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touch between them.
    Finally he chopped garlic and rosemary on a board, cut a pile of waxy potatoes into small cubes and dried them. “That’s the prep all done. I think we’re pretty much ready for dinner,” he said. “Where do you want to eat?”
    “It’ll be the kitchen table, I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t have a dining room.”
    “The kitchen table is fine. May I?”
    “You’ve brought your own stuff?”
    “Some,” he admitted. “Though I was hoping to use your silverware, crockery and placemats. You need two sets of knives and forks, a cake fork and a teaspoon.”
    She hid her smile at the precision of his instructions. He was definitely a perfectionist. “OK. I’ll sort them out.”
    He laid the table deftly with a starched white damask tablecloth, let her put the silverware and placemats on the table, then brought out two narrow flute glasses and two white candles in pewter candlesticks. He took the plates she’d given him and set them to heat.
    Meanwhile, he heated oil in a baking dish in the oven, then tipped in the potatoes, garlic and rosemary and set them to bake. In a pan on the stove, he fried the crab cakes. While the potatoes and the crab cakes were cooking, he prepared the plates. Rachel had never seen anyone work so fast or so neatly before.
    “My kitchen smells amazing,” she said.
    “Just plain old herbs and garlic,” he said with a smile. “This is just as quick as preparing a TV dinner, but it tastes better.”
    “Not everyone has your culinary skills,” she reminded him. She certainly didn’t. The family joke was that she could barely boil water.
    “Maybe. But cooking’s really not as difficult as people think it is.” He lit the candles, turned off the main light, and opened the bottle he’d stored in the fridge earlier.
    As the vanilla scent from the candles drifted into the air, and with the level of light low, this felt like the fanciest and most romantic restaurant in a big city rather than a tiny apartment kitchen-diner in a small town.
    “Is that champagne?” she asked as he poured the wine and it frothed up the flute.
    “Yup. Standard birthday wine,” he said.
    There was nothing standard about the bottle he’d just opened; Nick had fancied himself knowledgeable about wine, and Rachel had learned from him over the years. She could see from the label that the champagne was French and far from cheap. And she felt horribly guilty that Ryan had spent so much money on her.
    As if it showed on her face, he said softly, “Relax. It’s all part of the birthday deal.” Then raised one of the glasses to her. “Happy birthday.”
    “Thank you. And here’s to Josh and Molly and the fundraiser,” she said. Maybe they both needed a reminder about why he was really here. And maybe then they’d get their common sense back.
    She hoped.
    He echoed the toast and sipped the wine. Rachel caught herself watching his mouth, remembering how it had felt against hers only a few minutes before; it was a headier feeling than the bubbles induced by the champagne.
    The crab cakes were total perfection. “I don’t think I ever want to eat anything else but these, ever again,” she said with an appreciative sigh.
    “I hope you don’t mean that,” he said, “and I also hope that you’re hungry, because the lamb’s next.”
    He heated the griddle pan; while the lamb steaks were cooking, he wilted the spinach, heated the butter, added the spinach and then actually used a tiny grater on a whole nutmeg. Rachel could remember her grandmother making fruit cakes for Christmas and how amazing her kitchen had smelled, full of spices and fruit, but even her grandmother had used ready-grated nutmeg rather than whole spices.
    Ryan Henderson was like nobody Rachel had ever known.
    And since when did nutmeg go with spinach anyway? Not that she quite dared to ask. She was hopeless in the kitchen and he was a Parisian-trained chef, so he knew way better than she did – didn’t