Secret Ingredient: Love Read Free

out of school. Same vacations.”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “For starters, it was his idea, not mine. And—”
    He held up a hand to stop her. “This sounds like a long, yet interesting story. Would you mind if we sat down?” he asked.
    “Of course not. How thoughtless of me.”
    She wasn’t usually so rude. But apparently her brain was on overload, filled as it was with good-looking Alex Marchetti. After that, there wasn’t a whole lot of room left over for rational thought, not to mention manners. Then she’d climbed on her soapbox, something that usually followed when the subject of her family came up. Everything else went out the window. Including courtesy.
    She waved her hand toward the living room. “Please.”
    He turned away and she couldn’t help peeking at him from the rear. For a while now, Fran had wondered about the hoopla, hype and hyperbole associated with men’s backsides. Movies, magazines and other media were full of it. And she didn’t get it. At least she hadn’t until this very moment. It was sort of comforting to know she wasn’t immune.
    He filled out a pair of slacks in the best possible way. She would bet he was something of a phenomenon in a pair of worn jeans. Alex Marchetti probably sat behind a desk all day, and it wasn’t fair that he showed not a single hint of secretary spread. More proof that God was a man.
    He sighed as he settled his very attractive rear end in her big, overstuffed chair. Her want ads still rested on the ottoman in front of him. “This is comfortable,” he said.
    “I think so, too. It was my grandmother’s.” Fran sat on the sofa at a right angle to him. “She died a couple years ago.” She smiled sadly.
    “I guess she was very special to you.”
    Fran nodded. “My father’s mother. She visited all the time. We were very close. She financed my rebellion.”
    “Rebellion?”
    “Culinary school. My father refused to pay for it. He said that if I liked to cook, I should get married and prepare meals for one man instead of a bunch of strangers.”
    “Hmm,” was his only comment. “Where did you go to school?”
    “San Francisco.”
    He lifted one eyebrow. “Chalk one up for your grandmother. And you still miss her.”
    “Every day,” Fran agreed. “But that’s why I love that chair. It’s nice to have something to remind me of her.”
    “Do you want me to give you my amateur psychological take on that?”
    “Nope. And I won’t practice armchair psychology if you won’t.”
    “You already have,” he said wryly.
    “Okay. No more cracks about second-son syndrome.”
    He held out his hand. “Deal.”
    “Done,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.
    A tingle of awareness skittered through her. If she had foreseen the magnitude of disturbance caused by the warmth of his large hand, she would have kept hers to herself.
    She removed her fingers from his, hoping he didn’t notice her abruptness. It smacked of attraction. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Nothing personal. But after her disaster, she wasn’t interested in a flirtation or anything more serious with any man. Especially one in the food service industry. If only Alex didn’t look so darn cute sitting in her grandmother’s chair. What in the world had possessed her to look through that peephole in the first place? Curiosity.
    Which reminded her. She was still curious about the second reason he’d dropped by. He’d admitted he was looking for a chef, but he didn’t seem terribly impressed with her verbal credentials. There wasn’t much chance he would offer her the job. Too bad. It was a wonderful opportunity.
    But he’d said he was here for two reasons, and he’d only accounted for one. “So what’s the second whammy?” she asked.
    “Excuse me?”
    “You said you’re here because of a double whammy. Chef search is number one. What’s number two?”
    “Matchmaking.”

Chapter Two
    Chapter Two
    “W hy would you assume Rosie was matchmaking?”