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   Was it my imagination? I got the distinct impression there was a challenge in his voice, one that said,
They
wouldn't dare start without me,
without him actually speaking the words.

   I gave myself the paying-customer speech—the one I used to remind myself that I wasn't going to do anything, ever, to hurt Bellywasher's reputation—and smiled. Brad didn't smile back. "You've still got a few minutes." I accepted the paperwork he'd downloaded from the Bellywasher's site and tucked it in the folder appropriately labeled with his name. "You're on—"

   "Prep and side dishes. Yeah, I know." Brad was carrying a shopping bag from a nearby grocery store, and he set it down long enough to write a check. "I was counting on doing something a little more interesting than chopping vegetables. Grilling and drinks, that's the stuff men do in the kitchen. The rest is just women's work."

   I bristled. But, big points for me, I kept my mouth shut.

   At least until I was ready to speak without telling Brad to hit the road.

   I wondered if Brad realized my words were stiff because they came from behind gritted teeth. "I'm sure Jim has plenty of good reasons for designing the class the way he did. Jim's the expert, and he's determined to give all of you a complete cooking experience. That's why you'll be taking turns at each of the stations. This week, you're on prep. Next week—"

   "Yeah, whatever. I'm sure I'll find out." Brad headed toward the kitchen even before I told him he could. "Hope I'm not doing flower arrangements for the tables anytime soon. Talk about women's work!"

   I was still smiling when I crossed Brad's name off drinks for the next week's class and slotted him into presentation.

   Genevieve had arrived hot on Brad's heels, and I took care of her. I hadn't so much as had a second to sit back and relax when the door popped open one more time.

   "I'm so sorry."

   Kegan O'Rourke may have had a romance hero's name, but he looked like anything but. He was a tall, lanky kid (I use the word liberally. Since I'm thirty-five, in my book, it applies to anyone under thirty.) His hair was dark and cut short enough for me to see his scalp, and he was dressed in crumpled khakis and a heavy fisherman knit sweater that hung from his scrawny shoulders. The creamy color of the wool did nothing to help his pale complexion.

   "Am I late?" Kegan's question floated at me along with a note of desperation. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be. I was stuck in traffic. I hope they didn't wait. Not for me. I wouldn't want to think that anyone—"

   "Not a problem." Rude of me to interrupt, I knew, but it was that or watch the poor kid self-destruct. I didn't have the heart for that! "You've still got a couple minutes, so don't worry. Besides, it always takes longer to get going on the first night of class. You know, with everyone finding their places and storing their things. I'd bet money Jim hasn't started yet."

   I glanced away only long enough to check Kegan off the list. When I turned again, he was holding out a fistful of ten dollar bills toward me.

   "You're taking me up on my bet?"

   His expression was blank for a fraction of a second. Then he caught on. He gave me a grin that was a little lopsided and as bright as the sunshine that had been so noticeably absent in Virginia these past months. Kegan's laugh was clear and honest. "You mean about Jim not starting yet. I get it. That's a good one. But this money isn't for the bet. This is to pay for class."

   "Of course!" I took the money and wrote out a receipt. "You're on prep and side dishes tonight," I told Kegan. "You've got your supplies?"

   He held up one of those cotton market bags. "Everything's in here. I can't wait." He shifted from foot to foot and darted a glance toward the kitchen, but it was clear he was too polite to run off before I gave him permission to go. "I really like to cook, and I read in a review in the
Washington Times
that your chef here doesn't believe in hydrogenated oils and lots of fats. That's exactly the kind of cooking I want to learn."

   "Then you've come to the right place." I hopped off the barstool and walked at Kegan's side. "I'll show you the way. I have to tell Jim that I'm all done and heading home."

   A swinging door separated the restaurant from the kitchen. Kegan pushed it open, held it, then stepped aside to let me walk through first.

   We were just in time to see that had our bet been for real, I would have lost. Jim was standing near the big walkin cooler. He was a couple sentences into the short welcoming speech I'd helped him prepare.

   "Just because it's bar food," he was saying, "doesn't mean it can't be fresh, delicious, and healthy."

   I knew he was about to go on to talk about things like shopping for the freshest ingredients, and how good, healthy, and fresh didn't always have to be expensive.

   I didn't mind. I stepped back and listened. After all, looking at and listening to Jim . . . well, those just happened to be two of my favorite things in the whole, wide world.

   Time for me to come clean. Again. Just like I admitted that on a scale of one to ten, I'm a zero when it comes to cooking, on a scale of one to ten, I'm somewhere up around a thousand when the subject is Jim.

   Aside from being tall, athletic, and having mahogany hair and the most amazing hazel eyes (green in some lights, brown or gray in others), Jim is the owner of a knee-melting Scottish accent and a motorcycle that I've learned to be (mostly) at peace with. It goes without saying that he's a fabulous cook, but he's also got a great sense of humor, an unshakable faith in himself and in his dreams, and enough confidence in my mathematic and business abilities to leave the everyday details of the restaurant to me.

   Sure, he can be a little overprotective, especially when it comes to me and one of my murder investigations, but have I mentioned that Jim is also the best kisser this side of the Atlantic?

   Lest I get carried away on that subject, let me also make it clear that when it comes to romance, Jim and I are taking things slow. My idea, not his. After all, I'm the one with an ex-husband on my hands. Once burned, as the saying goes, and though these days the sting isn't nearly as bad as it used to be, I'm not taking any chances. Jim and I date. We share meals and the ins and outs of running Bellywasher's, a love of visiting the museums in the area, and long walks when weather permits. Just for the record, we have yet to share a bed.

   Like I said, we're taking it slow.

   None of which means I don't know Jim is a honey of a hunk. Just like when I consider cooking, my pulse pounds when I think about Jim. The big difference is that when it's Jim I'm thinking about, the wild pitter-patter is for all the right reasons.

   "And then there's Annie, of course."

   The sound of my name spoken in Jim's broad, rolling accent shook me out of my reverie. As far as I remembered, mentioning me wasn't part of the speech we'd prepared. Startled, I paid more attention. And I realized that everyone in class had their eyes on me.

   "Annie's our business manager here at Bellywasher's." The kitchen wasn't big. It didn't take Jim more than a couple steps to come and stand at my side. "She's the best and the brightest, and throughout the class, you'll have a chance to get to know her better."

   "But not tonight." I waved to the class and smiled before I turned to Jim. "I'm all done, and I'm heading home."

   "Not yet you're not." Jim latched on to my hand. He backed away, but he didn't let go. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . You've met Marc and Damien who will be helping you when you need it. They'll also be in charge of cleanup." He glanced toward our two young and talented cooks. "And you've met Monsieur Lavoie as well." Jacques Lavoie beamed a smile at the class from over near the pastry table. "He'll be talking to you later about choosing the right wines to go with your meals. Not that most people think about wine with bar food." He laughed. "But it's a chance for you to learn a wee bit more about which wines complement which foods. And think how you'll impress your friends! Anyway . . ." He got back on track. "You may have met Annie out front. I've got a surprise for you—and for her— tonight." Another tug, and I found myself way too close to the grill for comfort. "For the next eight weeks, Annie's going to be my cooking assistant."

          For what probably wasn't more than a couple seconds but felt like forever, I stood frozen to the spot, my body as numb as my brain. The stark horror of the truth pressed in on me.

   Jim had surely lost his mind. He'd forgotten who I was.
What
I was.

   Bad cook, remember?

   Dangerous in the kitchen. Sure to wreak havoc, not to mention death and destruction, to any food I was so bold as to try to prepare.

   I assumed the pleading look in my eyes was enough to remind Jim of all this. But when I turned up the intensity from simple appeal to prayerful petition, all he did was smile.

   "You'll be brilliant," he said, and though I had, until that very moment, believed that Jim didn't have an underhanded bone in his body, I suddenly saw the whole truth and nothing but. He was a clever one. That was for sure. He'd chosen his words carefully. There's no way a born-and-bred Scotsman can say the word
brilliant
and not make it sound like sheer poetry.

He knew he had me, damn it. He gave me a wink.

   One more little tug, and there I was, right where Jim had set up his own workstation on a table near the grill.

   "You're completely out of your mind. You know that, don't you?" Just because I'd folded like an origami stork doesn't mean I was going to go down without a fight. I hissed the words at Jim from the corner of my mouth. "Do you know what you're getting yourself into? I'm going to burn down the restaurant. I'm going to poison your students. I'm going to—"

   "Hand out tonight's menu and recipes." His grin still in place, he held out a stack of papers toward me.

   But remember, I wasn't folding. At least not completely.

   I eyed the papers carefully before I accepted them—just in case Jim had some other trick up his sleeve. It wasn't until I'd determined he was on the up-and-up that I took them out of his hands and started around the room with them.

   I got to the dessert table just in time to head off a turf war. Margaret Whitemore had been paired with a thin, mousy woman named Agatha. They were standing shoulder to shoulder and were apparently in the process of determining whose half of the table was whose. From what I could see, the negotiations were not going well.

   Margaret, on the right, used the back of one hand to nudge Agatha's grocery bag to the left and give herself a little more room. Agatha retaliated. She stepped to her right and bumped Margaret out of the way with one bony hip.

   "Menus," I chirped, stepping between them. I tried for a smile that might diffuse the spark of annoyance in Margaret's rheumy eyes and the look of I-dare-you-to-take-meon-old-lady that made Agatha throw back her shoulders and stick out her chin. "And you know, now that I look at this table . . ." I pretended to give the logistics careful consideration, even though I'd seen the dessert table a thousand times. "This just isn't going to work. I know." I latched on to Agatha's stick-thin arm and marched her around to the short end of the table, then did the same with Margaret.

   It wasn't the perfect solution, but at least with the two of them standing face-to-face instead of slap up against each other, I wouldn't have to worry about bodily harm.

   One crisis taken care of, I breathed a sigh of relief and made a mental note not to pair Agatha and Margaret again. Then I continued on. The last station I stopped at was prep and side dishes. Thankfully, Brad Peterson and Kegan O'Rourke looked like they were getting along just fine.

   "Here you go!" I slid one packet of papers toward Brad (who, I should note, did not thank me for it) and another in front of Kegan, whose cheeks got pink when he smiled at me.

   "You guys all set to go?" I asked them.

   "Just about." Ever the eager beaver, Kegan lifted his organic cotton market bag onto the table. But Brad was quicker. He'd already reached for his plastic shopping bag, and he unloaded the contents.

   "Vinegar, sugar, salt, carrots, cabbage." One by one, Brad set the items out on the table. "I sure hope we're not making some kind of dip out of this stuff. Sounds awful."

   "It's not dip, it's coleslaw." Kegan had been busy ruffling through the recipes. He found the one for the side dish Jim planned to serve with the burgers the duo at the grill would be making and pointed it out to Brad. "It looks delicious! And healthy. See, it's even got celery seed in it, and—"

   I knew exactly when Kegan's gaze slid from the printed recipe to the vegetables Brad had taken out. His words ended as abruptly as if they'd been snipped with kitchen shears. His cheeks got pale, and when he swallowed hard, Kegan's Adam's apple jumped.

   "You're not planning on using
that
in our coleslaw, are you?"

   I think the question popped out of Kegan's mouth even before he knew it. He was instantly apologetic.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be critical." A smile came

and went across the young man's expression. "It's just that—"

   "What?" His choice of vegetables apparently in question, Brad aimed a laser look at Kegan before he looked down at the table and the plastic bag full of carrots that sat next to an anemic-looking cabbage. "The instructions Jim e-mailed said cabbage and carrots. That's what I got here. Cabbage and carrots. You got a problem with that?"

   Kegan blinked rapidly. He hemmed and hawed and hesitated before he cleared his throat and found his voice. "It's just that . . ." He touched a hand to his own shopping bag. "I just don't think . . . That is . . . I think it might be better if we . . . I mean . . ." He decided showing was better than telling. Or maybe it was just less painful for a kid who was obviously so shy.