Lead Me Home. Vicki Thompson Lewis

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СКАЧАТЬ really not that tired.” Adrenaline had kicked in the moment he’d walked into the kitchen and caught sight of her. He hesitated. “Can I say something about your two options?”

      She waved a hand. “Be my guest.”

      “I’ve had many spinach soufflés, and I’m sure with your talent you’d turn out something amazing. But I’d argue against making that for tomorrow.”

      “Why?”

      “The color. To these guys, it’ll look like you baked a frog.”

      She burst out laughing. “Okay, I can see you think like a cowboy. Apparently I don’t because I never would have thought of that.”

      Her laughter charmed him. He was also impressed by her willingness to be flexible. “If you haven’t been around cowboys before, I don’t know how you could be expected to understand them.”

      “But I need to, obviously.”

      “That’s where I come in.”

      “How about the ratatouille? I suppose that’s out because of the name. I doubt cowboys are fond of rats.”

      “So don’t call it that. Call it vegetable stew.”

      “And make it the authentic way?”

      “Maybe not quite.” He shoved back his chair and picked up his plate. “Let’s have some more wine while we talk about how you can modify the recipe to make it more cowboy-friendly.”

      “I’ll admit I’m intrigued.” She stood, too. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

      “I am if you are.”

      “Okay, then. That book on the top of the pile has the ratatouille recipe in it. If you want to take a look, I’ll tidy up and bring out the baked figs.”

      “Great.” Someone in his travels had told him that figs were beneficial to a man’s family jewels. Considering his state of mind, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate dessert for her to serve.

      AURELIA COULDN’T TELL whether Matthew had offered his services because he was a good guy or because he found her attractive. A couple of times she’d noticed what could be a gleam of interest in his eyes, but it could also have been appreciation for her cooking. At least he liked that about her.

      She quickly refrigerated the remaining food and put his plate in the commercial-sized dishwasher. When she glanced at the table, he was intently studying the ratatouille recipe. “I can warm up the figs or serve them cold with whipped cream. How would you like them?”

      He glanced up. “Cold with whipped cream sounds good.”

      “All right.” When he focused those blue eyes on her, she lost track of everything else.

      She’d never licked whipped cream off a man’s body, but she wouldn’t mind licking it off his. She could imagine popping open the snaps on that blue denim shirt and squirting a trail of whipped cream down the middle of his chest toward an even more interesting part of his anatomy … oh, yeah. They could have fun times with a can of whipped cream.

      He glanced down at his shirt. “Did I spill food on myself?”

      Whoops. “No, no, I was just … wondering how you stay so fit.” Way to go, girl. Now he knows for sure that you were ogling his chest. Her cheeks grew hot. “I mean, it must be tough with all your traveling, and I know you love to eat, and …” Dear God, the more she explained, the worse it got.

      Fortunately he looked more amused than offended. “The horses make sure I don’t get lazy and fat.”

      “Well, that’s logical.” She struggled to remember what she’d been about to do that had started the whole whipped-cream fantasy. Oh, yes. Dessert.

      “So go ahead and pile on the whipped cream. I’ll work it off.”

      “Coming right up.” She turned quickly back to the counter and resisted the urge to fan herself. She’d just bet he could work it off, in any number of ways. Right now she was picturing how many calories they could burn if they got naked.

      Taking a deep breath, she uncovered the leftover figs. Darned if those figs didn’t remind her of a certain part of the male anatomy. She hadn’t planned to have any, but she found herself dishing a couple for herself.

      Normally she would have whipped the cream herself instead of using a commercial version, but making her own would take too long. For the sake of convenience, she grabbed the pressurized can that had been in the refrigerator when she’d arrived last week.

      After a few quick shakes, she pressed her finger against the nozzle. She hadn’t used a can of whipped cream in years and she’d forgotten how much fun it was. She had to force herself to stop before she covered the figs completely.

      Even then, she couldn’t resist spraying some on her finger and sucking it off before she put away the can. She had her finger in her mouth when she heard Matthew clear his throat. Turning, she met his gaze.

      This time she had no doubt that the gleam in his eyes had nothing to do with her food and everything to do with her. Heat pooled low in her belly as his status changed from harmless crush to potential lover. Ah, but that was a bad idea, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been brought over from Nebraska to get horizontal with the horse trainer.

      Perhaps he had the same thought, because he broke eye contact and looked down at the cookbook. “I think you should lose the eggplant.” His voice was husky.

      She was so focused on the undertone of lust that it took her a couple of seconds to register what he’d said and muster a protest. “Eggplant is the whole point to ratatouille.” She returned the whipped cream to the refrigerator, pulled spoons out of the utensil drawer, and brought the two dishes of figs over to the table.

      He cleared his throat again. “I realize that, but eggplant’s a tricky vegetable when it comes to cowboys. They might accept it breaded and fried in eggplant parmesan, but I’m not sure they’ll take to it in a stew.”

      “So ratatouille without the eggplant.” She sat next to him because the idea had been to study the recipe together. “Maybe I should fix something else, instead.” His warmth and his scent reached out to her.

      “No, I think this will work.” He pulled his dish of figs closer. “Thanks for fixing this.”

      “You’re welcome.” She cut through the whipped cream with her spoon and scooped up a bite of fig and cream. Sitting within easy touching distance of him made her tremble, and she took another calming breath. She didn’t want to drop the mouthful of dessert in her lap.

      But she was determined to eat and prove that she was in control of the situation. She put the spoon in her mouth, but not all the whipped cream made it. She had to lick away the excess.

      She thought he hadn’t noticed until she realized his breathing had changed. When she peeked over at him, he was watching her with that same intensity that played havoc with her pulse rate.

      Closing his eyes, he pushed back from the table. “You know, maybe I should turn in, after all.”

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