more than just the meal, too. “But now we have to clean up,” she added, wrinkling her nose.
“It won’t take long with two of us,” he said.
And, with two of them, it didn’t. In no time at all, they had completed the task and were bringing fresh glasses of wine into the living area—the apartment wasn’t large enough for an actual living room. But as comfortably as they’d spoken throughout the preparation and consumption of dinner, once they were sitting beside each other with nothing to do, neither seemed to know what to say.
Julia had dropped into one corner of the sofa while Daniel had folded himself onto the other. It was a small couch, and the gap between them probably wasn’t more than a couple of feet. Just enough to be annoying, he thought, but still enough that if he scooted himself closer to her, it would be an obvious ploy to get closer to her.
But then, why shouldn’t he be obvious about that? he asked himself. He and Julia weren’t in high school, right? Even if, for some reason, he had sort of felt like an adolescent with his first big crush since meeting her. Gee whiz, maybe they could play spin the bottle. Golly willikers, maybe that would give him an excuse for why he had to kiss her and get her girl cooties all over himself.
He blew out an exasperated breath at the thought.
“What?” she asked, obviously hearing it.
He shook his head. “I was just sitting here trying to think up some excuse for why I could move closer to you,” he said.
She smiled. “Why do you need an excuse to do that?”
He smiled back. “Good question.”
Just as Daniel began to scoot himself down on the sofa toward Julia, she scooted herself closer to him, until they were seated immediately beside each other, almost touching, in the middle.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
“Indeed it is,” she agreed.
“So. Come here often?” he asked.
“Occasionally,” she replied. “But I don’t like to be a regular anywhere. So some nights, I go to the chair over there in the ’burbs, and other nights, I like to go uptown to the table. When I’m feeling really wild and want to party hearty, I head downtown, to the kitchen.”
He nodded. “Must cost a fortune in cab fare.”
“It’s okay. Here in my world, I’m independently wealthy.”
He laughed at that. Then, before he could stop himself, he heard himself say, “I really like you, Julia Miles.”
She seemed surprised at hearing his admission. Maybe even as surprised as Daniel was to have uttered it. “I like you, too, Daniel Taggart. You’re—” But she halted before completing the remark.
“I’m what?” he asked.
She seemed to give that some thought before answering. “Different,” she told him.
He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “Different from what? Other guys? Serial killers? Tropical fruit? Waterfowl? What?”
“Just different,” she said with a laugh. “From other guys and tropical fruit. You’re just fun to be with.”
“And that makes me different from other guys and tropical fruit.”
She nodded. “Yeah. It makes you pretty wonderful.”
Daniel thought she was pretty wonderful, too, but he wasn’t ready to reveal that to her. Not yet. Bad enough he’d told her he liked her. He honestly didn’t say things like that to women. Especially not after having met them barely twenty-four hours before. Hell, how could you even know if you liked someone in that short amount of time?
Strangely, though, he did know it about Julia. He wasn’t sure how. And there was something else he knew, too. He knew he wanted to kiss her. Badly. He just wasn’t sure how to go about it.
Which was nuts, because Daniel never second-guessed himself with women. If he wanted to kiss one, he kissed her. Something about Julia, though, made him hesitate. He wanted to make sure he did it right the first time. Because he wanted there to be a second time. And a third. And a fourth.
Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just do it.
But all he managed was to lift a hand to her face, to cup her cheek in his palm and hold her gaze intently with his. Julia didn’t seem surprised by his touch, and in fact lifted her hand, too, toward his face. She skimmed her fingers lightly along the line of his jaw, then down to the back of his neck. His heart hammered harder as her fingers wandered into his hair, fondling the shorter strands at his nape,