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her a slow, sexy smile. “More?”
    Chocolate . She knew he meant chocolate. And the pictures in her head really needed to go away. Like now.
    He used a clean spoon to dip into the bowl of ganache; except this time his hand moved slightly when she leaned forward, and she felt the chocolate smear against the corner of her mouth.
    “Whoops – sorry.” Though he didn’t sound in the slightest bit apologetic.
    And her pulse rose sharply when he scooped the ganache from the corner of her mouth with the tip of his forefinger, then placed it in his mouth to suck the chocolate off, keeping eye contact with her the whole time.
    It was the sexiest thing she’d seen in her whole life.
    And her common sense had clearly been bundled outside and locked out of the apartment, because she found herself dipping her forefinger into the chocolate mix and smearing it along his lower lip.
    His pupils went huge.
    “Rachel,” he whispered softly.
    And then he pushed the bowl to one side, leaned forward and kissed her.
    He tasted of chocolate and man. An unbeatable combination.
    The next thing she knew, her hands were in his hair and his arms were wrapped tightly round her, and he was kissing her hard. His mouth was warm and sure against hers, coaxing her and teasing her until she opened her mouth and let him deepen the kiss. And the way he explored her mouth made her feel as if she was floating.
    Crazy.
    This really shouldn’t be happening.
    And yet part of her was so glad that it was – that they were finally acting on the unspoken attraction between them. That his clever, capable hands were stroking her back, and even through the material of her dress his touch made every nerve-end sing with pleasure.
    When he broke the kiss, they were both shaking.
    “Uh. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Sorry,” he muttered.
    “Me, too. It was both of us,” she whispered, wanting to be fair.
    He still looked panicky. Clearly he wanted this and yet didn’t want it, which made him as mixed-up as she was. “I need to put the macarons in to bake,” he said, and pulled away.
    Just as well she hadn’t been stupid enough to give in to the temptation to stroke his face and tell him that it was OK, because obviously it was very far from OK.
    She shut up and let him deal with the oven.
    By the time he’d finished putting the macarons in the oven, they’d both recovered a little bit, and Rachel determined to treat him as if he was one of her patients – stick to the facts, keep the emotion out of it, and be friendly but keep an appropriate distance between them.
    “I’m preparing the crab cakes next,” he said. But first he made his own mayonnaise – using nothing more than a whisk and a bowl, drizzling the oil onto the egg yolks and whipping them together until the mixture was thick and cream-colored and glossy.
    “That’s impressive,” she couldn’t help saying.
    “Not that impressive – it really doesn’t take a lot of effort. Plus it tastes better than the stuff out of a jar,” he said with a smile. “By the way, in case you were worrying, I always use pasteurized eggs. So the home-made mayo isn’t going to make you ill with salmonella or anything.”
    “Thank you.”
    She watched him put the crab cakes together, first chopping the parsley and then adding a small amount of breadcrumbs, mustard and the crab; then binding the mixture with egg before making them into cakes; and finally flouring them before putting them on a plate and covering them with cling film, ready to cool in the fridge. This time, she noticed that he worked in silence. It wasn’t awkward so much as focused; Ryan Henderson, she was beginning to realize, was a perfectionist. Because every single one of the cakes was identical in shape and size. Precise. Perfect.
    When the macarons were cooked, Ryan put them on a rack to cool and let her try one. “Help yourself,” he said. And she knew that this was his way of making sure they didn’t risk any accidental