decision to let the chestnuts stay put for a while.
"So . . ." He concentrated on the ones that had landed in the sink. When he leaned over to scoop them out, his arm brushed mine.
I suppose I was still jittery from the whole snoop-around-the-gallery adventure, not to mention the way we made our excuses to Yuri and hurried out of there after I found Drago's office looking like a tornado had gone through it. I sucked in a breath as my arm involuntarily jumped.
"I hope I'm not that scary."
The smile Jim turned on me was as hot as his accent. And believe me, that accent was plenty hot.
I reminded myself that he was just being nice, like any cooking teacher would naturally be to any cooking student, and did my best to corral the suddenly out-of-control fantasies that threatened to leave me grinning back at him like some brainless bimbo. Or worse, like a woman whose head was too easily turned by something as simple as a man being nice to her.
Even when the man in question was the yummiest thing she'd seen since the last pint of Funky Monkey she'd gone through.
He turned off the hot-as-hell smile just as quickly as he had flashed it and backed away enough to take in both Eve and me in one quick glance.
"So, you were saying? About the Brussels sprouts?"
I was still too electrified by the brush of Jim's skin against mine to cobble together any sort of reasonable response. It occurred to me that I knew I was in trouble when I left the logical replies to Eve.
"Not Brussels sprouts," Eve said. So far, so good. That seemed sensible enough. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice even more. "We were talking about Drago."
That was not sensible!
I jumped again, this time back into the conversation before the spark of interest that lit in Jim's hazel eyes kindled into anything else. Like curiosity. Or more questions.
"Oh, Eve, you are such a kidder!" I gave her arm a playful whack and turned to Jim, my discombobulation forgotten in the face of my need to steer us clear of a subject we had no right to be discussing. Not with Beyla and John only a few feet away. "Of course she's not talking about that poor dead guy. We didn't know the dead guy. We don't know anything about the dead guy. We were just talking about the Brussels sprouts."
I flashed what I hoped was an extremely carefree smile and returned my attention to my chesnuts. Jim stood in silence for a moment, regarding us with a glimmer in his eye. Then he turned and walked away.
As I watched him go, I found myself wondering just how much he knew.
"He's cute." Eve's words cut into my thoughts.
"Not what I was thinking," I told her.
"Yeah. Right." She smiled broadly.
"I mean it. He's cute, all right. But that's not what I was thinking."
Her gaze followed Jim as he made his way to the front of the room. His back was to us. He was wearing tight jeans that stretched nicely over his butt.
Need I say more?
"Oh honey, if you weren't thinking about that . . ." Eve grinned, then eyed me, curious. "What were you thinking?"
"That we shouldn't say too much in front of strangers. That we don't know who to trust. That we haven't sorted things out yet and that means we don't know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are."
Eve's expression wilted. "You don't think--"
"I don't know what to think," I told her, and it was true. Deep down, I didn't believe that there was anything shady about Jim.
But if that was true, why was I more nervous than ever just thinking about him?
BY THE TIME I WAS BACK IN CLASS THE NEXT evening, I was still mulling over the questions that filled my head, as crowded and as noisy as the summer tourists out on the Clarendon streets--the ones I had to fight my way through to get to the shop.
There was the good guy/bad guy question: which people associated with Tres Bonne Cuisine could we trust?
There was the Jim question, but I won't get into that. Every time I thought about Jim, my mind ping-ponged like a . . . well, like a Ping-Pong ball. Part
"So . . ." He concentrated on the ones that had landed in the sink. When he leaned over to scoop them out, his arm brushed mine.
I suppose I was still jittery from the whole snoop-around-the-gallery adventure, not to mention the way we made our excuses to Yuri and hurried out of there after I found Drago's office looking like a tornado had gone through it. I sucked in a breath as my arm involuntarily jumped.
"I hope I'm not that scary."
The smile Jim turned on me was as hot as his accent. And believe me, that accent was plenty hot.
I reminded myself that he was just being nice, like any cooking teacher would naturally be to any cooking student, and did my best to corral the suddenly out-of-control fantasies that threatened to leave me grinning back at him like some brainless bimbo. Or worse, like a woman whose head was too easily turned by something as simple as a man being nice to her.
Even when the man in question was the yummiest thing she'd seen since the last pint of Funky Monkey she'd gone through.
He turned off the hot-as-hell smile just as quickly as he had flashed it and backed away enough to take in both Eve and me in one quick glance.
"So, you were saying? About the Brussels sprouts?"
I was still too electrified by the brush of Jim's skin against mine to cobble together any sort of reasonable response. It occurred to me that I knew I was in trouble when I left the logical replies to Eve.
"Not Brussels sprouts," Eve said. So far, so good. That seemed sensible enough. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice even more. "We were talking about Drago."
That was not sensible!
I jumped again, this time back into the conversation before the spark of interest that lit in Jim's hazel eyes kindled into anything else. Like curiosity. Or more questions.
"Oh, Eve, you are such a kidder!" I gave her arm a playful whack and turned to Jim, my discombobulation forgotten in the face of my need to steer us clear of a subject we had no right to be discussing. Not with Beyla and John only a few feet away. "Of course she's not talking about that poor dead guy. We didn't know the dead guy. We don't know anything about the dead guy. We were just talking about the Brussels sprouts."
I flashed what I hoped was an extremely carefree smile and returned my attention to my chesnuts. Jim stood in silence for a moment, regarding us with a glimmer in his eye. Then he turned and walked away.
As I watched him go, I found myself wondering just how much he knew.
"He's cute." Eve's words cut into my thoughts.
"Not what I was thinking," I told her.
"Yeah. Right." She smiled broadly.
"I mean it. He's cute, all right. But that's not what I was thinking."
Her gaze followed Jim as he made his way to the front of the room. His back was to us. He was wearing tight jeans that stretched nicely over his butt.
Need I say more?
"Oh honey, if you weren't thinking about that . . ." Eve grinned, then eyed me, curious. "What were you thinking?"
"That we shouldn't say too much in front of strangers. That we don't know who to trust. That we haven't sorted things out yet and that means we don't know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are."
Eve's expression wilted. "You don't think--"
"I don't know what to think," I told her, and it was true. Deep down, I didn't believe that there was anything shady about Jim.
But if that was true, why was I more nervous than ever just thinking about him?
BY THE TIME I WAS BACK IN CLASS THE NEXT evening, I was still mulling over the questions that filled my head, as crowded and as noisy as the summer tourists out on the Clarendon streets--the ones I had to fight my way through to get to the shop.
There was the good guy/bad guy question: which people associated with Tres Bonne Cuisine could we trust?
There was the Jim question, but I won't get into that. Every time I thought about Jim, my mind ping-ponged like a . . . well, like a Ping-Pong ball. Part
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