Kiss the Cook (3 page)

Dark wool.

Like from a man's suit
.
His
suit. His
brand-new
suit.

"Oh, boy. That doesn't look good," she said
. "Looks just like my skirt did." She peered around at his backside, then straightened. "Hmmm. I see you're a boxer man."

Chris mentally counted to ten. The sooner he jumped her car, the sooner she'd be on her way, and the sooner he could get home. Wit
hout a word, he popped her hood then walked to his car to get the jumper cables. He left the umbrella with her. There wasn't any point in bothering with it—his suit was already ruined. And the rain was tapering off a bit anyway.

She stood under the umbrella and waited while he attached the cables.

"Okay," he said. "Turn the key."

She slid into the car,
turned the ignition, and the engine coughed to life. Chris almost jumped for joy. He quickly disconnected the wires from both cars and replaced the cables in his trunk.

"I think that should do it," he said, slamming the Dodge's hood.

"Yes. Thank you very much. I really appreciate the help." She smiled, and those two deep dimples winked at him. "My name's Melanie. Melanie Gibson. But everyone calls me Mel."

His brows shot up
. "Your name's Mel Gibson?"

A sheepish g
rin touched her lips. “Crazy, huh?  Since I wasn’t born a boy and couldn’t be named Melvin after my mother’s dad, they gave me Melanie. But just like Grandpa, I’ve always been called Mel. How’s that for luck?”

He couldn’t help but grin in return. “Melanie’s better than Melvin.”

“I suppose. Especially since I’m a girl.”

“So, how’s that name workin’ out for you?”

She laughed. “It wasn’t too bad when the other Mel Gibson was a hot Hollywood commodity, but after he went off the deep end, it was pretty much a pain in the butt
. What’s your name?”

He couldn't believe he was standing in the rain talking to a lunatic woman
named Mel Gibson. "I'm Peter Pan."

She looked him up and down
then shook her head. "I don't think so. Peter Pan wore green tights.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, Groucho-style. "I already know you're wearing white boxer briefs."

In spite of himself, Chris felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. He quickly smothered it. Why the hell did he feel like laughin
g? He was angry. Inconvenienced. Wet. Hungry. His suit was ruined; probably his shoes, too. Clearly he was deranged from lack of food.

"So, are you going to tell me your name?" she asked. "Don't be shy. Believe me, it can't be worse than mine. No matter how hard I try, no one will call me Melanie."

He held out his hand. "Christopher Bishop. Call me Chris."

She shook his hand, and
to his surprise a warm tingle zoomed through him. This woman was so completely not his type, it was laughable. He preferred petite, curvy, blue-eyed blondes. Mel Gibson with the broken-down Dodge was
tall, lanky, and dark-eyed. Not to mention a mess.

Yet
there was something about her that had all his senses standing at attention. He shook his head. Must be because she smelled like food and the final stages of malnutrition were setting in.

Her look turned serious. "I
really am sorry I blocked you in. And about your pants." She reached into her shirt pocket and withdrew a card. "If you send the repair bill to me, I'll be happy to pay it."

He took the wet card and studied her closely. Now that home was again fifteen minutes awa
y and the rain had dwindled down to a mere drizzle, his annoyance dissipated. "I doubt they can be repaired, but thanks anyway." He leaned closer and sniffed. "I saw you on the elevator. You smell like fried chicken."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Wow. Words I've always longed to hear."

He laughed. "I meant, I smelled you in the elevator and ..." His voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Somehow that doesn't sound right, either."

"That's okay. I smelled you in the elevator, too. You
smell much better than chicken."

"No
t if you're starving." As if on cue his stomach let out a loud growl.

"Well, Christopher-call-me-Chris Bishop, you sound
hungry, and I happen to have three hundred bucks' worth of Pampered Palate food in my car. Could I interest you in a meal? As a way of saying thanks?" She smiled. "We make the best fried chicken in Atlanta."

Since he was ready to eat the windshield wipers off the Mercedes, he di
dn't even consider refusing her offer. "Sounds good."

She handed him the umbrella and leaned into the car, once again affording him a heart-stopping view of her long legs. She straightened and handed him two
to-go boxes. "Here you go. Enjoy."

He barely held back a groan at the mouth-watering
aroma emanating from the boxes. "Thanks."

"Least I can do. Well, I'd better let you get home to your dinner." She slid into the Dodge and waved to him. He nodded in return and walked to his car.

Melanie clicked her seat belt into place and pushed her wet hair behind her ears, trying not to watch him as he climbed into the Mercedes. Whooooeee. Christopher Bishop was one fine looking specimen.

He was gorgeous when he frowned, but when he'd smiled at her,
yikes! His was the sort of smile that made knees go weak and panties fall off. Dry, he was beautiful. But wet? Utterly stupendous. Looking at him, with his dress shirt molded to his muscular arms and chest and his hair combed back by his hands, she got a clear image of what he must look like coming out of the shower. Thank God she wasn't a cartoon character-- her eyes would have bugged out two feet and her tongue would have rolled out onto the ground.

Well, she'd never see him again. Good thing, too. Any guy who looked that good and smelled that good was a hazard to her mental health. She knew firsthand that men who looked like Christopher Bishop couldn't be trusted. Brokenhearted women probably littered the sidewalks around his house. Yup, he had
girl in every port
written all over him.
Been there. Done that. Never again.

She put the Dodge in gear and pulled forward, driving to the end of the curved driveway. The moment her foot touched the brake, the car stalled.  

"Oh, no. Not again." She turned the key. Growl, growl, silence. She turned it again. Growl, silence. One more turn. Silence. She looked around her. At least she wasn't completely blocking the driveway. Cars could get around her. She was just contemplating the wisdom of screaming and pulling out her hair when a horn tooted. She looked out her window and saw the Mercedes pull up next to her.

She felt around on the seat for the
missing knob then jammed it back on and rolled down the window. Christopher Bishop looked at her from the driver's seat of his car.

"What's wrong?" he called.

"I stalled out."

"There must be something more wrong than the battery," he said, frownin
g. "Probably faulty spark plugs or a wet distributor cap."

"Oh." Faulty spark plugs. And her thingamabob was wet. Swell.

"I'd try drying it off for you, but there's not much point as long as it's still drizzling."

Melanie muttered an
oath that would make Nana blush. Now what? It would seem a call to Nana was in order. She rolled up the window, opened the door, and slid out. No point bothering with the umbrella. The rain was now nothing more than an annoying drip-drip, and she was soaked anyway. And barefoot. She refused to again wonder if this day could get any worse, because clearly it still could.

She'd only taken two steps when she heard Chris yell, "Where are you going?"

She turned. He stood next to his car, munching on a chicken leg. "I'm going to call someone to pick me up."

“You don’t have a cell phone?”

“My car battery isn’t the only one that died tonight.”

“
Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

She looked down at her wet, messy
, barefooted self and gave a short laugh. “Really? Seems like a real shocker to me.”

He laughed. “You can use my cell if you want. O
r… ” He hesitated a second, then said, "I could drop you off. But I warn you, it's gonna cost you some more food." He took another bite and groaned as he chewed. "This is seriously great chicken."

Melanie considered his offer. Nana would have to close up shop to rescue her. Besides, her grandmother shouldn't dri
ve-- she was a hazard on the road, especially at night. That was why Melanie had made the deliveries tonight-- she'd been elected by default.

Christopher Bishop seemed like a decent guy. He certainly wasn't hard to look at, he smelled great, and he hadn't made any untoward gestures when she'd been sprawled across his lap. Besides, she had pepper spray in her glove compartment. She'd bring it with her. One false move and the guy would be toast. Pepper toast.

"How much more food?" she asked.

"How much
ya got?"

She laughed. "
I'll trade you a ride to the Pampered Palate for two more chicken dinners. It's just a few miles down the road. On Peachtree."

"Deal. Let's go."

While he transferred the heavy box from the Dodge to the Mercedes, Melanie grabbed her purse and stuck the pepper spray inside. Hey, a girl could never be too careful.

She slid into the soft leather passenger seat of the luxurious Mercedes and sighed. A
classic Billy Joel tune flowed from the stereo. "Nice car. It still smells new."

"I only bought it two months ago," he said, easing his way into the Friday-night traffic. "A present to myself for making partner."

"You're a lawyer?" she asked, praying he wasn't from Slickert, Cashman, and Rich.

"No. Accountant
."

"Ah. And you work in that office building?"

"Yup. Twenty-fifth floor."

“Aren’t you
kinda young to be a partner?”

He shrugged. “I brought in a few key clients so they fast-tracked me.”

She cocked her head toward the CD player. "You a Billy Joel fan?"

"Everybody from New York is a Billy Joel fan."

She stared at his profile. "You're from New York?"

"That's not a crime, you know."

"Of course it isn't. I'm originally from the Big Apple myself. I only moved here a few years ago.”

"I though
t I detected a bit of an accent. What part of New York?"

"Long Island. You?"

"Westchester." He briefly turned his head and smiled. "Seems like everybody in Atlanta is from somewhere else. What brought you down south?"

"I couldn't afford New York. Atlanta's a
happenin' place, the weather's great, and it's affordable. So here I am." She tapped her bare foot to the music. "Have you lived here long?"

"Since high school. My dad was transferred during my sophomore year."

She winced in sympathy. "That must have been tough."

"At the time, I thought it was the end of t
he world. I think I set a world record for complaining."

"Considering the way you carried on about being blocked in, I'm not surpr
ised to hear it," Melanie said in a dust dry tone.

"Very funny.
So, how long have you worked for the Pampered Palate?"

"Ever since it opened six months ago
. Actually, I own it. Well, me and the bank. That fried chicken is our best-selling item. It's Nana's secret recipe and she guards it with her life."

"Nana?"

"My Grandma Sylvia. I've always called her Nana. We live together and she helps out in the kitchen."

"Do you usually make your own deliveries?"

Melanie shook her head. "My delivery man called in sick at the last minute. Nana offered to step in, but as much as I love her, she's a menace on the road. Sort of a cross between Mario Andretti and Mr. Magoo. Anyway, we offer free delivery on orders over a hundred dollars. That's mostly corporate accounts."

She slanted him a sidelong look. "Our motto is, 'If it's not delivered on time, it's on us.' That's why I double-parked." She jerked her head toward the backseat. "I had five minutes to get that box o
f food upstairs or I was out three hundred bucks."

"Why do you still have it?"

"The customers had some sort of emergency. They called and canceled the order, but I'd already left. Nana called my cell, but you already know my sad battery story.”

"Who was the order
for?"

"
Slickert, Cashman, and Rich, Attorneys at Law. Thirtieth floor. I wonder what happened."

"Walter Rich was rushed to the hospital," Chris said.

Dismay filled Melanie. "Oh, no! Is he okay?"

"
He slipped and fell. His leg is broken and he might have cracked a few ribs. The ambulance came around seven."