Sunday's Child(16)

Claire sighed. “Not if I could help it, but it’s mandatory that staff goes. So I have a too-expensive dress that I’ll wear once hanging in my closet, along with a pair of heels guaranteed to cripple me by the end of the evening. I just hope the caterer doesn’t serve cardboard chicken and cold asparagus.” Bad food never bothered her before now. Andor was turning her into a picky gastronome.

“What about you?” she asked. “You’re on loan to us, so I’m guessing you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping he would go. Hoping he’d go with her.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

His slow smile could have melted glass. “If I’m invited.”

Claire’s heartbeat jumped. She could feel her pulse thrum in her neck. “You haven’t gotten an invitation yet? A handsome guy like you?” Please say no. Please say no.

Surely it was illegal for a smile to have that much power over someone. “Not one. At least not the one I want.”

“Maybe I’ll invite you.”

They were suddenly no more than inches apart from each other. Andor’s breath ghosted across her forehead and hairline. “I’d be very interested in that invitation,” he said softly.

She touched his arm, the hard bicep flexing against her fingers. “Do you dance?”

“Invite me and find out.”

Claire was cautious; she wasn’t stupid. “Would you like to go to the benefit gala with me next month?”

Andor leaned down, and Claire’s eyes closed at the sensation of body heat, the smell of sawn wood, and the cool winter scent clinging to the sexiest shirt she’d ever seen on a man. “Ah Claire, I thought you’d never ask.”



Thanksgiving dawned overcast and cold with the threat of rain. Claire had risen when it was still dark outside to start dinner preparations. She was an adequate cook, but for four years, she’d only had to cook for herself and Jake. Chicken tenders and fish sticks for him, spaghetti, salad in a bag, or the occasional pan-grilled steak for her didn’t exactly expand her culinary skills. She prayed her efforts today wouldn’t see Andor driving them to a 24-hour greasy spoon just to get an edible meal.

Andor arrived at noon. Claire met him at the door holding a chef’s knife in one hand. He backed up a step and held up a bottle of wine. “Surely, an Old Vine Zin can garner me some mercy.”

Claire huffed a strand of hair out of her face and waved him inside. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He eased passed her, gaze steady on the knife. “I can see that.”

She chuckled and gestured for him to follow her into the kitchen. Andor paused when he saw Jake sitting at the table winding and unwinding a skein of yarn around his hand. “Hi, Jake. Enjoying time off from school?”

Jake didn’t look up from his task, but he smiled a little and without any encouragement from Claire said “Hi, Dor.”

Claire almost dropped the knife. She choked back an excited yelp and glanced at Andor. He set the wine on the table and crouched near the boy but not so close as to crowd him. “Have you been helping your mom with Thanksgiving dinner?” This time only silence met his question, and Claire answered.

“He cleaned off the table and helped me set it.”

Instead of ruffling Jake’s hair or patting him on the shoulder, Andor knocked gently on the table. “Good job, Jake. That’s a nice thing to do for your mom.”

He stood and gave her a smile. “How can I help?”

She led him into the tiny kitchen, fragrant with the scent of herbs and roasted vegetables. All the counters except one were covered with an assortment of grocery supplies and pans. A turkey breast, still in its wrapping, rested in one pan near a cutting board layered with chopped vegetables.

Andor sniffed. “It smells good.”

Claire scraped the vegetables into a waiting roasting pan. “Thanks. It’s the stock for the gravy and a pan of dressing.”

“Dressing?”

She mentally backed up. “Stuffing. This part of the country, we call it dressing.” She paused. “Is this your first Thanksgiving?” She sort of hoped it might be. He couldn’t compare her food to someone else’s then.

He snagged one of the aprons hanging on a hook attached to the pantry door and tied it around his narrow waist. “No. It’s my third. I’m still trying to decide if the bird they served at the last Thanksgiving I went to was actually a turkey or an ostrich. It was enormous.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now, how may I act as sous chef?”

Trying not to gawk too much at how a man could look that sexy in an apron, she passed him a boning knife from her knife block. “I don’t suppose you can de-bone a turkey breast?”

Much to Claire’s lack of surprise, he could, and he was scarily efficient. “You were a butcher once, weren’t you?”

Andor grinned as he tossed the bones into the trash. “For a little while.”

Not only did he de-bone the turkey, he butterflied it on her instructions, stuffed it with the roasted red pepper and goat cheese filling she’d prepared, rolled and tied it into a roulade, slathered it in duck fat and slid the pan into the oven. Fast, efficient, capable, and sexy beyond belief.

They worked together, teasing each other about Andor’s jack-of-all-trades skills and Claire’s assurances that the poultry in the oven was definitely turkey and not emu. She left him alone in the kitchen a few times, whipping egg whites or stirring cranberries in a saucepan, while she checked on Jake, took him for bathroom breaks and fed him snacks.