Susan Mallery's Fool's Gold Cookbook: A Love Story Told Through 150 Recipes(13)

Ana Raquel remembered the evening very well. Her parents had found Greg oh-so-charming and didn’t understand why she was upset that he’d defeated her for the student council presidency. She was surprised that he would recall something as simple as a fried chicken dinner.

“I was planning on putting that one in the cookbook,” she said slowly.

“Good.” He flashed her another smile. “I’ve been trying to duplicate the recipe myself, but I don’t have it right. Now I can find out what ingredient I’ve been leaving out.”

He was being so nice, she thought, confused by his friendliness. She had always thought they were sworn enemies. Or at least people who didn’t get along. How embarrassing that she seemed to be the only one showing up for the fight.

“Are you free Monday?” he asked. “The restaurant is closed. We can meet at my place.”

She was suddenly curious about where Greg lived. “Your place would be great. I serve lunch until two-thirty. So say four?”

He nodded and gave her his address. “Great. I’ll prepare us a little something and we can get to work on the cookbook. See you then.”

He got in his SUV and drove away. Ana Raquel was left standing in the parking lot with the growing sense that Greg was not who she remembered at all.

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CHAPTER 4

Greg lived on the edge of the Condor Valley Winery. Ana Raquel parked next to his SUV, then circled around the side of the house to take in the views from the backyard. To the south and west were the vineyards. They were thick and lush with heavy grapes. She didn’t know much about making wine, but she was pretty sure the harvest would start in a few weeks.

To the east were the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. In the winter, they would be covered with snow. Fortunately, the town was high enough to get a little snow, but it rarely got more than a few inches at a time. With the mountains so close, you could get all the thrill without so much of the hassle.

She turned her attention to the house. It was a cabin-style one-story. Small, but appealing. There were probably a couple of bedrooms and a single bath. Enough space for one person, she thought. Greg wasn’t married. He was—

Ana Raquel started toward the house, only to stop suddenly. The local rumor mill was quite efficient and she heard most of what was going on. But knowing that Greg wasn’t married was different from knowing if he were dating someone. Not that she was interested for herself, it was just that if he had a girlfriend, the cookbook project could be even more complicated. There would be long evenings and weekends perfecting recipes. Arguments about style and placement. She didn’t want some nonfoodie offering her opinion because she was being protective of her boyfriend.

In fact, if Greg were seeing someone, there was simply no way this project could work, she thought as she marched around the house and up the front steps. She would tell him that and he could back out. Then she would do it all herself, which would be just fine. Because she wasn’t interested in working with a guy who dated a girl like that. Someone so possessive and willing to stick her nose in where it didn’t belong.

The front door opened and the man in question smiled at her.

“Hey,” he said. “Right on time. Come on in.”

She did as he requested, trying not to let him know that her tummy suddenly felt weird and she couldn’t say why. There were flutterings and odd zings of electricity. Had she eaten some bad fish?

“Hi.” She stepped past him and shrugged out of her coat. “Great place. So is it all yours? What about a roommate? A girlfriend? Because working with you is one thing, but working with a cast of thousands isn’t possible.”

His dark gaze settled on her face. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh. Are you sure? Because you always did. Constantly. It was a steady stream of women.”

That half smile appeared. “I’ve grown up since then.”

An intriguing statement that told her exactly nothing, she thought in frustration. Which was just so like him.

Determined not to give him the satisfaction of asking or acting as if she cared, she dropped her coat and bag on the bench in the foyer and walked into the small house.

The view from the living room stretched all the way to the end of the valley, but what really caught her attention was the huge kitchen. She stumbled toward it, drawn by deep sinks, plenty of counter space and a six-burner stove. There were two ovens, a warming drawer and a knife collection that nearly had her drooling with envy.

“Wow,” she said, turning in a slow circle. “I mean wow.”

There were racks and lots of cabinets and a double pantry. To the left, one section of countertop was done in marble. The cool, smooth surface was perfect for rolling out dough and making cookies. Through the glass door of the top oven, she saw a rotisserie. While she loved her little trailer kitchen, comparing this to that was like comparing truffle oil to cooking spray.

Greg leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space. “I did some remodeling before I moved in. I still have to get to the bathroom.”

“Who cares about a bathroom?” she told him. “Or furniture. For a kitchen like this, I would be willing to sit on crates and sleep on the floor.”

“No need for that. I have a bed.”

A comment that caused the fluttering inside to increase for a second before she decided to ignore the sensation.