Her Mistletoe Magic. Kristine Rolofson

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want her toes to tingle every time his fingers shifted the ice pack. She didn’t want to believe he was actually pleased to be taking care of her.

      There were rumors he’d dated three actresses at the same time. His picture had been on the cover of In Touch magazine, along with his glamorous raven-haired producer and the caption hinting at a surprise pregnancy. He’d cooked for George Clooney and been featured in Oprah’s magazine along with his recipe for eggplant Parmesan.

      “You must salt the eggplant and let it rest,” he’d been quoted as saying, as if that information unlocked the secrets of the universe, eternal life and the cure for cancer.

      “Why do you let eggplant rest?” she said suddenly.

      He beckoned one of the interns over. “More ice, please.”

      “Yes, Chef.” The college student hurried to do Nico’s bidding.

      “Okay,” he said, looking at her with those dark blue eyes of his. “Why do you let eggplant rest?”

      It took her a moment to realize he thought she was making a joke. “No,” she said. “You told Oprah to let the eggplant rest.”

      There was that sexy smile again. She couldn’t stop herself from blushing, but she hoped he would assume the heat of the kitchen was to blame. The pain in her foot blossomed, burning toward her ankle and up her leg.

      “It must be salted to sweat—to release liquid—so it won’t be soggy.”

      “That’s interesting.” She was babbling about eggplant. Could this be any more embarrassing?

      “Would you like some? Dinner service doesn’t start until five, but I will put aside—”

      “Thank you, that’s very nice of you, but—”

      “You don’t like Italian food.”

      “I love Italian food. Who doesn’t?” She shivered as he ran his index finger along her ankle. His touch was so gentle she didn’t feel any pain. Or maybe her skin was frozen from the ice. She was just being silly. Grace gulped. Time to get back to business. “I came to tell you that the Barrett wedding has been canceled.”

      He frowned. “I heard. Why have you waited hours to tell me about it?”

      “You knew?”

      Nico smiled. “There are no secrets around here. One of the house cleaners heard the mother talking about it. Would you like a cup of tea, Grace? A glass of water?”

      “No, thank you. About the wedding, Julie and Mason have apologized for the inconvenience. And they know the refund policy.”

      “I’ll let some of the staff know they will have that night off, after all, but they were looking forward to making the extra money. And I will have beef Wellington specials on the menu for the next ten days.”

      “I know. We’ve all worked so hard getting ready.” She wondered why he was taking the news in stride. Maybe in Hollywood, canceled weddings happened all the time. “Well, I’d better get back to work. If you would help me stand up—”

      “Is there someone I can call to help you?”

      “No, I’ll manage.”

      “Give it another minute,” Nico advised. “Has anyone ever told you that you should always wear red?”

      Oh, for heaven’s sake. She wanted to roll her eyes, but caught herself. “You are such a flirt.”

      “Grace!” He pretended to look insulted. “It was merely an observation. You’ve made it clear you aren’t interested in going out with me, so I won’t ask you again. Think of me as an impartial observer. And a paramedic.”

      “Right.” She hid a smile.

      He was heart-stoppingly attractive, disarmingly kind. And charming, too, with that eyebrow lift that sent his staff scurrying to do his bidding. But she was going to resist, just as she had since he’d joined the staff. It was a matter of self-preservation. There were lots of reasons to avoid this man. It was a “father thing,” Patsy had informed her after Tom bailed. Patsy had just read a biography of Jacqueline Kennedy and was up to date on “father things.” Daughters with playboy fathers tended to repeat the past in an effort to change it, Patsy had declared.

      Grace hadn’t argued. She’d read plenty of articles on topics like How to Tell a Keeper From a Loser, and she’d come to the conclusion that a little more self-awareness couldn’t hurt.

       CHAPTER TWO

      “EVERYTHING GOOD HAPPENS in the kitchen,” his grandmother used to say. She was a large woman, almost as wide as she was tall. Nico had adored her. And now, with the beautiful Grace Clarke immobilized in his very own kitchen, Adalina di Prioli’s words had never been more true.

      “Someday I will have to tell you about my grandmother.” Nico replaced the ice pack with a colder one. The original was sufficient to help with the swelling, but he liked to keep the interns busy and, besides, he wanted to pamper this lovely woman in red.

      He’d noticed that no one else seemed to. After a few discreet inquiries, he’d discovered she had no family in town. She had been in a relationship with some guy who moved away, but apparently that had been over for a long time. She seemed to spend most of her time at the lodge; she didn’t party in town or spend her days off on the ski slopes. She drank red wine if she drank anything other than Diet Coke and she emceed the animal shelter’s annual dog fashion show.

      “Was she a cook, too?” Grace asked.

      “She certainly was.”

      “And she taught you everything she knew?”

      “Yes.” Nico had perfected Mama Lina’s meatball recipe by the time he was eight, her lasagna at nine, and he began inventing different kinds of ravioli fillings by the time he was ten. “Her lasagna and her meatballs are on the menu. Have you tried them?”

      “The lasagna. It was delicious.” He watched her try to wiggle her toes and wince. “We were here for Patsy’s birthday in October. You made tiramisu, and we had a cake.”

      “There was a lot of wine poured that night.” He remembered Grace’s short black dress. She’d worn pumpkin earrings that dangled to her shoulders and threatened to tangle in her blond curls. He’d asked her to go out with him—dinner and a movie—and she’d very politely refused. “Was that the first time I asked you out?”

      “I don’t remember.”

      “No.” He pretended to think about it. “I believe I invited you for a drink the day I was hired. I should apologize for that.”

      “You don’t need to apologize.”

      “But I embarrassed you, I think. And gave you the wrong impression. I was ecstatic that day,” he admitted. “It took two months to talk the owners into hiring me.” At her incredulous expression, СКАЧАТЬ