Read Online Skinny Bitch in Love by Kim Barnouin - Free Book Online Page B

hadn’t noticed last week how incredibly broad his shoulders were. “I liked your place,” he said. “What I saw of it, anyway.”
    Yeah, right. “I’ll bet you never lived in a place like mine.”
    He went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer. I shook my head, and he put one back. “Okay, that’s true. I made a lot of money while still in college. I started a company at my dorm room desk and got lucky.”
    “Lucky? You believe in luck?”
    “Actually, no. I believe in smart. And action.”
    “Me, too.”
    “I can tell, Clementine. That’s why I specifically wantedyou to design the vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five? And you’ve already worked at some major restaurants and have your own business.”
    “I’m twenty-six. But thank you.”
    He smiled. “I admire people with strong convictions, and passions. I always have. I liked that you barged into the restaurant that day and stood up to—what did you call her? Lady Clipboard.”
    I laughed. “So the admiration still holds even if it’s against everything you’re about.”
    He opened the beer and took a swig. “I’m more than what I eat, Clementine.”
    “But you live very differently than I do.”
    “How do you know? I wasn’t aware we’d spent that much time together.”
    “Ha. But still. You own a steakhouse. You spew fuel emissions into the air with your motorcycle. You use that crappy dishwashing liquid with tons of chemicals,” I added, jerking a thumb to the sink.
    “Huh. Definitely never thought about the dish soap.” He opened the refrigerator and pointed to two shelves. “Those are the perishables.” He opened a cabinet. “And the rest of the ingredients. My chef approved your entrees. Get past me and I’ll hand him your recipes and pay you well for them.”
    “You talk money a lot,” I said, taking out ingredients for the stir-fry.
    “I own a restaurant. It’s all about money.”
    “My place is going to be about the food, ” I said.
    He laughed and lifted his beer in salute. “I have no doubt that place will be a hit. So talk to me about tofu,” he said as I placed the block of firm tofu on a cutting board. “What the hell is it?”
    I told him all about tofu, that it was made from soybeans and water, was high in protein and beautifully absorbed the flavors of spices and marinades. How it had less than a hundred calories, ten grams of protein, and five grams of fat per half cup serving. Good stuff.
    And he listened to every word. His eyes on my face. On my lips, I noticed. Then back up at my eyes. Then surreptitiously glancing lower, checking me out.
    As I stood next to him by the sink, draining the tofu, he was so close that I could smell his soap.
    He seemed to notice he was staring at me and took a slug of his beer. “Did you start cooking after culinary school or did you always cook?”
    Man. I had to actually force myself to look away from him, too. “I learned the basics from my father. My earliest memory is being in the kitchen with him, learning how to snap peas and tear the husks off corn.” I thought of my dad, in his wheelchair, so weak now, and I got that awful clenching feeling in my chest. “So, your dad took you out hunting the minute you could walk?”
    There. Good, Clem. You have to remind yourself that this guy is a total carnivore. He’s the anti-you. Do not get suckered by that face. Or body.
    He smiled. The kind of smile that said he liked being challenged. “I’m not a hunter. Ours is a breeding ranch. But I didgrow up with cattle and chickens and rabbits walking in my path all the time. There was a time—I was thirteen—when I was really awkward and skinny and my hair stuck up in all directions, and I transferred to a new school and had no friends. A goose and a rooster were the only creatures I talked to for months. I told them everything.”
    Huh. Unexpected. “They say anything back?” I asked as I sliced the tofu, added the