Bachelor at Her Bidding (Bachelor Auction Book 2) (4 page)

But his mouth clearly wasn’t with the program, because instead he found himself saying, “Sorry. The deal is me cooking dinner for the two of us, as a date. I can’t change the rules now.”

Where the hell had that come from? Had he gone
nuts
? He didn’t want to date Rachel. He didn’t want to date anyone. Especially a woman with wide eyes as blue as a spring Montana sky, and a shy, self-deprecating smile that made his gut twist. A woman he suspected could easily get under his skin.

He didn’t need this.

He didn’t have
time
for this.

But, before he could backtrack, she said, “I guess not. Because it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else who bid.”

He was stuck with it now. “No. So I guess we need to sort out where and when we do it.”

Her eyes widened.

Oh, hell. His mouth was getting him in so much trouble tonight. He needed to stick to the facts. “Dinner,” he clarified. He hadn’t meant sex.

And oh, he wished he hadn’t thought of the word. Because now he really
was
thinking of sex. Thinking of what Rachel Cassidy would look like in his bed, with her hair spread over his pillow and that lush mouth pouting at him. Thinking of how it would feel to ease into her body and lose himself in making love with her.

He shook himself. No no and absolutely no. Sex wasn’t on the menu. This was
dinner
. “It sounds as if your friends wanted to give you a birthday dinner with a difference. When’s the actual day?”

“Two weeks today.”

“Would that be a good day for you to have dinner?”

“I guess. My parents are out of town on a belated Valentine’s, and as Susie and the girls bid for you they won’t mind if we do something together on the Sunday instead.”

“Two weeks today it is, then,” he said. “I’ll need to cook at your place, if you don’t mind.”

“My kitchen’s very basic. I don’t have fancy equipment,” she said, looking slightly embarrassed. “I, um, don’t cook much beyond the odd omelet. I tend to eat at the hospital if I’m not seeing my family or my friends.”

“That makes sense. Cooking for one can be…” Lonely.
No
. He wasn’t lonely. Anyway he cooked for Gram, too, not just for himself. “…not so much fun,” he finished. And now he was on sure ground again. Talking about his job. “You don’t need any fancy equipment. I’ll bring whatever I need to use outside the basics. You have a stove top and an oven, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Then I guess all I really need to know is if you’re vegetarian, if you have any allergies, or if there’s any food you really hate.”

“That’s a no to all three,” she said.

“Which makes my job very much easier.” And he needed to think about this as a job. Not as pleasure. Not as seducing her tastebuds and then maybe seducing the rest of her. “So – two weeks today at your place. Six o’clock?”

“Six o’clock is fine.” She paused. “I guess I need to give you my address.”

“And your phone number – because there is one thing. I live with my grandmother and she’s not in the best of health. If she needs me on that Saturday, I’ll have to reschedule.”

“That’s totally fine.” She took her cell from her purse. “Tell me your number, and I’ll text you the details.”

A minute later, it was all done.

He held out his hand to shake hers. To seal the deal.

And his skin actually tingled where she touched him. Like a hotwire going straight to his groin. He hadn’t been this physically attracted to a woman for years – not even Lucille.

Ryan had the strongest feeling that their dinner date was going to spell trouble with a capital T, unless he could give his mouth and his libido a good talking-to and get them on side. Because Rachel Cassidy could seriously tempt him to break all his rules. And he really, really couldn’t afford to do that.

‡

W
hen a man
was coming to you to cook dinner, what did you wear? Rachel stared at the rack of clothes in her wardrobe. Would a little black dress be over the top? Then again, would jeans be too casual? Yet a formal suit like the one she usually wore for work wouldn’t be appropriate, either.

She shook herself. How ridiculous to be worrying about this. It wasn’t even a proper date; it was a birthday dinner cooked for her by a Parisian-trained chef, bought by her sister and her best friends, with the money going to an important local fundraiser. So she could wear whatever she wanted. It didn’t matter.

But she remembered the way her skin had felt when Ryan had shaken her hand. The tingle that had gone all the way down her spine. The way her lower lip had suddenly felt sensitive and aching. The way her libido had practically sat up and begged.

Not good.

OK, so he wasn’t Nick. And not all men cheated. But making herself vulnerable again, trusting someone with her heart… She wasn’t in the right place to do that. And the attraction was probably one-sided in any case. Women must be queuing up round the block to date someone as gorgeous as Ryan Henderson. Why would he bother looking twice at a woman who had a distinct lack of curves?

“This is platonic,” she reminded herself, and chose her plainest dress before tying her hair back at the nape with a chiffon scarf.

There was a knock at her door at five minutes to six. Ryan? Adrenalin fizzed through her veins, but she damped it down and opened the door.

Ryan was carrying two large lidded plastic boxes; resting on the top of them was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, a mix of roses and gerberas and carnations. He balanced the boxes on one knee, retrieved the flowers and handed them to her with a smile. “Happy birthday, Miz Cassidy.”

The unexpected gesture warmed her all through. “Thank you. That’s really kind of you.” Guilt made her add, “Though you didn’t need to do that.” It hadn’t been part of the deal.

“It’s your birthday,” he said, “and all beautiful women should have flowers on their birthday.”

The warmth was replaced with a sinking feeling. Rachel knew she wasn’t beautiful – Nick had made that very clear – so it seemed that Ryan Henderson was just another charmer. And besides, weren’t chefs always supposed to schmooze their clients? So this was just patter. He hadn’t meant a single word of it. And she wasn’t going to let herself be taken in by sweet words, ever,
ever
again.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Come in. I need to find a vase and put these lovely flowers in water.” She noticed that he was wearing the white chef’s tunic and pinstriped trousers again, teamed with highly polished shoes and the tall chef’s hat. “Do you wear that in the kitchen at Grey’s?” she asked, suddenly curious. It seemed out of place with the saloon’s rustic air.

“No. It’s a little more casual there, so I wear a skullcap rather than a toque, and a slightly plainer jacket.” He smiled. “This is what I used to wear in Paris.”

Obviously he was wearing his Parisian uniform as part of the dating deal. “You don’t have to stand on formality if you’d rather not wear the hat,” she said.

“Thanks. I have to admit I only wear this for show. The skullcap’s easier and it doesn’t get in the way.” He removed the hat to reveal short dark hair that was slightly curly.

Her fingertips itched to touch his hair, to find out if it was as silky as it looked – and how stupid was that? This wasn’t a proper date, and she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by making a move on Ryan Henderson. One that he would most definitely rebuff. Hadn’t Nick already made it clear that she wasn’t enough for a real man? How pathetic was she to even
think
about acting on her attraction to Ryan? She coughed to cover her confusion. “I’ll show you to the kitchen. I’m afraid my apartment’s a bit on the small side.”

“In Paris, it’d be considered huge,” he said. “The rooms there were seriously tiny by American standards.”

Safe ground, to her relief. If she could get him to talk about Paris, then they wouldn’t touch on anything personal. Which suited her just fine. “I’ve never been to Europe. It must have been amazing, studying in France.”

He nodded. “I love Paris. They call it the City of Light – and that’s what it is, all wide boulevards and bridges and white stone buildings and wrought iron balconies. The architecture’s beautiful.”

She could see the wistfulness in his dark, dark eyes. It sounded as if he’d go back in a heartbeat; but she knew instinctively that it wouldn’t be tactful to ask.

“How’s your grandmother doing?” she asked instead, taking a vase from the cupboard under the sink.

“Fine.” It was the kind of clipped one-word answer that could shut down a conversation, making it very obvious that he didn’t want to talk about his grandmother. Or, given that Phyllis was sick, maybe it was Rachel’s job getting in the way. “I was asking as one of her former pupils, not as a doctor,” she said softly.

“Yeah.” He blew out a breath. “Sorry. Sharla Dickinson’s sitting with her this evening.”

“That’s kind of her.” Rachel had always liked the high school principal, who’d encouraged her to apply to college and study to be a doctor. “It’ll probably be nice for Phyllis to talk about the old days.”

“Because she’ll remember them a lot better than she remembers the present?”

She noticed the slight edge to his voice; no doubt he’d heard more than enough advice about dementia since he’d been looking after his grandmother, and no matter how well-meaning the advice was she knew it could grate when people told you what to do all the time. She’d had enough of that herself, in the run-up to her divorce. “No, I mean the same as when I meet up with the people I went to college with. We talk about our time as students. It’s fun to reminisce a bit.”

He grimaced. “Sorry –
again
. I’m a little touchy where my grandmother’s concerned.”

“That’s totally understandable. And
that
wasn’t intended to be patronizing.” Oh, help. This was meant to be a birthday dinner, and suddenly it was turning into a minefield and she didn’t have a clue what to say. She concentrated on putting the flowers in water, hoping that Ryan’s dark mood would settle down.

Weren’t all the best chefs meant to be super-moody? But it sure as hell didn’t make them easy company.

“I’d better get this food sorted,” he said.

To get the meal over and done with, as quickly as he could? That worked for her, too. Right at that moment, she really wished he’d agreed to her original suggestion of extending the “date” to her sister and her friends as well. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, more to be polite and make conversation than actually meaning it. Cooking wasn’t her thing.

“The idea was for you to put your feet up and be spoiled.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “Unless you want to cook with me?”

She backtracked swiftly. “Thank you for the offer, but I probably ought to admit that I’m not the world’s best cook.”

“So you’d rather not be my sous-chef, then.” But, to her relief, he was smiling again and seemed to be starting to relax with her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Though I’m a scientist, so I quite like to know how things work. Is it OK if I watch you cook?” she asked.

“Sure. I’m not one of these chefs who believe in jealously guarding their kitchens. Especially when it’s your kitchen, not mine.” He paused. “I probably should’ve checked the menu with you first, but you did say you didn’t have any food allergies or major dislikes.”

“I’m sure whatever you plan will be more than fine,” she said. “Since the auction, half the town’s been at pains to tell me how awesome your food is.”

Lily Taylor had said at the auction that Ryan’s food was better than sex.

And thinking about sex was a bad idea. Not here, not now, and most definitely not when Ryan Henderson was standing right in front of her, looking good enough to devour.

Thankfully oblivious to the crazy whirl of thoughts in her head, he said, “I’m cooking crab cakes with arugula and mayonnaise, griddled lamb with rosemary potatoes and buttered spinach, then a trio of desserts.”

Which all sounded wonderful. “What’s a trio of desserts?” she asked.

He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say they’re little tastes of things that go together very well.”

“And that’s how they do desserts in Paris?”

He inclined his head. “Absolutely.”

“The menu sounds fabulous. Sorry, I should’ve asked you what wine to buy.” She hadn’t even thought about it. How stupid.

“No need. The wine’s already sorted,” he said with a smile.

The first box turned out to contain food. “I made two of the desserts this morning, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough time for one of them to freeze and the other one to cool,” he explained. “Is it OK to put things in your freezer and fridge?”

“Sure. Help yourself.” Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “Can I make you a coffee?”

“That would be nice. Thanks. No milk or sugar for me, please – I like my coffee just as it is.”

She wondered if his taste for black coffee came from his time in Europe. Given the wistfulness in his eyes when he’d spoken about Europe, she knew it wouldn’t be tactful to ask. But she was glad she’d spent the time tidying and cleaning the kitchen that morning, as he looked approvingly at the empty workspaces.