"Friday evening? Why?" Good grief. Was that squeaky noise her voice? She coughed to clear her dust-dry throat.
"I'd like to have dinner with you."
"Dinner? You mean like a date?"
"That note of horror I hear in your voice is pretty deflating to my ego."
"We've been through this. I don't date. And even if I did, I don't want to date you."
"I don't want to date you either. Something we have in common. And since you don't date, I guess that means you don't have plans Friday night. I'll swing by and pick you up at eight."
"But-"
"I'll be out of town for the rest of the week, so you won't be able to reach me-just in case you're considering backing out."
"There's nothing to back out of. Listen, you can't fool me. I know your type. Smooth. Good-looking. Good-looking guys are nothing but trouble, and that makes you trouble with a capital T."
"So you don't want to have dinner with me because-"
"You're too handsome. That's right."
"I have to say, I've never been turned down for that reason before."
A snort escaped her. "Ha. I bet you've never been turned down, period."
"Have, too."
"Really? When? Second grade?"
He chuckled. "No. Third grade."
"Any turndowns prior to puberty are null and void. Besides, if-what was her name? The one in third grade?"
"Betty Waterhouse."
"If Betty Waterhouse could see you now, she'd kick her own ass black and blue."
"I had a blind date a few months back who hated me," he said in a low, sexy, confiding tone that prickled her heated skin.
"Hated you? Why?"
"She doesn't like accountants. Bad experience with the IRS. She practically broke out in hives when I told her I'm a CPA."
Melanie's eyes narrowed. "You planning to audit me?"
"Only if you want me to."
His tone was so suggestive, she almost dropped the phone into the bathwater.
Before she could find her voice he continued, "C'mon, Mel Gibson. Whaddaya say? You. Me. Dinner. I can do ugly. Really. Totally grunge."
Melanie rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure. You probably look good when you wake up in the morning."
"Hmmm. There's one way to find out."
"Forget it. Besides, I thought accountants were nerdy guys with leaky pens in their shirt pockets who wore high-water pants, white socks with black shoes, and held their glasses together with safety pins. You're not an accountant. You're a menace to female hormones."
"No menace. No audit. Just dinner. Maybe a movie."
"You'll be ugly?"
"Totally gross. Promise."
A sigh escaped her. "Are you always this persistent?"
After a long pause he said, "No. Actually, I'm never this persistent. Friday night. Eight. Dress casual. 'Bye, Melanie."
The dial tone sounded in her ear. Melanie held the phone away from her and stared at it as if it were the Loch Ness monster come to life in her tub. Dazed and confused, she clicked the OFF button and carefully laid the instrument on the bathmat. She had a date. With Christopher Bishop. Friday night.
Sufferin' succotash, how had that happened?
Probably because I didn't open my mouth and say no. But Melanie had a feeling that Chris wouldn't have taken no for an answer anyway, a fact she should have found annoying but instead found utterly romantic. And exciting.
Nana stuck her head in the door. "’Bout time you got off the phone. I was getting a crick in my neck from pressing my ear against the crack in the door."
Melanie buried her hands in her face. "You heard?"
"Only your side. What's the scoop?"
Melanie sighed heavily. "We have a date Friday night."
Nana stuck two fingers between her lips and let loose an ear-piercing whistle. "Praise the Lord! It's about time you came out of mourning over that two-timing gigolo Todd. Hot damn! A date with the hunk. I might even get me some great-grandchildren to spoil."
Melanie almost choked. "Nana! It's only a date. One date. That's it."
Nana regarded her steadily through very wise eyes. "If that's what you think, honey, then you'd better brace yourself, because one date is not what that young man has on his mind."
"I have no intention of getting involved," Melanie said with a sniff.
"Intentions, inschmentions," Nana said, shaking her head. "Your heart doesn't listen to intentions. His won't either." Leaning down, Nana patted Melanie's waterlogged hand. "Sweetie, don't close yourself off from someone who might bring you happiness just because your last beau was an idiot. Sometimes the least-expected path is the one that leads to the treasure." After uttering those sage words, Nana left the room, closing the door behind her.
Treasure. Phooey. Melanie pulled the plug and stepped out of the tub, wrapping herself in a thick pink towel. Christopher Bishop wasn't a treasure. He was a hazard. Granted he was sexy, yummy, and goose-bump-inspiring-but he was a hazard just the same.
And she had a date with him Friday night.
God help her, she couldn't wait.
Chapter 7
The week passed by in a blur for Melanie. Each day at work was busier than the last, but in spite of the hectic demands on her time, she loved every minute of it.
And she hardly thought about Chris and their upcoming date at all.
Yup. Hardly at all.
Except every time she inhaled.
Thursday proved to be one of the busiest days in the Pampered Palate's brief history. Three midtown offices had made large lunch orders based on recommendations from other clients, a group of Japanese tourists wandered in, and an outdoor arts-and-crafts festival drew dozens of walk-ins.
Melanie peeled potatoes at lightning speed for her famous red potato and dill salad and kept one eye on the apple cobblers through the glass oven door. Nana was a veritable whirling dervish, flitting from the stove to the refrigerator to the oven without missing a beat.
If business kept up at this pace-and Melanie fervently hoped it would-she'd soon have to hire an assistant. Maybe two. Maybe she could even lure her parents down to Atlanta to help out. She knew her dad missed the daily hustle and bustle of the restaurant business. He'd sold his family-style eatery in New York several years ago, ready to enjoy his hard-earned retirement, and he had. For a while.
But when she'd spoken to him on the phone yesterday, she clearly detected boredom in his tone. "I'm tired of puttering around the house," James Gibson had grumbled in her ear, "and your mother is grousing about me being constantly underfoot. By gum, I know all the names of those young and restless people on the soap operas. I don't want to know about the trials and tribulations of Erica Kane and all her bold and beautiful children!"
Melanie smiled, recalling his disgruntled tone. She missed Mom and Dad and looked forward to their upcoming visit in September. Maybe when they came down, she'd be able to convince them to buy a retirement home in the area. She knew they weren't happy about the prospect of facing another New York winter. And she suspected that once Dad saw her new catering truck, he'd be eager to be a part of the action.
Finished with the potatoes, Melanie turned her attention to sautéing tender filets for the daily special, veal marsala. Nana was busy packing up orders of southern fried chicken and barbecued ribs, and Mike the delivery man was alternately loading the orders into his van and helping Nana. Voices from customers in the front of the store drifted back to Melanie. Someone laughed, and she heard Wendy's melodic Alabama drawl as she worked the cash register for the takeout orders.
If Melanie's hands hadn't been so occupied, she would have rewarded herself with a hearty pat on the back for hiring Wendy. Not only was the girl smart and a hard worker, but it seemed that half the male student population at Georgia Tech was in love with her and made it their business to drop by the Pampered Palate whenever she was working, which was most afternoons. Nothing like hungry college students to boost the sales.