Summer Desserts

very strict rules. One of them is never to become intimate with a business associate or a client. In one point of view, you fall into both categories.”
    “How do you intend to prevent it from happening? Intimacies come in a lot of degrees, Summer. You and I have already reached some of them.”
    How could she deny it? She wanted to run from it. “We managed to keep out of each other’s way for two weeks,” she pointed out. “It’s simply a matter of continuing to do so. Both of us are very busy at the moment, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
    “Eventually one of us is going to break the rules.”
    And it could be me just as easily as it could be him, she thought. “I can’t think about eventually, only about now. I’ll stay downstairs and do my job. You stay upstairs and do yours.”
    “Like hell,” Blake muttered and took a step forward. Summer was halfway to her feet when a knock sounded on her door.
    “Mr. Cocharan, there’s a phone call for you. Your secretary says it’s urgent.”
    Blake controlled his fury. “I’ll be there.” He gave Summer a long, hard look. “We’re not finished.”
    She waited until he’d reached the door. “I can turn this place into a palace or a greasy spoon,” she said quietly. “It’s your choice.”
    Turning around, he measured her. “Blackmail?”
    “Insurance,” she corrected and smiled. “Play it my way, Blake and everybody’s happy.”
    “Your point, Summer,” he acknowledged with a nod. “This time.”
    When the door closed behind him, she sat again. She may have outmaneuvered him this time, she mused, but the game was far from over.
     
    Summer gave herself another hour before she left her temporary office to go back to the kitchen. Busboys wheeled in and out with trays of dirty dishes. The dishwasher hummed busily. Pots simmered. Someone sang as she basted a chicken. Two hours to the dinner rush. In another hour, the panic and confusion would set in.
    It was then, when the scent of food hit her, that Summerrealized she hadn’t eaten. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, she began to root through the cupboards. She’d find something for a late lunch, and see just how provisions were organized.
    She couldn’t complain about the latter. The cupboards were not only well stocked, they were systematically stocked. Max had a number of excellent qualities, she thought. A pity an open mind wasn’t among them. She continued to scan shelf after shelf, but the item she was looking for was nowhere to be found.
    “Ms. Lyndon?”
    Hearing Max’s voice behind her, Summer slowly closed the cabinet door. She didn’t have to turn around to see the cold politeness in his eyes or the tight disapproval of his mouth. She was going to have to do something about this situation before long, she decided. But at the moment she was a bit tired, quite a bit hungry and not in the mood to deal with it.
    “Yes, Max.” She opened the next door and surveyed the stock.
    “Perhaps I can help you find what you’re looking for.”
    “Perhaps. Actually, I’m checking to see how well stocked we are while searching out a jar of peanut butter. Apparently—” she closed that door and went on to the next “—we’re very well stocked indeed, and very well organized.”
    “My kitchen is completely organized,” Max began stiffly. “Even in the midst of all this—this carpentry.”
    “The carpentry’s almost finished,” she said easily. “I think the new ovens are working out well.”
    “To some, new is always better.”
    “To some,” she countered, “progress is always a death knell. Where do I find the peanut butter, Max? I really want a sandwich.”
    This time she did turn, in time to see his eyebrows rise and his mouth purse. “Below,” he said with a hint of a smirk as he pointed. “We keep such things on hand for the children’s menu.”
    “Good.” Unoffended, Summer crouched down and found it. “Would you like to join me?”
    “Thank you, no. I have work to do.”
    “Fine.” Summer took two slices of bread and began to spread the peanut butter. “Tomorrow, nine o’clock, you and I will go over the proposed menus in my office.”
    “I’m very busy at nine.”
    “No,” she corrected mildly. “We’re very busy from seven to nine, then things tend to ease off, particularly midweek, until the lunch rush. Nine o’clock,” she repeated over his huff of breath. “Excuse me, I have to get some jelly for this.”
    Leaving Max