Sweet On You - By Kate Perry Page 0,14

he walked by.

It should have been an inconsequential, glancing touch that meant nothing, but for some reason she got a jolt from it. She was still pondering the residual shockwaves when he returned.

He set a double espresso in front of her. "The barista said you'd like this."

She stared at the little cup, oddly off balance.

"And I brought a cookie to share." He slid the plate toward her. "I hope you like chocolate chip. I couldn't resist."

Because she didn't know what to say, she lifted her cup and took a sip. She closed her eyes, it was so delicious going down.

When she reopened her eyes, Brian was staring at her. She glared at him to cover up her discomfort. "What?"

He shook his head. "Tell me about your true love."

"My who?"

"The guy in New York who you're saving yourself for. What's he like?"

"Why?"

"I want to know what I'm up against."

She shook her head. "You're not up against anything. In any case, I'm not dating him yet."

"Is he married?"

"No."

"He has a girlfriend?"

"No." Not that she knew of. At least, no one serious.

Brian nodded, sitting back, legs crossed so his red Converse were in her view. "Then he's either a player or a hermit."

"He's not a hermit." Antonio Rossi did like women—plural—but she was too loyal to call him a player. "He just hasn't found the right woman yet."

"Hmm."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I question his sanity if he can't recognize a great woman, especially right in front of him."

"Do you mean me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Who else would I mean?"

"Why would you say that?" She wrinkled her nose. "I've been awful to you since I walked in here, and you're complimenting me like you mean it."

"I do mean it." He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, his gaze steady on hers. "I've been in your presence for ten minutes, and I can tell, while not the most charming lady, you're loyal, passionate, and caring."

"How can you tell that?"

"Loyal." He held up a finger. "You're not dating this guy, who, incidentally, doesn't deserve you, and you feel compelled not to cheat on him."

"I—"

"Two," Brian said loudly, over her, holding up a second finger. "You drank your espresso like it was nectar from the gods. For a second I thought you were going to orgasm right here. Not that I'd have had a problem with that."

She frowned to keep from smiling. "And three?"

"Caring." He held out half the cookie to her. "You cared enough about me, a stranger, to warn me away from you. You didn't want to break my heart. That's sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"No, Marley, you really aren't. You're more like dark chocolate, bittersweet and murky." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But I love chocolate."

She would not like him, she told herself. "Back off, Brian Benedict."

"Not a chance. Not even your clothing can scare me away."

The determination in his eyes sent shivers up her spine—shivers of anticipation, she realized with surprise.

Then she registered what he said. "What's wrong with my clothing?" she asked indignantly. Her outfit was from Ann Taylor.

"You're dressed like an undertaker."

"I am not. Black is chic."

"If you're the Black Widow."

"Batman wore black," she pointed out. "And Batman is cool."

"Batman lurks in the shadows."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"Maybe it's time to step out of the shadows, Marley." Brian Benedict stood, settling his glasses higher on his nose. "Maybe it's your time to shine."

Before she could reply, he touched her shoulder again, smiled, and left the café.

She sat, dumbfounded, staring after him. She put her hand on the spot he'd touch, feeling the pressure through the layers of her clothes. Feeling like the foundation of her world had somehow just shifted.

Chapter Eight

Nostalgia made her set aside the plans for her soup kitchen and pull out her grandmother's Christmas recipes.

Daniela took the box to her bedroom and sat in the window seat. She wanted to have the idea for her foundation fully formed by the time she bought the Harrison building, but in brainstorming cooking classes to offer and considering recipes, she started thinking about Nonna. If Nonna were still alive, she'd discuss all this with her.

Setting aside the lid for the recipe box, Daniela slowly sifted through the pieces of paper and note cards. The recipes greeted her like old friends.

Nonna's sugar cookie recipe, which guaranteed to cheer up an unhappy child.

Fig tart, voluptuous and ripe.

Torta di mele, with apples, to warm you up on a cold Fall afternoon.

She arranged them in piles. Each year