Read A Private Affair for Free Online

going to eat it.”
    “How?”
    “That’s none of your business,” Carissa said, taken aback by Malcolm’s insistence to keep the conversation going.
    “How many ways are there to eat a pineapple?” Riverton asked.
    Malcolm stretched out his arms wide. “Hundreds of ways! You could cube it and put it on a pizza or slice it and put it on fish or make a smoothie or—”
    “I’m sure he gets the idea,” Carissa said.
    “Miss Carissa makes a pineapple cake that will make you lick your lips until they’re numb.”
    “And now we’ve taken up enough of his time,” Carissa said nudging Malcolm’s arm. “Come on. I have to finish my shopping.”
    “Bye,” Malcolm said.
    When they were far enough away, Carissa said, “You are sure in a chatty mood today.”
    “I was just trying to help him,” Malcolm said checking the aisles for the next item on the list. “He seemed nice.”
    Nice? “He’s anything but nice.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I told you, I work with him, remember?”
    “Maybe if you make him your peanut butter cookies, he’ll be nicer to you.”
    “I don’t need him to be nice to me.”
    And the last thing she’d ever do was cook for him.
    ***
    So, she could cook , Kenric thought with a smile as he set his shopping bag in the trunk of his car and closed it. For some reason he liked the thought of her cooking. He could use a nice home cooked meal, but knew that wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t cook and none of the women he dated did either. Most of his meals came out of a restaurant kitchen or was created at the hands of a personal chef. Not that he could complain. The food was always stellar, but one thing he missed as a boy was the intimacy of a specially prepared meal. At times he envied those who talked about their grandmother’s chicken chowder or an aunt’s roasted potatoes with chives. He wanted to know what food tasted like when it was made with love. What it was like to eat fresh food prepared just for him in a simple kitchen.
    Kenric settled inside his car. The closest he’d come to having the feeling of a home cooked meal was the summer he’d turned eight. At their family vacation home, he’d met the first chef who hadn’t gotten angry when Kenric snuck into the kitchen—a habit he’d started at age four—to watch him work. As long as he stayed a safe distance away, the chef—a big man with a bushy mustache and skin the color of pressed olives—let Kenric watch him chop, slice, fillet, broil and simmer. Kenric watched the chef as if he were a magician as he took ordinary objects and turned them into beautiful dishes. He loved the bright reds, orange, purple, greens and blues of the varied fruits and vegetables he would see lined up on the kitchen table and counter. He loved the savory aroma of onions sizzling in a pan or the light steam rising from a cherry pie cooling on the table. Once, he’d let Kenric crush fresh mint leaves and he still remembered the lingering scent on his fingers. However, once his mother found him hanging around the kitchen she put an end to his escapades.
    But by then the kitchen was no longer just a curiosity for him, but a special place. It stirred up something in him he’d never managed to recapture. He knew it was a silly notion to try, but he couldn’t stop himself. Over the years, he’d gotten rid of three personal chefs because their austere, almost clinical approach to food annoyed him. He envied Malcolm’s joy as he recalled Carissa’s cooking, because for a brief moment in his life he’d wanted to know what that sensation was like. And now that eagerness had returned. He wanted to know what Carissa’s baked trout and pineapple cake tasted like, and her…
    He shook his head determined to halt his dangerous thoughts. He turned on the ignition and put his car in gear. No, he knew better than to let his mind wander into dangerous territory. Carissa York was not on the menu.
    ***
    “You don’t have to help me put things