From Barcelona, with Love by Elizabeth Adler Page A

her hand, let out a yell, and dropped it. Then the spoon fell into the soup and Tesoro jumped up onto the counter and knocked the baguette onto the floor and the bowl of precious hard-slaved-over rouille teetered on the very edge of the counter.
    Mac grabbed it just in time, as Pirate came sauntering over. The dog sniffed the baguette, gave it a tentative lick, decided it wasn’t for him and looked up at Sunny, hoping for steak.
    â€œAnd I thought you were a big shot in the kitchen,” Mac said, laughing. “A Miss Culinary-Know-it-All.”
    â€œIn my own kitchen, I am, not in this apology for a cupboard you call by that name.”
    â€œIt works for me. Anyhow, love-of-my-life, I picked up pizzas for dinner. Pepperoni for me, margarita for you. I know your taste.”
    He leaned in for a kiss but she pushed him back with a glare. All her carefully laid plans were going awry … the beautiful dinner, the wine, the candles, the white shirt buttoned just to “there,” the pale cashmere sweater over her shoulders, the soft, full skirt, the bare gold sandals that brought to mind summer beaches.…
    Mac looked at her, puzzled. “What’s wrong with a good pizza? I thought we’d celebrate.”
    Uh-oh—he realized something must be up; they usually fell into each other’s arms, even if they’d been apart only five minutes, but tonight Sunny hadn’t even kissed him, yet. She had not even made a move toward him. In fact Sunny was standing there with her hands on her hips and a glare in her eyes that told him, somehow, he was in trouble.
    â€œI hate pizza.” She took the dish of rouille from him and put it back on the counter. She picked up the pan lid, rescued the drowned spoon from the soup, then ran her singed fingers under the cold tap. She realized suddenly what Mac had just said.
    She turned to look at him. “ What are we celebrating?”
    He sniffed the air. “Something smells wonderful.” He sniffed again. “Fishy.”
    Sunny put the lid back on the pan and leaned against the counter, hands on her hips. “Celebrate what ?”
    Mac took the chilled bottle of Montrachet out of the fridge. “How about a glass of wine, Sunny Alvarez?” He inspected the label. “Hmmm, very nice. Tell me, is this from my cellar? Or did you buy it specially?”
    Sunny snorted. Mac’s “cellar” consisted of three metal wine racks stashed in a cupboard next to the front door, though she had to admit it did contain some pretty good stuff. Of course her own “cellar,” back in her stylish condo overlooking the boat-slips at Marina del Rey, had custom-built refrigerated wine storage. Well, it was a cupboard too, really, that kept the wine perfectly, though she had to admit Mac’s choices were better than her own. She was a risk-taker where wine was concerned, buying names no one had ever heard of, though always from good areas, known for their excellent product.
    â€œActually, it is your wine,” she admitted. “I didn’t have time to shop at the wine merchant as well as cook this special, and very wonderful dinner.”
    Mac clapped a hand to his head, as it dawned on him. “Oh my God, I brought pizza and you’ve been…”
    â€œSlaving over a hot stove…”
    â€œAll afternoon…”
    â€œYou didn’t even call to ask did I fancy a pizza,” Sunny complained. “And I can never get you on the phone when you’re working … and well, it was all just meant to be a surprise.” She sighed, melting, and said, “Oh, the hell with it, let’s just have that glass of wine.”
    One step toward him took her from the stove to the kitchen door and into his arms. And then Mac did kiss her, and he did smell her perfume and not the garlic and the fishy soup.
    He kissed her some more, hands flat on her back against her ribs, pressing her to him. Her softness,