“So, you got me over here to tell me I have flour on my face?”
“I wished to compliment the chef,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better breakfast.”
Her face softened, a smile curving her mouth. Clearly her food was the way to her heart—and possibly her body.
“I’m glad you liked it, but I’m not a chef, I’m a cook.”
He leaned forward, his hand extended. “Max Andreakos.”
It wasn’t anticipation he felt as he waited for her hand to slide into his. She paused, just long enough for him to notice, without even a flicker of recognition in her eyes. When contact came, he felt a shock of awareness along his nerve endings as her fingers curled around his hand. Even better, he felt her pulse jump. Her hand was cool, dry and slim, but there was strength in her grip, before her hand was with
