‘Roast beef,’ he said, standing back as she brushed past him, his breath hissing softly through his teeth.
‘With everything else?’ she asked, wondering about that hiss and what it meant. If it meant what she thought it meant then he was finding the attraction that still sizzled between them as disruptive as she was. And if that was the case, then she could only hope that he’d come to the same conclusion as she had and had decided to ignore it, because if he had other ideas, such as wanting to explore it, then who knew what might happen? Her willpower was strong, but would it be strong enough to resist him if he suddenly grabbed her right now and kissed her?
‘Naturally.’
She glanced at his mouth and her own watered. At the sound of supper, obviously, not at the thought of kissing him. ‘Great,’ she said with a bit of a strained smile.
‘Go through to the kitchen. You know the way.’
Technically she did, so she walked down the hall and made for the kitchen. Metaphorically, however, she was floundering, not really knowing quite in which direction to head.
What on earth was wrong with her? She never normally had this much trouble with her self-control. She’d read about the brain sometimes going AWOL during pregnancy but it hadn’t occurred that it would ever happen to her. The possibility that it had was unsettling. And it meant she had to be extra specially careful when she was around him.
He indicated that she should sit down, so she did. She ran her gaze over the table, laid for two—no candles, thank goodness—and then she turned it to the chef, who was busying himself with supper.
After switching the oven off, Marcus opened it, took the meat out and stuck a cloche over it, and then deftly dealt with a saucepan that was bubbling over.
His back view really was magnificent, she thought idly, her mouth watering at the aroma as she put her handbag on the chair next to hers and slowly let her gaze drift over him. In a purely objective fashion, of course, because objective appreciation of her host was allowed. It was good manners, in fact. Practically an obligation.
Whatever it was, she ogled the broad shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist that she envied now that her own was thickening, great bottom and long muscled legs, and let out a soft sigh of admiration.
Why was getting it on with him a bad idea again...?
‘Drink?’ he asked, turning around and making her jump. She went bright red, as if she’d been caught doing—and thinking—something she shouldn’t have been. Which she had.
Wishing she could down a double gin and tonic for the sake of her nerves, Celia asked him for a tonic and to hold the gin, and once she’d quenched her suddenly rampant thirst decided it might be wise to do a little less of the ogling and a little more of the small talk.
‘When did you become such a good cook?’ she asked, putting her glass down and watching him lift a lid and peer into a cloud of steam.
‘When I realised it was either that or starve. Then I discovered I liked it. I find it relaxing.’
‘The ability to feed is a much sought-after quality in a man, I’d have thought.’ In any man she ever ended up with, that was for certain, if he didn’t want to go hungry.
‘Not sure it’s my most sought-after quality,’ he said, shooting her a lethal grin over his shoulder.
Celia went warm, and half-heartedly tried to convince herself that it was merely down to the heat the oven was throwing out. ‘No, well, I imagine not.’
He turned, leaned against the counter and shot her a quizzical look. ‘Do you really not cook at all?’
‘Toast and eggs I can do. Beyond that, not a lot. I usually grab something from the canteen at work and eat at my desk.’
‘Even now?’
His gaze slid down her body, stopping at her abdomen, and she blushed. The oven again, undoubtedly. ‘Even now.’
‘It’s really not that hard.’
She thought of her spotless kitchen and the devastation she would likely bring with a set of beaters or a food processor, and shuddered. ‘I’ll take your word for it.
‘You should try it.’
Celia muttered sceptically beneath her breath and decided to move from her non-existent skills to his very much in-existence ones. ‘Do you cook for your dates?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I guess you’ll have to pull out all the stops for the one you blew out this evening.’
He grinned and she ignored the jealousy stabbing at her chest. ‘Four courses at the very least.’