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Perhaps it’s time you re-learned the
fundamentals.”
    “ Of living? I’ve got a
pretty good handle on walking and talking.” She quickly moved the
whisk around the pan. Her lips curled with pleasure when the
contents thickened under her coaxing. “At least with cooking I
don’t have to second guess. Either it works or it doesn’t. Trouble
is, most of the time, it doesn’t. Maybe that’s just
fate.”
    “ Maybe it’s not and you
need more practice, or someone who believes in your
skill.”
    “ Hmm.” Adding a touch of
salt and black pepper, she exchanged the whisk for his abandoned
wooden spoon. “A French chef would tell you to use only white
pepper, but I disagree. I want to see the flecks of black pepper. I
like seeing it as well as tasting it. Also, I like to add a tiny
pinch of nutmeg. It makes my sauce unique.” She sprinkled a smidge
of the light brown spice into the saucepan.
    “ You derive pleasure from
cooking, correct?” He sniffed at the pot’s contents.
    She nodded. “Yes, when everything
comes out beautifully. When it doesn’t, it’s just stressful and
disappointing.” She drew out the wooden spoon, admiring the white
sauce with its sheen from the butter. Bringing the spoon to her
mouth, she tentatively touched her tongue to the spoon.
“Perfect.”
    “ Imagine that pleasure
multiplied by a hundred once you find the right man—in your
kitchen, moving in your body, sharing your life.”
    His whispered words
shivered over the back of her neck as he stood closely behind her.
She gripped the spoon, ignoring the drop of sauce that fell to the
floor. She ached to turn around and look at him but she didn’t
dare. Will there be interest and desire in
his eyes or just pity and disgust? “I’ll
take your word for it but unless I see the evidence with my own
eyes, I’m disinclined to believe you.”
    “ You still have much to
learn.” He briefly touched her shoulder. “I have no doubts you’ll
learn it quickly.”
    She blew out a relieved breath when he
moved to the round table. “Maybe, but right now we eat. I refuse to
waste this wonderful sauce.”
    * * * *
    Matteus gazed at his
dining companion over the rim of his wineglass. For the most part,
he found her attempt at chicken to be dry and the broccoli rabe
with lemon juice was mushy. But her Béchamel sauce had been spot
on. He had to admit, her addition of nutmeg gave the sauce an
unexpected element. He resisted the urge to swirl a finger through
the puddle of white on his black plate. Better yet, he’d love to
lick the remaining sauce from her finger… Another sip of the crisp white wine
cleansed his palate but did nothing to settle his mind or the heat
swimming through his body. She was too close but far from
attainable because he couldn’t let himself forget that magic was
more important.
    “ So, how did you like your
food?” She dabbed delicately at her lips with a cotton napkin that
sported a black and white cow-print.
    “ Uh…” He carefully placed
his wineglass on the table. “Honestly?” He had to choose his words
carefully.
    Aidan nodded. “Of course. I know I’m
not an expert so I don’t expect glowing accolades.” She smiled.
“So?”
    “ Maybe you should enroll
in cooking classes.” Matteus pushed back his plate. Hurt clouded
her eyes, and he steeled himself against it. He hated it that he’d
been the one to pop her hopeful bubble. “However, I can find no
fault with the sauce. The snootiest French chefs in the world
couldn’t hold a candle to it.”
    “ Thanks for that, I guess.
I’m a miserable cook.” Aidan twisted the napkin in her fingers. “If
magic can’t help me, what makes you think classes would? I mean, I
failed Home Ec in high school, I was kicked out of weekend cooking
classes at the local college, and most recently a private
instructor told me I was beyond hope.”
    When she caught her bottom lip between
her teeth, desire slammed into him. What was it about this wanna-be
kitchen diva