Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #2) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,15
doing this in my truck?”
“Yes,” I say snarkily. “Why can’t we meet in the dining room like we’d planned?”
He takes the tray from me. “Get in and I’ll show you.”
As soon as I open the door, I see a darling little puppy staring up at me with her head tilted. Her tail is wagging so hard, I’m afraid she’s about to launch herself off the seat. “Hello, there!” I greet her excitedly.
“At least you’re happy to see someone,” I hear James grumble.
After rolling my eyes at him, I pick up the dog and cuddle her on my lap. Meanwhile, James is trying to get into the truck without spilling anything on the tray. “What’s your name?” I croon to my seatmate.
“She doesn’t have a name,” James answers. “I just found her abandoned in the parking lot at the hardware store.”
Lifting the puppy to my face for snuggles, I demand, “Who would leave a pretty little girl like you? What are you going to name her?” The dog takes the opportunity to give me kisses.
“I’m probably going to take her to the pound from here.”
I inhale so sharply I could have sucked a fly into my lungs had it been within five feet of my face. “You can’t take her to the pound!” I practically scream.
“I can’t keep her.”
“Why not?” While part of me realizes that the issue of James having a dog is none of my business, I still feel compelled to say, “Dogs belong on farms.” I hurry to add, “You could call her Bingo!” Then I serenade him. “There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was her name-o!”
“Have you ever had a dog?” He ignores my out-of-tune rendition of a childhood classic. “They take a lot of time and energy.”
“Only until you train them,” I answer like an expert, making sure not to respond to his actual question. I’ve never had a dog, but I’ve always wanted one.
“Who’s the iced tea for?” James changes the subject.
“I thought you might want something to drink after eating your sandwich,” I tell him while taking the bowl of water off the tray to offer to the puppy. At least that makes sense now.
I watch as James pulls apart the sandwich and uses his teeth to bite off tiny bits of chicken before spitting them back onto the plate. “What are you doing?”
“I didn’t have time to stop at the market for puppy food and I think this little girl is pretty hungry.” He gathers several bits of chicken in his hand before offering them to the dog. She sniffs tentatively before greedily devouring them.
Once the puppy seems sated, James picks up a fork and digs into the plum upside-down cake. He releases a moan that’s so erotic-sounding, I nearly crack the window for some fresh air. “This is fantastic!” he declares. “Where in the world does a supermodel learn to bake like this?”
“Culinary school,” I tell him, trying to ignore the insinuation that models don’t harbor the cognitive ability to follow recipes. Successful models aren’t stupid. They have to know enough to protect the money they make.
I’m about to tell him about Gisele Bündchen and her fifty-million-dollar jet, but I get distracted as he scoops up a spoonful of poached pear with panna cotta and brings it to his mouth.
I feel a tingle in some pretty interesting places when he groans, “Oh my god, I think I just died and went to heaven …” The look on his face is one of pure ecstasy. “How is that you don’t weigh two hundred pounds?” he asks between bites.
“I’ve gained almost twenty pounds since becoming a pastry chef,” I tell him proudly.
He looks startled. “Really? You look like you’ve always looked to me.”
“That’s because you’ve only seen me with clothes on.” Why in the world did I just say that? I hurry to add, “You know, not in a swimsuit.”
His eyes gleam brightly as he teases, “Are you saying I should see you with your clothes off so I can better assess this weight gain?”
“Not even close. I’m just saying that if you did see me with my clothes off, you’d be able to tell my curves are more pronounced than they used to be.”
After taking another bite of panna cotta, James asks, “When do you propose taking your clothes off for me?”
I know he’s just trying to get my goat, but I feel my face flush with something other than embarrassment. “Dream on, buddy. I don’t do that anymore.”