“Not if I can help it. What’s wrong with your kitchen?”
She snorted again. “You’re kidding me, right? Hand me that, please.” She pointed with her chin because her hands were full of chicken.
He reached across the counter and handed her a box of kosher salt. There was fresh coffee and he got up to pour himself a cup. She had a knack for making herself at home. Since he planned to get a meal out of it, he wasn’t about to complain. But she couldn’t just come and go as she pleased in his apartment.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Collecting information for your next exposé?”
He laughed. “You’re a little obsessed with yourself. I write exposés about totalitarian governments that starve their people, drug cartels that rule entire countries, contaminated water supplies that kill children—not about fallen celebrity chefs.”
She had the good sense not to respond.
He continued to watch her over the rim of his cup. She looked better today than she had yesterday. The dark circles under her eyes were mostly gone and she’d combed her hair and tied it back into a smooth ponytail. Her shorts were white and her legs Coppertone bronze. Sawyer suspected it was either a spray-on tan or Gina had a standing appointment at a tanning salon. She had on a low-cut tank top. But the spectacular rack that had made her a household name with men who couldn’t care less about cooking was missing in action.
Then again, so was that breezy, charming personality that had netted her a couple of Emmys. The moral of the story was don’t believe everything you see on television.
But if someone was holding a gun to his head, he’d be forced to admit that Gina DeRose was a beautiful woman. Blond, blue-eyed with a mouth that was slightly too large for her heart-shaped face. It was sexy as hell and made her stand out from all the other beautiful blondes he’d known in his lifetime.
“The soufflé will take another twenty minutes if you want to get dressed.” She zeroed in on his chest again.
“My body too distracting for you?”
She snorted. “Right.”
He went back to his bedroom, took a ten-minute shower, and dressed. By the time he wandered into the kitchen, she had his large stockpot on the range top with her chicken broth simmering. He wasn’t crazy about soup, especially in summer, but the fragrant smell was driving him crazy.
She gave him a sideways glance. “You have a lot of nice equipment.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” He flashed a salacious grin.
She shook her head and, yeah, it had been a cheesy line. “Why do you have all this stuff?” She eyed his pot rack. “You don’t even own a bottle of olive oil, yet you have enough All-Clad to open a Williams Sonoma store. Why?”
“I got it in the divorce.” He’d never been married and the expiration date on most of his relationships was two months. His job didn’t leave a lot of time for romance and so far, he hadn’t met a woman who’d made him want to slow down. “I like good food. Someday, I plan to spend more time on the culinary arts.”
She quirked a brow, like she wasn’t buying it. “When were you divorced?”
“Never, I was joking. The pots and pans were a gift from my mother, a not-so subtle hint that I eat like shit.”
“Did she get you the knives too?” She perused his block of Henckels.
“I got those, figuring I’d look like a poseur with top-of-the-line pots and pans and only crappy knives.” He bobbed his head at the soft case on the counter. “I assume those are yours. What’s the brand?” He didn’t recognize the logo, not that he was into that kind of stuff.
“Gina DeRose. But ChefAid actually makes them. I’m ChefAid’s brand ambassador…or at least was. We’re…in talks about my contract.”
“Ahh.” From his mom, it sounded like most of her talks weren’t going too well. “May I?” He lifted the chef’s knife to feel the weight of the handle in his hand. “Light, but it’s got heft. Nice.”
“Accessible to a home cook, right?”
“Seems like, yeah. Is that who you’re targeting?” The black faux leather case seemed a little fancy for Suzy or Sam homemaker. But what the hell did he know?
“Uh-huh, but the experienced home cook. Someone who spends a lot of time in the kitchen.”
Sawyer nodded. It sounded like she had done a full demographic workup, though he wouldn’t have expected anything less. According to his mother, Gina had built quite a franchise, which meant she had to be a savvy businesswoman.
“I didn’t know ChefAid made knives, just appliances.” Refrigerators, ovens, microwaves, range tops, mixers, food processors, and built-in coffee makers. Half the shit in Sawyer’s loft.
“They don’t. We rolled them out a couple of years ago as part of a marketing campaign to announce that I’m the new face of ChefAid.” She paused, then quickly amended, “I’m not sure if it’s still working out for me.”
“For you?” He cocked his head and suppressed a laugh. Never bullshit an investigative reporter. “You mean your relationship is no longer working for ChefAid, right?”
She stalled and finally said, “I’ll win them back.”
“How?” As long as she was mired in controversy, Sawyer didn’t see it. Then again, look at Martha Stewart. A stint in the joint for insider trading hadn’t tarnished her silver star.
Gina shrugged. “I’m meeting with them in September to discuss our five-year contract.” She emphasized five years as if that meant ChefAid was locked in.
Sawyer knew most endorsement contracts could be nullified if the personal life of the company’s representative embarrassed the shit out of said company. That gave Gina less than six weeks to brush up her image.
“Please don’t tell me that’s how long you’re staying?” He tried to sound as if he were joking, but he wasn’t.
The oven timer dinged and Gina gingerly pulled out her soufflé. It was impressive. Puffy and a pale shade of yellow.
She examined the egg dish and pulled a face.
“What?” he asked. It looked perfect to him.
“It could’ve risen more and it’s sinking too fast. Floppy egg whites and I left it in a tad too long.” She turned it slightly, examined it some more, and then, as if to herself, said, “I’m so damned out of practice.”
“Why’s that? Don’t you have to do it every day as part of your job?”
She let out a bark of laughter. “You mean for my show? Here’s a little secret for your exposé. I have twenty assistants. By the time I walk onto the set, everything is done for me.”
He wasn’t surprised and since they were being honest was tempted to ask if she had a body double for the cleavage shots. But decided against it, fearing that the soufflé would wind up in his face.
“It looks pretty good to me,” he said. “You think we can eat it any time soon?”
She reached into one of the top cabinets for two plates and dished them each a serving. He took one bite and thought maybe they could be friends after all. Because if this was what “out of practice” tasted like, he wanted to be around when she got her groove back.
“It sucks,” she said. “Dry and overpowered by the basil.”
Dry? He’d thought it was quite moist. And the basil…well, he’d only caught a hint. He thought it was just right. Better than right. Superb.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He forked up another bite. “I’m managing to choke it down.”