Page 85 of The Desperate Warrior

“We’re figuring it out,” she said evasively.

Thankfully, he picked up on her reticence to discuss her relationship with Brock any further and changed the subject. “Where’s Nikki?”

“She flew out this morning to cover an assignment in the Maldives. She’s a travel writer.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Nikki thinks so. I’m more of a homegirl myself.”

“Not a bad thing.”

“I agree.”

More awkward silence.

He folded his hands in his lap. “Are you looking forward to the next cooking class on Wednesday? Round two.”

She moistened her lips. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll go again.”

“Really?” He dipped his head in surprise. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

“I did,” she said quickly.

He flashed her a disarming smile. “Was it because of your inept partner?”

“Not at all. Truthfully, the class was more Nikki’s thing.” Briefly, she wondered if she should confront him about how he’d signed up for the cooking class after learning that she was enrolled. But as she watched him sitting there, polite andcomposed, she decided to let it go. Some things were better left unsaid.

She’d thought the two of them had reached an understanding the last time they saw each other at the clinic. He apologized for how shocked he’d been to see her with Brock. She got the impression that Asher had accepted the fact that she was with Brock. Was he here as a friend? She certainly hoped so. Asher was the type of guy who had women falling all over him. Surely, this wouldn’t turn into another Dean situation where he kept lurking around.

She tried to figure out what to say. Work was always a good topic. “How are things at the clinic?”

“Much better. Everyone’s relieved now that the whole Steve Randall situation is finally behind us.”

“I’m so glad,” she breathed. No truer words had ever been spoken. She was so grateful that she’d survived the harrowing experience and could now move on with her life.

He leaned forward and peeled back the plastic wrap from the platter. “Here—try one.” He handed her a golden square of baklava, then took one for himself.

She accepted it with a smile, balancing it in one hand while holding her other hand underneath to catch the crumbs. “Do I dare?” she joked.

He laughed. “Eat at your own risk.”

She took a generous bite. The crust was light and flaky, the sweetness of the syrup lingering on her tongue.

“What do you think? Be honest, I can take it.”

She took another bite. On second thought, the syrup tasted off—the slightest hint of bitterness lurking beneath the sweetness of the honey. Of course, she couldn’t say that. She didn’t want to be critical.

“So …” he prompted.

“A little different than what we made in class, but very tasty.”

“I’m glad you like it. I added my own touch,” he said with a pleased grin.

“It’s good. Rich.”

“Eat up,” he encouraged, digging into his square.

Her stomach turned, reminding her that she’d already downed three-quarters of a pint of ice cream. She couldn’t take another bite. She held it for several minutes before placing the uneaten portion into the ice cream container. “Sorry,” she said with a sheepish grin. “I only had room for a couple of bites.”

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