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the house together. And, of course, Cloe's hiring him to handle the maintenance on the club. Which Bree would hopefully never hear about.
    He added a quartered chicken to his Fricase de Pollo , adjusted the flame, checked the clock, and let it cook for a couple hours while he went for a jog and worked out in his fitness room.
    After he showered, he knocked on Bree's door and told her supper was ready. Back in the kitchen, he sliced tomatoes and onions for a salad, arranged them on a plate and put it on the dining room table. He opened the china cabinet and took out a couple chunky blue candles in tall holders and set them in the middle. He chose plates to match the candleholders, hand blown wine and water glasses in red and blue, and linen napkins.
    Standing back, he inspected the setting. Hold on—what was he was doing? He only set the table when he had a date. Running his hand down his face, he groaned. He should stop thinking of Bree that way. He'd kill for a night with her, but the way things stood right now, did he dare risk it? She was his new roommate. His new boss, even though she didn't know it. Would a wild sexual fling complicate things? Hell, yes! He'd keep it platonic. For now.
    As he picked up the candles to put them away, she walked out of her bedroom wearing a sky blue sundress that highlighted the blue of her eyes.
    "How beautiful." She smiled and stood next to him. "They look handmade." She picked up one of the plates. "It's signed." She set it down and looked at him. "You're so kind to make my first dinner here special."
    He set the candles back on the table. All right, they'd have a formal dinner tonight, but it was "not a date." He repeated it twice, but his libido wasn't listening. The act of setting the table ramped up his excitement like ringing a bell for Pavlov's dogs.
    She explored the contents of the china cabinet, stretching up onto her toes to see the top shelf. Her calf muscles bunched attractively. She turned to him and her hair swung over the creamy skin of her shoulder. "Can I help in the kitchen?"
    He quickly turned away. "Sure." His mind wouldn't let it go. Her body, all that curly yellow hair, her sweet lips, those legs…
    She followed him in and he gave her a lighter and an open bottle of Pinot Noir. "I'll get the rest."
    She went back to the dining room. He spooned the fragrant chicken dish into a large bowl, yellow rice in another, and sliced bread he'd warmed in the oven.
    He heard the stereo playing rap. Good, she found the remote. She changed music until she found something quiet. "Damn it," he mumbled. This was the seduction song list he played when he cooked for a woman. Shakira quietly sang "En Tus Pupilas." It was going to be a fucking difficult evening. He adjusted himself in his shorts.
    He brought the bowls and bread out to the table. She stood by the couches, sipping wine and looking at the pool. The underwater lights in the pool cast a blue aura around her.
    She smiled and walked toward him. "I haven't been swimming yet."
    He forced himself not to hold her chair for her. This was not a date.
    She pulled out her chair and sat. "I need to buy a bathing suit."
    He took his seat and handed the rice and chicken to her. "You should look through your sister's dresser. I'm sure she has a few you could wear."
    "Doubtful. She was quite a bit thinner than I am." She spooned the rice and Fricase onto her plate and passed the bowls to him. "Which I can't understand seeing as how she lived with an excellent cook, like you."
    Staring at her face, he ignored the compunction to glance at her full breasts.
    "This smells delicious." Raising her fork to her lips, she blew on the steaming rice.
    He shifted in his chair. Her mouth, puckered the way it was when she blew, gave him sexy ideas of kissing her, tasting her, nibbling on those perfect lips.
    She took a bite and hummed a pleased sound.
    Her sexy groan shook his self-control and sent blood low in his belly, stretching him, making him