Amy told him, then could read exactly what he was thinking.
She’d started young with Max.
“I was sixteen when he was born, living on my own with him by the time I was seventeen.”
Tate nodded. “That must not have been easy.”
“No, but Max was worth every bit of it.”
“Then I’d say Max is a lucky boy,” the man said.
Chapter Two
Okay, that was a comment right out of fantasyland.
Maybe she was dreaming after all.
Because most men were freaked out by the idea that she had a son she was raising on her own, and none of them seemed too concerned about whether she was a good mother to Max—one reason she’d stayed far away from men for the past seven years.
“Thank you,” she said, as she looked up at this man, Tate Darnley.
Where did you come from? she wanted to ask him. How could you be so perfect? Or at least, seem so perfect?
There had to be a major flaw in him somewhere, something she just hadn’t seen yet but would no doubt discover at any moment. Some crushing flaw. She told herself to focus, that there was work to do, a giant mess to clean up, and yes, she really had been a little afraid of Mrs. Brown and her spotlessly clean house, her admonishment to Amy not to dare mess up anything.
Amy started unbuttoning her white chef’s coat, wanting to leave it in the bathroom, because it really was coated with sugar and wearing it while trying to clean up the mess in the kitchen would only make more of a mess. Glancing up, she saw that Tate was still there, backing out of the doorway to the bathroom now, a little flare of something in his eyes, as she watched him watch her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, laughing a bit. “I’m not…I have something on under this.”
“Of course.” He nodded, still watching, still looking a bit puzzled and confused.
What she had on was a plain black tank top with spaghetti straps and a built-in bra—nothing fancy, nothing too revealing and exceedingly comfortable. It got hot in a kitchen in a chef’s coat.
So why did she feel as self-conscious as if she’d just peeled off her clothes down to the skin? What a weird night.
“So,” she said, looking up at him and trying to pretend a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel. “I should get back to the kitchen.”
He nodded, still standing in the doorway, took a tentative step forward, watching her as he did, like she might want to run away and wanting to give her a chance. “You’ve still got powdered sugar in your hair.”
“Oh. Forgot.” She started swiping at it, sugar going this way and that as she brushed her hands through her hair and along the braid. It just wasn’t working, and she finally took her hair out of the braid.
“Bend forward,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
And then he had his hands in her hair.
Nothing overtly sexy about it, just that she loved it when anyone fooled with her hair. Even the hairdresser. It was one sad but true little secret thrill she’d allowed herself over the years. Letting a really cute guy cut her hair. And now, Mr. Perfect had his hands in it, brushing out a cloud of powdered sugar onto the floor.
She whimpered a bit, hopefully nothing that could be heard. And yet, she couldn’t help herself. Mr. Perfect had his hands in those little curls of hair at the nape of her neck, then brushing along her shoulders, her collarbone and then her chin.
He backed up suddenly, like a man who’d been burned, then said, “Looks like some of it got down the collar of your chef’s coat.”
Okay, that was it. She had to get out a little bit more. Obviously it was time, when she started to melt from a guy brushing sugar out of her hair.
He finally stopped, stepping away from her. “I did what I could, but…”
He certainly had. More than enough. And the way he was looking at her…she moved quickly, ruthlessly, to tug her hair back into place in the braid.
“I have to get back to the kitchen,” she said firmly. “I don’t want anyone else to see the mess I made. Max?” she raised her voice to make sure he heard. “I’m going to leave the bathroom door open just a crack, and I’ll be right next door in the kitchen, okay? Your pajamas are right outside the shower. Come find me when you’re dressed?”
“Mom, I’m not a baby!” Max protested.
Mr. Perfect laughed and said, “Come on. I’ll help you clean up.”
Don’t, she thought. Just…don’t.
But he followed her back into the kitchen. Powdered sugar was on the countertops, the sink, the floor and, in what seemed like some cosmic joke, coating the top of the lemon bars.
“Look at that,” she said, pointing to them. “That’s why I went and got the extra bag of powdered sugar. To coat the top of the lemon bars, and somehow, by dropping it, I managed to do just that. Do you ever feel like the world is just sitting back and laughing at you?”
“Not very often. Although,” he said, staring at the lemon bars, “I will cop to coming in here planning to beg, borrow or steal one of those.”
She grabbed a dessert plate from the cabinet, a fork and served one to him at the breakfast bar that was part of the big island in the middle of the kitchen. “I think you’ve earned it.”
He held up a hand to refuse. “I promised to help you clean up.”
“I know, and I appreciate it, but right now, the lemon bars are still warm. They’re even better when they’re still warm from the oven.”
He hesitated, sat on one of the high stools, picked up the fork but didn’t use it. “The other thing is, I kind of promised Max I’d help him get another one, too. Or maybe…just a bite of mine.”
She shook her head. “The kid never quits. Never. Not with anything.”
Tate Darnley shrugged. “I had to ask. We bonded over our desperate desire for dessert.”
“I’ll save him some crumbs,” she said. “Unless you want to share yours with him.”
“I don’t think I like the kid that much,” he said, holding a forkful to his mouth and sniffing it like it was some kind of fine wine and he was drunk on it already.
Amy had grabbed a hand towel, planning to start cleaning but couldn’t help herself. She had to watch him take that first bite. She loved watching people who really loved her food, and she wanted very badly for him to absolutely adore hers.
He put the forkful in his mouth, his lips closing around it, eyes drifting shut and groaning in an exaggerated but highly flattering way, savoring every bit.
“Oh, my God. That’s amazing!” he proclaimed.
Amy laughed like she hadn’t in years, feeling silly and free and just plain happy.
“Thank you, but I know it’s not that good,” she insisted, leaning against the other side of the kitchen island from him, purposely keeping a good foot and a half of counter space between them.
“No. I mean it.” He groaned again, the sound to her lonely ears seeming decidedly sexual in nature. “I could die happy right now. It’s that good.”
“Then you’d never get to finish eating it,” she told him, gazing up into the most gorgeous pair of chocolate-brown eyes with lashes a woman would kill for, thick and full and dark.
“You’re right. I can’t die yet. I’ll eat the whole