All Grown Up by Janice Maynard Page B

“Meet me in the kitchen in half an hour. Trust me, Princess. You’ll be in good hands.”
    * * *
    Annalise worked steadily, one part of her brain dedicated to the disciplines of measuring, calculating, planning. The other hemisphere, the one that acknowledged and ruefully accepted her ill-advised infatuation with Sam Ely, seemed intent on translating each of his statements into a sexual innuendo.
    You’ll be in good hands . Did he intend the erotic subtext? Probably not. She was hyperaware of the fact that she and Sam Ely had recently become lovers. But such nocturnal calisthenics were no doubt par for the course with Sam. To him, Annalise was nothing more or less than a willing and available woman. Available. Could she be any more of a cliché?
    Feeling disgruntled and exhausted and excited in equal measures, she found her way to the kitchen at the appointed time. Sam, standing at the stove, turned to face her. “Ah, there you are. I was just getting started. Come here and supervise the meat.”
    She hovered in the doorway, all thoughts of food forgotten. Sam was too damned sexy for his own good. He was dressed much as he had been the day before, only with a different shirt. This time, hunter green flannel stretched across the broad contours of his chest and shoulders. It was still hard to get used to his new look.
    For years she had known Sam Ely as the sleek, handsome, über masculine architect with the expensive Italian tailored suits and the knack for sartorial perfection. He reeked of money and success from his pricey leather shoes to the high-tech Rolex on his broad masculine wrist.
    But this man, well, hell…she didn’t know what to make of him at all. He was warm and approachable and nurturing. And about as dangerous as a grizzly bear basking in the sun.
    One wrong move, and she’d be toast.
    Shoring up her defenses, she crossed to where he stood. “Show me what to do.”
    Sam stepped back and handed her the wooden spoon he’d been using. “Stir it occasionally and break up the bigger clumps of meat. When all the pink is gone, it will be ready.” As she took her position, he flanked her, his arms coming around from behind, his right hand settling over hers as she pushed the meat blindly.
    “Like this,” he said. The scent of his shower soap muddled her thoughts. She wanted to toss the spoon aside and kiss him senseless. The warmth of him at her back made her hands shake. Gripping the utensil tightly, she tried to pretend it was nothing out of the ordinary to play chef with the man who had seduced her in front of a fire only hours before.
    His fingers gripped hers and released, his voice hoarse as he spoke near her ear. “You’ve got the hang of it.”
    To her intense disappointment, he stepped away, moving to open cans of tomato soup and sauce. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. The fact that he wasn’t producing some exotic sauce from scratch made her feel marginally better.
    Suddenly, she realized that the pan was sizzling far more than it had been a few moments before. “Um, Sam?” At about the same moment she said his name, the hot grease popped and crackled. A splatter hit her forearm, and she yelped, dropping the spoon and sending bits of browned ground beef flying everywhere.
    Sam grabbed her wrist and pulled it beneath a cooling stream of water from the faucet. Already the sting was subsiding. Leaving her for a moment, he turned the stove off and moved the skillet to another burner.
    “Are you all right?” He took her hand and lifted her arm for his inspection.
    “It’s okay. Just a red spot. Sorry I overreacted.” She tugged until he released her.
    Sam shook his head. “It had to hurt. My fault for not turning down the heat.”
    “I told you I’m hopeless in the kitchen.” She was mortified to feel the sting of tears.
    He cocked his head, studying her face, his whiskey-colored eyes seeing far more than they should. “It’s no big deal, Annalise. You’ve got enough