Yes Chef, No Chef - By Susan Willis Page 0,86

as much gluten strength to increase the volume and texture if my hands are warm.”

It was a flashback to their old bantering sessions about the difference between her job as a food technologist and his a chef.

He could feel his insides weaken and soften when he remembered the gentle camaraderie during their first few dates together. And although she knew her food science, he was just as much an expert in his own field.

He grinned back at her rising to her challenge. “Of course you do,” he teased. “But which flavoured oil were you thinking of giving the picnickers’ to dip the bread into?”

“Well…” she faltered, “I was going to look it up later. But seeing that you’re here - can you recommend one?” she asked tilting her head provocatively.

That was it, he thought looking into her eyes; that was the look that had always driven him crazy - it made him want to take her there and then. He watched her lift the mug with her slim fingers meeting around the china as if to comfort herself. The steam from the liquid seemed to cast moistness on her parted lips and the desire rampaged through his body. He’d never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her but cautioned himself to stay calm, mainly because he wasn’t sure of the reception he’d get.

Moving in closer to her, he said, “Um, let’s see. If you don’t know your client’s likes and dislikes I’d probably stay basic and use Italian oil with oregano, rosemary, basil and garlic.”

She smiled her thanks and looked up at him for what seemed like an eternity. She’d forgotten how gorgeous he was with his dark, thick hair flopped over his bushy eyebrows, but it was always his smile - that very first smile which had knocked her sideways.

“And that dough needs to be proving or it’ll spoil,” he said and lifted it into another bowl, covered it with a damp cloth and put it into the warming part of the oven. She watched his fluid movements around her kitchen, his confident steady hands as he switched on the oven, and how carefully he laid the cloth over the bowl. She knew his culinary skills would fit naturally into any kitchen in the country because it all came so easily to him – it was part of his charm. When they’d been together in the apartment she’d spent hours simply watching him cook and had decided because he did it so effortlessly and was so good at it she would always feel well looked after. She sipped her coffee sighing in contentment at his physical closeness.

“And that second batch should be kneaded,” he said, trying to mock her in a disapproving manner but his insides were tumbling with happiness. Try to get involved with something in the kitchen, he thought rapidly because his coffee was nearly finished and the thought of having to leave her again so soon was unbearable.

“Oh, I’ll see to that later,” she muttered feeling as though she could faint with pleasure – she didn’t want to be distracted by anything.

He gulped at the dregs of his coffee, maybe he should start apologising and explaining now, but there again, it would bring all the upset back into their minds and he was enjoying himself far too much. “Well, there’s no time like the present,” he offered silently praying for more time. “And, as Lois Bromfield says, bread is the king of the table and all else is merely the court that surrounds the king...”

Smiling at his quote she turned her attention back to the floured board, put the lump of dough into the centre and began to knead.

He stood behind her looking at the curve of her back, the nape of her neck, and her small pert bottom. Desire raced through him and deciding it was now or never; he moved in closer behind her sliding both his arms around her waist, and although she gasped in shock she didn’t pull away from him.

He breathed hard in her ear. “Christ, Kate, I’ve missed you so much.”

She groaned at his touch and his husky voice saying her name. He was the only person who ever called her Kate, it had been his own special name for her and she flushed with happiness hearing it again.

Nervously and not knowing what was coming next, she stuttered, “M…me too.”

She wasn’t sure what to do and quickly decided to go with the flow and carry on kneading the