Thunder Canyon Homecoming / A Thunder Canyon Christmas: Thunder Canyon Homecoming. RaeAnne Thayne
She smiled again. “Any kind of squash.”
“Well then, I think we’re pretty safe,” he told her. “Because there are no peas, pickles, pineapple or squash in my red sauce.”
“I do like red sauce.”
“How do you feel about pasta?”
“I love pasta.”
He grinned. “Then let’s go shopping.”
Chapter Five
If she’d been surprised by his offer to cook for her, she was even more so by the ease with which he pushed the cart around the grocery store. He didn’t just toss the vegetables into a bag, he checked the color of the tomatoes, tested the firmness of the garlic, gauged the texture of the peppers.
She made a face when he was sniffing the mushrooms. “Those aren’t one of my favorite foods,” she admitted to him.
“These are shiitake, not porcini,” he teased.
“I’m just not a fan of any kind of fungus,” she said.
“You won’t even taste them.”
She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, she was going to sit down for a home-cooked meal that she didn’t have to prepare, and she was curious about his skill in the kitchen. Okay, she was curious about his skill in other areas, too, but she refused to let her mind go down that path. Again.
He added a head of romaine lettuce, a bag of carrots, a bunch of green onions and a cucumber.
Moving out of the produce department to the bakery, he grabbed a loaf of French bread, then a package of fresh fettucine, extra virgin olive oil, basil, oregano, a hunk of parmesan cheese and a bottle of red wine.
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
He took a mental inventory of the ingredients as they moved along the conveyor belt toward the cashier. “I hope so.”
“Do you do this often?”
“Shop for groceries?”
“Cook.”
“Do you mean cook for a woman or just cook in general?”
“Cook in general,” she said, unwilling to admit that she was just as curious to know if he was in the habit of cooking for his female companions.
“I have to eat,” he said logically.
“But—” She bit her lip, stifling the reply that had almost spilled out uncensored.
“But,” he prompted.
She felt her cheeks burn. “I just thought you’d probably have women lining up to cook for you.”
“Well, if you’re offering …” He grinned.
“You said you were cooking for me,” she reminded him.
“Tonight,” he agreed. “But maybe next time you could show off your culinary skills.”
“You’re assuming there will be a next time.”
“Not assuming,” he denied. “Just hopeful.”
She had enjoyed the time they’d spent together today and, so long as he wasn’t looking for anything more than friendship from her—and so long as she remembered that she wasn’t in a position to offer anything more—she wouldn’t object to spending more time with him.
“I do make a mean enchilada,” she told him.
“Spicy?”
“I guess I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” He smiled before he turned to the cashier to pay for his groceries.
Corey put Erin to work washing the lettuce and other vegetables while he got busy chopping and dicing. Her kitchen was laid out almost identical to the one in the condo he was renting, so he felt comfortable moving around in it and opening cupboards and drawers to find what he needed. He located a big pot to boil water for the pasta and a wok-style frying pan that he could use to make the sauce. He opened the bottle of wine to let it breathe while he heated a drizzle of olive oil in the pan and tossed in a couple of crushed garlic cloves.
“Where did you learn to cook?” Erin asked him.
He dumped the red and green peppers into the pan, stirred them around with a wooden spoon, then began peeling the tomatoes.
“Here and there,” he said.
She lifted her brows at the vagueness of his response, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t think he’d score any points with Erin by admitting it was an ex-girlfriend who’d taught him the basics of the sauce he was currently making for her. Especially not if she knew that he’d appreciated Gina’s marinara sauce more than he’d appreciated Gina and, once he’d realized that, he’d decided to learn to make it for himself so that he could enjoy his pasta without the complications of an unhappy relationship.
“Why don’t you pour the wine?” he suggested.
She found two glasses in the cupboard and did as he suggested.
He finished dicing the tomatoes he’d peeled and tossed them into the pan, then added some spices and stirred everything around again.
“It smells good already,” Erin told him.
He washed his hands and dried them on the towel that was hanging over the handle of the oven door before he turned to take the glass of wine she offered to him. “It will taste even better,” he promised.
Her brows rose up again. “Cocky, aren’t you?”
“Confident,” he corrected.
When he stepped toward her, Erin felt an instinctual urge to retreat. But the counter was at her back, leaving her with nowhere to go.
His lips curved, slowly, seductively. Her heart hammered.
She had no doubt that he had reason to be confident. She knew enough about his background to know that he’d been born into a powerful and influential family, but he’d also achieved his own success. And men like Corey, men who wore success and self-assurance as comfortably as the designer labels on their backs, drew more than their fair share of female attention. Which made her wonder—what was he doing with her?
She wasn’t oblivious to her own appeal, but she wasn’t an heiress or a supermodel, and she didn’t doubt that Corey had dated women from each of those categories—and a few more. She also guessed that he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and the look in his eyes left her in no doubt that what he wanted, at least right now, was her. And though she had no intention of giving in to the desire that surged through her veins, she couldn’t deny that she wanted him right back.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she knew that if he kissed her again, right here and right now, she would be lost. She put a hand out—a desperate, wordless attempt to hold him off, at least long enough for her to gather her wits about her—and realized she was holding her glass of wine in it.
“Well, then,” she said, lifting her glass a little higher. “We should toast to dinner.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes as he tapped the rim of his glass against hers.
“To dinner,” he agreed, “with new friends.”
She sipped her wine without tasting it, all too aware of his closeness and the intensity of his gaze on her.
“I should set the table.”
“There’s no rush,” he assured her. “The sauce needs to simmer for about half an hour.”
Half