His to Taste (3 page)

In any case, at least we were saving money by eating at home instead of constantly eating out as was the case with my girlfriends.

“Did you have a nice time last night at Mrs. Rowland’s?” I asked, plating up our breakfast. We sat at our little dining table and began to dig into our omelets.

“Oh, I always do,” she said, around a mouthful of buttered biscuit. “Peggy made us a nice salmon dinner, and we played bridge until she took me home at ten o’clock.”

She shot me an odd look. “You went to bed rather early, didn’t you? I tried to open your door last night to say good night, but it was locked.”

I choked on a big chunk of cantaloupe, and managed to swallow it before mumbling, “Sorry, I guess I was changing into my pajamas and forgot to unlock my door before I climbed into bed.” I groaned inwardly at the horrific vision of Grandma catching me asleep, naked in my bed, with my fingers knuckle-deep in my wet pussy.

Grandma seemed satisfied with my answer and continued nibbling on her omelet. “That’s fine, dear,” she said. “Just remember that you need to keep your door unlocked at night in case we have an emergency—you never know when we might have a fire, or an earthquake, or a burglar, or something, you know.”

“Yes, Grandma,” I said. I knew there was no point in addressing her worrywart sensibilities. We finished our breakfast and cleared the table as was our usual routine. “I’m going to keep working on my job search. Do you need me to take care of any errands today?”

Grandma was already out the back door and heading for her little garden. “No, dear,” she said. “You go ahead and do your work. These tomato plants need a bit of love from me today.”

I returned to my room and started browsing through new job postings on Craigslist. After nine months of rejection after rejection, I was beginning to lose hope that I would find a decent job. Grandma’s savings were starting to run out, and I felt the pressure growing everyday to find something to support us both.

It was always the same reasons; I was either under-qualified or over-qualified, but no one seemed to be willing to take a chance on hiring me. My self-confidence was never excessive to begin with, and taking constant rejection was seriously taking its toll on me.

I started clicking through my usual categories, but I stopped when I scrolled down to the bottom of the list. Why had I never bothered to check out the miscellaneous job postings before? As the saying goes, desperate times really do call for desperate measures, and my ass was definitely getting desperate with each passing day of unemployment. I saw a few postings for focus group participants and egg donors. I scrolled through a few more pages, and found an ad seeking a live-in cook.

Seeking a responsible, dutiful, and discreet cook willing to reside full-time within a private home. Compensation dependent upon experience. You must be single and willing to be on-call at all hours. Contact Mr. Cochran directly via the email address listed above for an interview. Serious inquiries only.

The more I thought about this position, the more appealing it became.

As long as this guy wasn’t expecting a Michelin star rated chef, I could try to win him over with my wholesome cooking skills. If not, I could pore over every single damn cooking blog and recipe book until he found me indispensable.

My only hesitation was the fact that I would be living 24/7 with a stranger. I hated to sound old-fashioned, but if this guy had a wife, he probably wouldn’t have been seeking a cook, right?

I would be living with a bachelor; me, a dorky nobody who never had a single boyfriend in her entire life. I could already hear Grandma’s angry condemnations, and I winced at the thought of having to endure her disapproval. Still, it’s not like I had to tell her the entire truth. Having food on the table and paying our bills was worth a few omissions, and it’s not as if I was some leggy supermodel prancing around in a sexy French maid uniform. Besides, he was probably an older gentleman who never bothered to learn how to cook.

In fact, the poor dear probably just wanted some plain old home cooking; otherwise, he would have advertised for a gourmet chef or nutritionist. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least inquire.

I re-read the posting a few more times, and resolutely sent out an email before I lost my nerve. The absolute worst case scenario would be that this Mr. Cochran guy would hate my food, but I would at least get enough funds to tide us over until I could find another position. All I could do was cross my fingers and wait for his response.

The next day, Grandma and I were just returning from the library, when I noticed that my phone’s email notification light was blinking. I tossed my bag of books onto the old love seat, and quickly pulled up my inbox.

Mr. Cochran had responded to my inquiry! His email was short, but not terse. He suggested that I meet him at this home for an interview that afternoon. He wanted me to see if I could be comfortable in his kitchen, and I could do a test run to showcase my cooking skills. Yes!

I gave a little whoop of joy, and confirmed that I was indeed available for the interview at his preferred time and that I was appreciative of the opportunity to meet him. I pulled up the directions and he was only twenty minutes away from me in a richer part of town. This job was looking better and better with each passing second!

Since I hadn’t been forced to hear Grandma’s doomsday predictions all my life for nothing, I texted Julia the details of my interview just in case. I told her I’d check in with her after the interview to make sure that everything was fine. Feeling more excited and hopeful than I had in the past few months, I ran upstairs to prep for my interview and to change into an appropriate outfit.

After pulling up a few online videos of cooking demos and blogs about menu planning, I felt a little more comfortable with using the correct terminology. I pulled my long black hair back into a serviceable bun, brightened up my warm brown eyes with a bit of mascara and neutral eyeshadow, swirled on a tiny bit of coral blush, and swiped on some tinted lip balm. Grateful that I could stuff that ugly beige suit into the back recesses of my little closet, I threw on a pair of plain black slacks, a modest white blouse, a black blazer, and plain black loafers. I certainly didn’t look like a professional chef, but my sad little closet wasn’t exactly overflowing with options.

By the time I had to leave, Grandma had already left me a note that Mrs. Rowland had picked her up for an early dinner. It was always a little humbling to know that your grandmother had a more active social life than you. Still, I was grateful that I didn’t actually have to lie to her just yet. Glancing at my reflection one last time in the bathroom mirror, I figured I was as ready as I could ever be, and I headed out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

When I pulled up to Mr. Cochran’s address, I was already feeling a bit out of my element. My potential employer lived in a gorgeously manicured neighborhood. I felt so out of place driving down the street with my old sedan as I passed by driveways filled with shiny new luxury cars. If I got the job, I would be living in a gorgeous two-story brick clad estate with elegant French doors and inviting bay windows.

Truth be told, our entire home could probably fit inside his kitchen. I sucked in a deep breath, plastered on a big smile, and rang the doorbell.

My smile faltered a little when the door opened, revealing my prospective boss. Mr. Cochran was definitely not a poor old dear gentleman. “Hi,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “You must be Lynn. Come on in and we can get started.”

I gaped up at him for what felt like an eternity. He towered over me and seemed to fill up the entire doorway with his sheer maleness. Mr. Cochran had to be a foot taller than me. His broad shoulders and lean hips were the perfect proportions for one of my romance novel covers, and my fingers itched to run through his short, thick espresso colored hair. He filled out his worn jeans and black t-shirt so well that my mouth went dry with lust. His face was classically handsome, but his strong jaw kept him from being too much of a pretty boy. He was vaguely familiar to me somehow, but I couldn’t quite place him.

I could have stared into his sea blue eyes for hours, until I realized that he was politely holding out his strong bronzed hand for me to shake.

“Oh, yes!” I managed to squeak. I grabbed his hand in a brisk handshake, willing myself to ignore that my little hand was completely engulfed in his grip.

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Cochran! I’m so excited for the opportunity to meet you, and I hope you’ll be pleased with my culinary skills, and of course, please don’t hesitate to tell me what your preferences are so that I may accommodate them, and I truly do hope that I can become an indispensable member of your household.” I stopped rambling like an idiot to gasp for air, and I realized belatedly that he was still holding my hand.

He smiled and I couldn’t tell if he was amused by my nervousness or by my gaping like a swooning teenybopper. He gently tugged on my hand, and said, “There’s no need to feel anxious. We’re just getting to know each other, right? Come on into the kitchen and we can chat.”

I gratefully returned his smile and followed obediently behind him. His house was even more impressive inside and I marveled at the luxurious yet welcoming decor. He led me to an inviting breakfast nook in the kitchen and offered me a beverage.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m fine as I am.”

He surveyed me from head to toe, and I shivered a little at his slow perusal. “Indeed, Lynn,” he said, with a grin. “Indeed you are.”

Oh, no, was he flirting with me? I’m horrible at casual banter!
I ignored his comment, and busied myself with pulling out my resume from my purse. “Mr. Cochran,” I said. “I’m afraid that I don’t have a lot of actual experience with cooking in restaurants or for customers, but I assure you that I’m a competent home cook, and I’m eager to learn. Like I said, just let me know what your preferences are, and I’ll do my very best to accommodate your menus around your particular tastes.” I waited for him to finish reading my resume and nervously played with my blazer cuff.

“Thank you for being candid with me,” he said. He put my resume on the table and leaned forward. I could smell a hint of spicy cologne, coffee, and something so uniquely masculine. I fought a terrible urge to close my eyes and bury my face into his strong neck.

“What I’m looking for is someone who is reliable and able to adapt to my random cravings. I’m a writer so my working hours don’t necessarily fall into the typical 9-to-5 schedule. My last cook was constantly canceling on me to sneak off with her boyfriend, and she couldn’t quite grasp the concept of being on-call.” He absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, and I couldn’t help gulping nervously when that caused his shirt to tighten around his biceps and chest.

He continued, “I know my ad wasn’t very PC, but it’s such a pain in the ass to constantly hire and fire irresponsible workers. I thought it was best to practice full disclosure to refrain from wasting each other’s time.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sure that must have been so frustrating for you to have your schedule inconvenienced, especially if you’re on a tight deadline.”

He grinned and leaned back into his chair. “Good answer,” he said. “Now, first things first, do you have a significant other, or anyone that would keep you from adhering to my schedule?”

I gave a rueful little laugh. “That’s something that you won’t have to worry about, Mr. Cochran,” I said.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. To be perfectly honest, I’ve never actually had a boyfriend and I’ve only gone on a handful of dates. I can assure you that I won’t be calling in sick for any hot dates, sir.” I felt myself blushing at my admission, but I figured that I might as well lay out all of my proverbial cards on the table.

“I live with my grandmother, but we have a neighbor who checks in on her frequently. She should be fine.” I looked down at my hands and waited for his reaction.

He was quiet for a few beats then popped up from his chair. I jerked a little in surprise and watched him warily. He walked over to his fridge and poked his head inside, giving me a perfect view of his taut ass. His worn jeans hugged each cheek and I pressed my nails into my palms to keep from reaching over and testing the musculature of that amazing ass.

I reluctantly tore my gaze away from his rear when he finally straightened and turned back towards me.
Focus, dummy!

He returned to his seat across from me, and said, “I think I have enough ingredients for you to whip up a test meal. Are you comfortable doing that today?”

Giving him a brisk nod, I said, “Of course. What may I prepare for you, sir?” I was grateful for the excuse to do something—anything—to distract myself from my lust. I took off my blazer, rolled up my sleeves, and took his place at the fridge.

His eyes widened in appreciation as he took in my figure, and I couldn’t help preening a little at his obvious approval. He cleared his throat roughly, and said, “I’m generally a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but I’m happy with any kind of well-balanced meal. I try to eat healthy with plenty of fresh vegetables and lean proteins, but my sweet tooth is incurable. You don’t have to worry about any odd dietary restrictions with me. All I ask is that you prepare my meals well in a timely manner.”