Summer Desserts

your éclairs.”
    Slowly, Summer turned her head until she was facing Blake again. The muscles in her stomach, in her thighs, tightened with the memory. Her voice remained calm and cool. “Did he? Actually, my specialty is the bombe.”
    Blake met her gaze directly. “A pity you didn’t have one available the other night.”
    There were vibrations there, B.C. thought, that didn’t need to bounce off a third party. “Well, I’ll let you two get on with your business. I’ve some people to see before the board meeting. A pleasure meeting you, Summer.” He took her hand again and held it as his eyes held hers. “Please, give my best to your mother.”
    She saw his eyes were like Blake’s, in color, in shape, in appeal. Her lips curved. “I will.”
    “Blake, I’ll see you this afternoon.”
    He only murmured an assent, watching Summer rather than his father. The door closed before he spoke. “Why do I feel as though there were messages being passed in front of me?”
    “I have no idea,” Summer said coolly as she lifted the folder. “I’d like you to glance over these papers while I’m here, if you have time.” Zipping open the folder, she pulled them out. “That way, if there are any questions or any disagreements, we can get through them now before I begin downstairs.”
    “All right.” Blake picked up the first sheet but studied her over it. “Is that suit supposed to keep me at a distance?”
    She sent him a haughty look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “Yes, you do. And another time I’d like to peel it off you, layer by layer. But at the moment, we’ll play it your way.” Without another word, he lowered his gaze to the paper and started to read.
    “Arrogant swine,” Summer said distinctly. When he didn’t even bother to look up she folded her arms over her chest. She wanted a cigarette to give her something to do with her hands, but refused herself the luxury. She would sit like a stone, and when the time came, she would argue for every one of the changes she’d listed. And win every one of them. On that level she was in complete control.
    She wanted to hate him for realizing she’d worn the elegant, career-oriented suit to set a certain tone. Instead, she had to respect him for being perceptive enough to pick up on smalldetails. She wanted to hate him for making her want so badly with only a look and a few words. It wasn’t possible when she’d spent the remainder of the weekend alternately wishing she’d never met him and wishing he’d come back and bring her that excitement again. He was a problem; there was no denying it. She understood that you solved problems one step at a time. Step one, her kitchen—accent on the personal pronoun.
    “Two new gas ovens,” he murmured as he scanned the sheet. “One electric oven and two more ranges of each kind.” Without lowering it, he glanced at her over the top of the page.
    “I believe I explained to you before the need for both gas and electric ovens. First, yours are antiquated. Second, in a restaurant of this size the need for two gas ovens is imperative.”
    “You specify brands.”
    “Of course, I know what I like to work with.”
    He only lifted a brow, thinking that procurement was going to grumble. “All new pots and pans?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Perhaps we should have a yard sale,” Blake mumbled as he went back to the sheet. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what a sautoir was or why she required three of them. “And this particular heavy-duty mixer?”
    “Essential. The one you have is adequate. I don’t accept adequate.”
    He smothered a laugh as he recalled his father’s view on adequate in relation to love lives. “Did you list so much of this in French to confuse me?”
    “I listed in French,” Summer countered, “because French is correct.”
    He made an indefinable sound as he passed over the next sheet. “In any case, I’ve no intention of quibbling over equipment in French or English.”
    “Good. Because I’ve no intention of working with any less than the best.” She smiled at him and settled back. First point taken.
    Blake flipped over the second sheet and went on to the third. “You intend to rip out the existing counters, have the new ranges built in, add an island and an additional six feet of counter space.”
    “More efficient,” Summer said easily.
    “And time-consuming.”
    “In a hurry? You hired me, Blake, not Minute Chef.” His quick grin made her eyes