Page 12 of Single Dad's Christmas Cookie

I could hear something in her voice. I couldn’t tell whether it was concern or nerves.

“I’m not married,” I said flatly. “The other night would not have happened if I were.”

“That’s good to know,” she said softly. “When you say Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinner? How many people are you expecting for those meals? You said small gathering.”

“Yes, that would be for three to four, potentially five, people.”

“So you’ll have guests?”

“Yes, my family will be in.” I felt uncharacteristically nervous answering her questions, even though her questions were to be expected from somebody who wanted to know more about their job expectation.

“Do you normally have a private cook? You mentioned she’s on vacation?”

“Yes, I have a cook and she has an assistant.” I don’t know why I referred to Shelly as her assistant and not my part-time afternoon nanny. But as far as I was concerned, until I hired Nova to cook, she didn’t need to know the specifics of my private life.

“So, this is the kitchen,” I said as I opened the door.

Nova let out a soft gasp, and while I knew the sound had nothing to do with anything I had done, my body reacted as if I had been responsible for that sensuous noise coming from her. My gut clenched, and I felt my balls tighten. I was convinced this was not going to work.

“This kitchen is amazing,” she said. “You only have one cook in here?”

“Usually.” I shoved my hands in my pockets.

“It’s big enough to be a commercial kitchen in a restaurant or something. This is fabulous.”

“Have you never worked in a large kitchen?”

“I have. But even that kitchen wasn’t as large as this. It was functional, stainless steel and white tiles. This is a beautifully decorated kitchen.”

“Well, thank you. I guess. The refrigerator is over there, stove, pots and pans.” I waved my arm around, figuring she could see everything she needed.

“I’ll get started, then, shall I?”

“I’ll come back and check on you. When should dinner be ready, in forty-five minutes?”

She held up her grocery bags. “More like an hour.”

I stepped out of the kitchen, letting the door close behind me. But I didn’t move. Could I hire that woman who had turned me inside out mere days earlier? We were never supposed to have seen each other again. What happened at that hotel was a one-time phenomenon.

If I had her in my house, would I be able to go on without constantly remembering the feel of her skin? She seemed to act as if it were no big deal, and if she could be professional about it, then I could be professional about it.

I ended up not doing much of anything for the next hour, trying to convince myself to stay out of the kitchen. I was too eager, like some kid who wanted to be near the action with a serious case of FOMO, fear of missing out. And in my case, it was fear of not being near Nova when I had an opportunity to do so.

“Your dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” she said without looking up after I pushed my way back through the kitchen door.

She was bent over checking something in the oven. I didn’t say anything, simply admired the view.

“Do you want me to serve you here? Or would you like everything to be plated and presented in the formal dining room?”

“The formal dining room only gets used during holidays and other special occasions,” I said. “Most meals are served in the kitchen.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” She gestured toward the kitchen table and chairs.

“Do you like to drink wine with your dinner, or are you a milk kind of person?”

“Water or beer,” I admitted.

“Hmm, I don’t think beer would go with these flavors.” She made another thoughtful noise.

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