“Agreed. Are you hungry?”
She seemed to consider the comment and he wondered if her mind was wandering to other hungers, just as his was as he eyed her appetizing mouth, the soft curve of her neck, her narrow wrists and toned forearms. He found it strange that he was lusting after a woman’s forearms. But since Reilly was covered from head to toe in an apron and long-sleeved shirt and pants, there was little else for him to lust after.
She sucked her lower lip in between her teeth, as if the action might help in her decision. For a moment he thought she was going to refuse him, turn him away into the night. Then she said, “Actually, I was just thinking about how I haven’t really eaten anything all day. And the thought of having Benardo’s delivered…well, it seems suddenly all too appealing.”
Ben hiked his brows then grinned, idly wondering where the bumbling chatterbox from this morning was hiding out. She held the door open and he stepped inside, instantly assaulted by the aroma of sweet dough baking and of Reilly’s clean-smelling skin as he passed her. He began hefting the bags he held to a table, but she stayed him with a hand that seemed to burn straight through his shirt and scorch his skin. “No. Why don’t we go back to the kitchen?”
He caught her looking through the front glass windows at his sports car parked at the curb.
“What? Don’t want to be seen with me, Reilly?”
She quickly glanced at him and her cheeks pinkened. “You don’t understand. I have these three friends who would never let me hear the end of it if they found out we were here together, alone, in the middle of the night.” The left side of her mouth turned up. “And who knows what my family would think.”
“And do your friends and family make a habit of driving past your shop in the middle of the night?”
“No. But why take chances?”
He wanted to give her at least a dozen reasons why she should take chances, namely with him, but instead followed her sexy little bottom through the shop and back through the door to the kitchen.
The source for the sweet scent permeating the place became immediately clear as he eyed the sheets of freshly baked—were those unfrosted and unstuffed éclairs?—goodies taking up nearly every inch of free counter space.
“Move one of the trays to the side over there,” she said, gesturing toward the middle island. She grabbed a towel, checked inside an oven, then took out yet another tray then switched off the temperature. She looked around for a free space, then propped the oven door open and slid the tray back inside. He handed her the one he’d moved to make room for him and Reilly at the counter and she put that inside the open oven, as well.
She ran her wrist across her forehead and looked at him sheepishly. “I have another cart on order,” she told him, gesturing off to the side to where two ten-tray carts were full, “but it hasn’t arrived yet.”
“You may want to go for two or three more.”
“I’m afraid you may be right. I had no idea when I opened this place that business would be so good.” She stared at him openly, licked her bottom lip, then gestured toward the island.
Ben made a ceremony out of pulling out a free stool for her, then helping her to climb on top of it, guessing his assistance hindered rather than helped the process but up for any excuse to touch her. She gracefully accepted the offer, then waited as he sat next to her and began pulling items out of the bags. Even as he did so, he wondered what they would be having for dessert. And éclairs, as good as they may be, were definitely not at the top of his list.
REILLY COULDN’T quite bring herself to believe that she was sitting in the middle of her shop kitchen in the dead of night watching yummy Ben Kane serve her up dinner from a restaurant that boasted a three-month waiting list for a table.
No, she had never been to Benardo’s Hideaway. Oh, sure, she knew where it was. Situated north of Santa Monica, on a jagged outcropping overlooking the Pacific Ocean, everyone agreed that the view was phenomenal, especially at sunset. And with the ocean-side floor-to-ceiling windows, all diners were guaranteed one hell of a show.
But Reilly understood that even the fantastic view ranked a far second to the number one reason the restaurant was so popular: the famous cuisine Benardo’s offered. And as Ben took fine china plates out, she began to see what sort of standards the owner upheld.
No foam cartons for Benardo’s. Everything was in rubber-topped glass containers and separate from the foods they would be served with. She swallowed hard as she watched Ben’s long, thick-fingered hands lay out a navy blue and gold tapestry placemat, two crystal candle holders complete with candles, linen-wrapped silverware, a gold charger plate, then cobalt blue plates that were edged with a gold Greek key design.
“And here I would have settled for a burger on a paper plate,” she murmured.
Ben handed her a crystal glass then poured in a finger of red wine. Which type, she couldn’t be sure because the letters on the label of the bottle were covered by the white linen napkin he’d wrapped around it. “Shh,” he ordered.
She suppressed a giggle then sipped at the wine. Merlot. A good one at that.
She tried to get a peek inside the dish he was opening, but he held it where she couldn’t see.
“Close your eyes.”
She widened them instead. “What?”
He grinned at her, making her stomach pitch to her feet. “You heard me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t get any food.”
She made a face. Five minutes ago she probably would have pointed him toward the door and sent him on his merry way if he’d told her she’d have to close her eyes. But now that she’d been treated to the full presentation, her curiosity had been ignited and she really wanted to see what he had in store for her.
The key word being see.
She shifted on her stool then closed her eyes. What could he do, really, if she peeked?
She felt cloth settle over her eyelids. She immediately reached for it. “Um, you didn’t say anything about a blindfold.”
She felt as well as heard him say “trust me” very near her ear. She fought a shiver, but was helpless to prevent it from sliding up her arms then down her back to settle finally between her tightly clenched thighs. He took her silence as acquiescence and continued tying the material around the back of her head, careful not to get her hair caught in the knot.
Oh, boy.
While Reilly knew her kitchen better than she did her upstairs apartment, she felt decidedly strange sitting there, being able to touch everything, smell everything, but not see it. Beyond the scent of the éclairs, the hint of cinnamon that still lingered and the honey syrup she’d used on the sticky buns that morning, she became aware of another pungent food scent and salivated.
“Open your mouth,” Ben requested next to her ear.
Reilly’s throat closed so tightly she could barely breathe but she somehow managed to part her lips, foggily trying to remember the last time she’d brushed her teeth.
Something rested against her tongue. She was vividly aware of the burst of flavor. Of something cheesy and tangy and spicy. Spots of yellow, orange and red exploded behind her closed eyelids as she closed her lips so Ben could extract the fork.
“Mmm.” She’d never connected food to colors before. But without the aid of sight, her mind seemed to compensate in other ways.
“That’s my own recipe for brie.”
Brie. She’d never had brie before, so had no way to connect it to a different type of cheese. She did, however, decide that she’d been missing out.
“More?”