and crazy. She didn’t want to get involved with Adam Blackstone, and he surely wasn’t interested in her. Circumstances forced him to tolerate her, but deep down he still despised her.
But right now, right this minute, it didn’t feel that way to her, and she didn’t know how to handle the situation.
The oven timer rang. With a sigh of relief she reached for her oven mitt.
Chapter Four
The entrée Harriet served surprised Adam. While she was cooking, his mind hadn’t been on food, and when she laid the plate before him, it took him a few moments to remember why she was here.
“Autumn vegetable salad with crab and hazelnuts,” Harriet announced as she sat down at the table opposite him. “Hope you like it.”
He liked the bright colours of the roasted pumpkin and beetroot and the green chervil. He glanced at her plate. “You’ve given me twice as much.”
“You’re twice my size.” She picked up her fork and dug in.
He was glad she’d given him such a generous serving; the warm salad was delicious, and he was hungry even though he hadn’t had a very strenuous morning. Before he knew it, he’d cleaned his plate.
“What’s next?”
She ran a considering eye over him. “I thought a good main for your Harvest Ball would be a pan-roasted eye fillet. I’ve already prepared it, so it won’t take long to cook.”
She rose from the table, and he found himself watching her again. There was something about Harriet that compelled him to follow her every step. She moved around his small kitchen like a dancer, nudging a drawer shut with her hips, flexing her arms as she lifted a heavy pan, tensing her calf muscles as she reached up to flick on the extractor fan.
The white apron tied firmly around her blue dress accentuated her curves. She’d tied back her shiny brown hair into a ponytail, but little tendrils had escaped and curled around her nape and ears. She stood at the stove with her back to him, and his gaze lingered on the rounded curve of her bottom before sliding down her smooth legs. Abruptly he shook his head and forced his eyes away. What the hell was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he stop ogling her? This was Harriet Brown, for chrissakes.
It must be the food, he thought, massaging the worn edge of the table. It had been so long since he’d had an attractive woman in his kitchen cooking him a fantastic meal that his senses were confused. Not that he had any trouble pulling women, but none of them, as far as he could remember, had ever had any culinary inclinations.
His eyes slid back to Harriet. She flitted between the hissing pans and her chopping board, never missing a step, as if she’d been here forever. She looked so right here in his kitchen.
He turned away, and when he caught sight of the main house sitting on the opposite hill, he almost welcomed the sharp stab of pain in his abdomen. Yes, he fumed against himself, stop goggling at Harriet and concentrate on that ramshackle mansion over there. He should be sitting up there proud in the Blackstone home, surrounded by reminders of his family, not down here in the caretaker’s cottage. He focused grimly on the house until all the pleasure he’d found in studying Harriet shrivelled up and disappeared.
He didn’t want to feel good in her company. And he shouldn’t have talked about their school days and her appearance. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. More than that, he didn’t want to be reminded he’d been a bit of a jerk when he was growing up. He didn’t need all that baggage clouding his judgement when it came to Harriet.
She returned to the table with their plates. The slices of steak were done to perfection, the crisply caramelised crust giving way to succulent red meat just the way he liked it, and the blue-cheese sauce was unbelievable. He almost didn’t want to waste space eating the accompanying vegetables, but when he tried the potato rosti, aubergines and carrots they were just as
But right now, right this minute, it didn’t feel that way to her, and she didn’t know how to handle the situation.
The oven timer rang. With a sigh of relief she reached for her oven mitt.
Chapter Four
The entrée Harriet served surprised Adam. While she was cooking, his mind hadn’t been on food, and when she laid the plate before him, it took him a few moments to remember why she was here.
“Autumn vegetable salad with crab and hazelnuts,” Harriet announced as she sat down at the table opposite him. “Hope you like it.”
He liked the bright colours of the roasted pumpkin and beetroot and the green chervil. He glanced at her plate. “You’ve given me twice as much.”
“You’re twice my size.” She picked up her fork and dug in.
He was glad she’d given him such a generous serving; the warm salad was delicious, and he was hungry even though he hadn’t had a very strenuous morning. Before he knew it, he’d cleaned his plate.
“What’s next?”
She ran a considering eye over him. “I thought a good main for your Harvest Ball would be a pan-roasted eye fillet. I’ve already prepared it, so it won’t take long to cook.”
She rose from the table, and he found himself watching her again. There was something about Harriet that compelled him to follow her every step. She moved around his small kitchen like a dancer, nudging a drawer shut with her hips, flexing her arms as she lifted a heavy pan, tensing her calf muscles as she reached up to flick on the extractor fan.
The white apron tied firmly around her blue dress accentuated her curves. She’d tied back her shiny brown hair into a ponytail, but little tendrils had escaped and curled around her nape and ears. She stood at the stove with her back to him, and his gaze lingered on the rounded curve of her bottom before sliding down her smooth legs. Abruptly he shook his head and forced his eyes away. What the hell was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he stop ogling her? This was Harriet Brown, for chrissakes.
It must be the food, he thought, massaging the worn edge of the table. It had been so long since he’d had an attractive woman in his kitchen cooking him a fantastic meal that his senses were confused. Not that he had any trouble pulling women, but none of them, as far as he could remember, had ever had any culinary inclinations.
His eyes slid back to Harriet. She flitted between the hissing pans and her chopping board, never missing a step, as if she’d been here forever. She looked so right here in his kitchen.
He turned away, and when he caught sight of the main house sitting on the opposite hill, he almost welcomed the sharp stab of pain in his abdomen. Yes, he fumed against himself, stop goggling at Harriet and concentrate on that ramshackle mansion over there. He should be sitting up there proud in the Blackstone home, surrounded by reminders of his family, not down here in the caretaker’s cottage. He focused grimly on the house until all the pleasure he’d found in studying Harriet shrivelled up and disappeared.
He didn’t want to feel good in her company. And he shouldn’t have talked about their school days and her appearance. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. More than that, he didn’t want to be reminded he’d been a bit of a jerk when he was growing up. He didn’t need all that baggage clouding his judgement when it came to Harriet.
She returned to the table with their plates. The slices of steak were done to perfection, the crisply caramelised crust giving way to succulent red meat just the way he liked it, and the blue-cheese sauce was unbelievable. He almost didn’t want to waste space eating the accompanying vegetables, but when he tried the potato rosti, aubergines and carrots they were just as
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