State of Grace by Delia Foster Page A

protested its hunger—loudly.
    She flushed deeply, and he laughed. She considered stepping on his instep, but then he stopped laughing and looked at her curiously. “Wait—if you’re hungry, why are you just eating a banana?”
    She ignored him and tried to pull away, but he just drew her even more tightly into his arms.
    “You’re not on some ridiculous diet, are you?  I like your—no, I love your body the way it is. You get rid of these curves, you answer to me.”
    Hormones. Hunger. Sex. Food. Disoriented by his closeness, she blurted out the truth. “I can’t cook.” As soon as she realized what she’d admitted, she slapped her hand over her mouth. 
    “You can’t cook? What about all those dishes you bring for the holidays? The mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese? Your ‘world-famous’ pumpkin pie?”
    She needed to hide, so she buried her face in his chest. “I order it from a caterer and use my dishes,” she admitted guiltily, her voice muffled against his chest.
    His shoulders shook silently, and it only took a few seconds before she realized that his big body was rumbling with suppressed laughter.
    “Not funny,” she mumbled.
    He pressed a kiss against her damp hair at the top of her head. “Don’t worry babe. I’ll feed you.” She could still hear the laughter in his voice, so she jerked away, grabbing her coffee, and heading over to the countertop.
    He made quick work of pulling ingredients and kitchen utensils she didn’t even know she had out of her cupboards. He moved so quickly and efficiently that he made her head spin. She gave up trying to memorize the steps he took and settled for drinking her coffee in silence.
    He stood at her free range stove, pouring thick batter onto a non-stick griddle, taking turns between flipping flap jacks and turning to shake his head at her. “Why’d you lie about the food?”
    Okay, so maybe not so much in silence.
    She looked at him balefully. “Are we really having this conversation?”
    “Among others, don’t forget.”
    She stayed silent, but then he ripped off the edge of a cooked pancake and strode over to her, holding it to her lips. She sniffed at it before opening her mouth so he could feed it to her.
    Buttery, cake-y goodness almost melted on her tongue, and she made a little sound in her throat.
    “Want more?”
    Reluctantly, she nodded.
    He gave her a satisfied smile before moving back to the stove. “Start talking.”
    Realizing that she’d been had, she let out a huff. “If you must know, my mother made me take cooking classes when I graduated from college and got my own place. I was always helpless in the kitchen. I can make toast and simple stuff, but she didn’t want me always eating processed foods, so she got me the classes. I went to the first one, and I hated it. I told her I went to the rest so she’d get off my back, but then she told me I could show off what I learned when I came home for the holidays. After that, I found a local woman online that does small scale catering, so she makes my dishes for me,” she paused, noting that he was still cracking up at her plight, but then she was willing to forgive once he opened another cabinet and pulled out two plates.
    Her mouth watered as he arranged the plates before drizzling syrup across them. 
    Being shirtless and almost naked didn’t hurt either.
     He slid a plate in front of her before seating himself. “Eat,” he commanded, before digging in.
    She didn’t hesitate. The tantalizing aroma of the food and his coffee dispelled any reservations she had about his culinary skills.
    “Oh God, this is good,” she moaned around a mouthful of fluffy pancake. “What did you do to the syrup?” She forked another bite into her mouth, positive her taste-buds were dancing.
    “I saw you had some amaretto in the cupboard, so I just added a bit to the syrup you had.” He shrugged.
    She looked at him with newfound respect. “Who knew?” she