Bachelor at Her Bidding (Bachelor Auction Book 2)(10)

He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say they’re little tastes of things that go together very well.”

“And that’s how they do desserts in Paris?”

He inclined his head. “Absolutely.”

“The menu sounds fabulous. Sorry, I should’ve asked you what wine to buy.” She hadn’t even thought about it. How stupid.

“No need. The wine’s already sorted,” he said with a smile.

The first box turned out to contain food. “I made two of the desserts this morning, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough time for one of them to freeze and the other one to cool,” he explained. “Is it OK to put things in your freezer and fridge?”

“Sure. Help yourself.” Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “Can I make you a coffee?”

“That would be nice. Thanks. No milk or sugar for me, please – I like my coffee just as it is.”

She wondered if his taste for black coffee came from his time in Europe. Given the wistfulness in his eyes when he’d spoken about Europe, she knew it wouldn’t be tactful to ask. But she was glad she’d spent the time tidying and cleaning the kitchen that morning, as he looked approvingly at the empty workspaces.

She quickly made him a coffee. She was sure that she saw a flicker of a grimace when he took a sip, but then it was hidden behind a polite smile. Just as his hair was hidden behind a skullcap which he’d clearly donned while she was making the coffee. Terrible coffee, she suspected; it looked as if her coffee-making skills were on a par with her culinary skills. And her equally terrible dating skills, she thought with a sigh.

Not that she or Ryan was interested in a date.

Though, if someone applied thumbscrews, she might just admit that Ryan Henderson intrigued her. There was just something about him. Something haunted behind his dark eyes. Something that made her want to know more about the man behind the chef’s tunic.

“I’m going to start with dessert,” he said.

“That sounds good.” A fabulous idea struck her. “So does this mean we get to eat dessert first?” she asked hopefully.

“No, it means that dessert takes longer to prepare than the other courses, plus I’m using garlic and don’t want it to taint the rest of the food.”

“Right. That makes sense,” she said, and perched on one of the kitchen chairs to watch him.

His second box contained kitchen equipment, some of which Rachel couldn’t even identify, much less guess what it was for. He weighed ground almonds and confectioner’s sugar into the bowl of his small food processor, whizzed it round, then tipped the crumb-like mixture into another bowl and added egg whites to make it into a paste.

“That’s the base for the macarons. I’m making a sugar syrup now,” he said.

She noticed what he’d placed beside the pan on her stove top. “And you’re actually using a thermometer to check the temperature?”

“A sugar thermometer. It’s a little more precise than the soft-ball test,” he said.

She frowned. “Soft-ball?”

“I mean the stage of sugar cookery,” he said, “not the game.”

“Right – and you learned this in Paris?”

“When they taught me to make macarons,” he confirmed. “The first time I saw macarons was in Paris, in a shop window. They were displayed on this incredibly tall cone, all the different colors shading into each other like a rainbow. I remember pressing my nose against the window and being spellbound, and then my parents taking me in to the shop to choose one.” His smile grew wistful. “I always think of that when I make macarons.”

She knew that his parents had died when he was young, so clearly this was a precious memory. Rachel was touched that he’d shared it with her.

She watched him whisk the egg whites while the sugar syrup was cooking; then he poured the sugar syrup down the side of the bowl containing the whisked egg whites, whisking them again until the mixture was smooth and glossy. All the while his hands were sure and deft. And she had to stop herself wondering just how those hands would be if they touched her. Would he find out where and how she liked being touched, on pure instinct? Even the thought made her dizzy.

“Rachel?”

Oh, no. Please don’t let him have caught her ogling him. Or, if he had, please let the earth open and swallow her right now. “Sorry. Busy day at work,” she fibbed. He wasn’t to know if she’d been on duty or not. “I didn’t mean to zone out on you. Watching you is amazing,” she said. “I could imagine you teaching students or even in a studio as a TV chef, showing the nation how to cook a spectacular dessert.”

“I probably don’t have the patience to teach,” he said, “and TV’s a little too disconnected for me. I like to talk to my customers about their food and whether they’re enjoying what I made them, or what I could do differently in future to make it better for them.”

She could understand that; but she still wondered why he wasn’t using his skills here in Marietta. “Don’t get me wrong – I love the food at Grey’s. But their menu is very simple and what you’re cooking for me is pretty special. Why aren’t you working at the Graff or somewhere you’d get to make food like this every single day?”

“I have my reasons,” he said lightly. He wasn’t exactly rude, but Rachel was very aware that Ryan had just closed off from her. Another subject off limits, then, she thought with an inward sigh. How long would it be before they were reduced to talking about the weather?