Page 79 of Making Over Maris

“You…baked a cake?”

He nodded. A curl flopped onto his forehead. “Can I take your things?” He gestured to the duffel slung over her shoulder. “Did you bring an overnight bag?”

Sara dropped the bag to the floor. It landed with a metallic clunk. “It’s my equipment.”

He paled. “Your equipment?”

“Mmm hmm.” She slowly untied her belt, opened the trench coat and let it fall to the floor. He boggled. “For later.” This, she whispered.

He gaped at her, wheezed, “Jesus, Sara, you look…”

“What, Jack?”

“Phenomenal. You look phenomenal.” His gazed danced over the slinky catsuit she’d had custom-made. It had taken her an hour and a gallon of oil to wriggle into it.

“Thank you.”

He was pretty damn hot as well. He’d changed into that sweater she liked and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to expose his forearms. She could tell from the scent of aftershave and the smooth line of his jaw he’d done some pre-tryst maintenance as well.

Not to mention the satisfying bulge in his pants.

Yes. He was coming along quite nicely.

“I, um…come in.” He waved toward the living room. “Can I, um, get you a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

“Dinner is almost ready. I need to sear the scallops but everything else is in a holding pattern.”

“And the Béarnaise?”

He put out his chest. “I found it in a cookbook.”

“You have a cookbook?”

“I bought one.”

His cat pattered into the room and rubbed himself against her ankles. She bent down and scratched his furry chin. He craned his neck to give her better access and purred.

“You’re making me jealous,” Jack murmured as he opened a bottle of Moscato and poured her a glass.

“Sorry.” She wasn’t. “Aren’t you going to have a drink?”

He frowned at her bag by the door. “I think…I’d better not.”

She bit her lip to keep from chuckling.

Oh, he had no idea.

She sipped her wine and watched him putter in the kitchen—repeatedly removing the cat from the counter—as he seared the scallops. He had clearly practiced because they were perfectly done.

When dinner was ready he made up a plate of food for Ding and locked him in the basement. “So we can eat in peace,” he said.

He seated her at the table and whipped out a linen napkin, which he settled in her lap. Their gazes tangled as he bent to do this. Excitement bubbled through her.

God, she hoped he liked this.

He served her dinner as though she were a princess, hopping up to get her a second serving when she’d finished, keeping her wineglass topped off.