Read Online Dead to the Last Drop by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cleo Coyle
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Quinn failed to give me a heads-up.
This begged a return to a question still bothering me.
“Mike, why did you really come home early?”
“What?”
The sudden tension in him said it all. “Okay. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Sweetheart, I missed you,” he claimed again. Then he gave me the boyfriend pout. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?”
“Of course . . .”
But I had a strong suspicion that I was dying to check out.
“Tell you what, you get comfortable,” I said, pulling off his blue blazer and draping it over a chair, “and I’m going to make you my Thirty-Minute Dinner Rolls.”
“Oooh,” he moaned, loosening his tie. “I do love your fresh bread . . .”
“The smell of it baking?” I asked, moving to get the flour.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Or the butter melting on the hot, warm crumb?” I purred, taking out the mixing bowl.
“Oh, hell, now you’re just torturing me—” He grabbed my hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Not yet.” I tugged my appendage back. “I’ll need this hand to mix the dough.”
“Clare, you’re not really baking bread at three in the morning.”
“Why not? That’s when most bakers make it. And like you, I’m wide awake. After what I went through tonight, I’m also wired. Baking the rolls will calm me down.”
He hooked my waist. “I can think of something else that will do that.”
“I know, and I’m looking forward to it— after we eat.”
“You’re sure you want to wait?”
“Yes, Mike,” I said, breaking away to preheat the oven, “because I know exactly what will happen if we rush upstairs like we usually do. You’ll still be starving; and after we, uh—spend our energy—you’ll come right back down here to raid the fridge. Let’s try taking things in a civilized order tonight, shall we?”
“When the lady’s right, she’s right. Be right back . . .”
It wasn’t easy letting Mike depart. As his long legs strode across the room, he pulled off the leather straps of his shoulder holster, and I couldn’t help noticing his muscles move beneath his dress shirt.
I quietly sighed.
Baking rolls was a ruse. What I really wanted was to follow him upstairs and help him off with that shirt. But tonight my curiosity trumped my libido. And, besides, my evil plan was hatching perfectly.
Quinn had left his blazer on the kitchen chair.
It took me one minute to stir together the warm water, oil, and sugar, and sprinkle on the RapidRise yeast. As the mixture proofed, I dried my hands and fished around the coat’s side pocket to find—handcuffs? Whoops. Not what I was looking for. I tried his other pocket without any luck. But in his breast pocket— bingo!
Quinn’s mobile phone.
I fired it up and (unlike Chef Hopkins’s private office) found it unlocked.
Okay, Mike, in the interest of truth in our relationship, let’s see what you’re hiding from me . . .
E ighteen
F IFTEEN minutes later, Quinn returned looking comfortable (and distractingly masculine) in his NYPD sweatpants and tee. But there was now an intensity in his blue eyes that wasn’t so comfortable.
He accepted the cup of French-pressed Sumatra I’d made him (bold but smooth with a comfortingly thick body) and sat down at the center island to watch me blend salt, egg, and flour into the yeast mixture; knead the dough smooth; break it into pieces; and shape it into dinner rolls.
Quinn’s steady gaze was unnerving, but I ignored it. And as the pale white dough balls waited out their quickie rise in the greased pan, I heated up slices of the prime rib on the stove with some of my special American-style au jus. Then into the oven the rolls went, sending the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread throughout the house.
Minutes later, they came out golden brown, and (much like Quinn) crusty on the outside, fluffy and tender in. He split two of them warm, slathered butter like crazy, and inhaled them before we settled into the formal dining room.
“Table for
This begged a return to a question still bothering me.
“Mike, why did you really come home early?”
“What?”
The sudden tension in him said it all. “Okay. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Sweetheart, I missed you,” he claimed again. Then he gave me the boyfriend pout. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?”
“Of course . . .”
But I had a strong suspicion that I was dying to check out.
“Tell you what, you get comfortable,” I said, pulling off his blue blazer and draping it over a chair, “and I’m going to make you my Thirty-Minute Dinner Rolls.”
“Oooh,” he moaned, loosening his tie. “I do love your fresh bread . . .”
“The smell of it baking?” I asked, moving to get the flour.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Or the butter melting on the hot, warm crumb?” I purred, taking out the mixing bowl.
“Oh, hell, now you’re just torturing me—” He grabbed my hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Not yet.” I tugged my appendage back. “I’ll need this hand to mix the dough.”
“Clare, you’re not really baking bread at three in the morning.”
“Why not? That’s when most bakers make it. And like you, I’m wide awake. After what I went through tonight, I’m also wired. Baking the rolls will calm me down.”
He hooked my waist. “I can think of something else that will do that.”
“I know, and I’m looking forward to it— after we eat.”
“You’re sure you want to wait?”
“Yes, Mike,” I said, breaking away to preheat the oven, “because I know exactly what will happen if we rush upstairs like we usually do. You’ll still be starving; and after we, uh—spend our energy—you’ll come right back down here to raid the fridge. Let’s try taking things in a civilized order tonight, shall we?”
“When the lady’s right, she’s right. Be right back . . .”
It wasn’t easy letting Mike depart. As his long legs strode across the room, he pulled off the leather straps of his shoulder holster, and I couldn’t help noticing his muscles move beneath his dress shirt.
I quietly sighed.
Baking rolls was a ruse. What I really wanted was to follow him upstairs and help him off with that shirt. But tonight my curiosity trumped my libido. And, besides, my evil plan was hatching perfectly.
Quinn had left his blazer on the kitchen chair.
It took me one minute to stir together the warm water, oil, and sugar, and sprinkle on the RapidRise yeast. As the mixture proofed, I dried my hands and fished around the coat’s side pocket to find—handcuffs? Whoops. Not what I was looking for. I tried his other pocket without any luck. But in his breast pocket— bingo!
Quinn’s mobile phone.
I fired it up and (unlike Chef Hopkins’s private office) found it unlocked.
Okay, Mike, in the interest of truth in our relationship, let’s see what you’re hiding from me . . .
E ighteen
F IFTEEN minutes later, Quinn returned looking comfortable (and distractingly masculine) in his NYPD sweatpants and tee. But there was now an intensity in his blue eyes that wasn’t so comfortable.
He accepted the cup of French-pressed Sumatra I’d made him (bold but smooth with a comfortingly thick body) and sat down at the center island to watch me blend salt, egg, and flour into the yeast mixture; knead the dough smooth; break it into pieces; and shape it into dinner rolls.
Quinn’s steady gaze was unnerving, but I ignored it. And as the pale white dough balls waited out their quickie rise in the greased pan, I heated up slices of the prime rib on the stove with some of my special American-style au jus. Then into the oven the rolls went, sending the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread throughout the house.
Minutes later, they came out golden brown, and (much like Quinn) crusty on the outside, fluffy and tender in. He split two of them warm, slathered butter like crazy, and inhaled them before we settled into the formal dining room.
“Table for
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