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And not one label.
“Uh, Julian?”
“Yeah?” Far more successful than her, he carried an armful of squash, peppers, mushrooms and broccoli and deposited them on the kitchen island. “Is everything all right?”
“The spices aren’t labeled.”
“That’s how you know they’re authentic.” He wiped his hands together. “My cook sources them from some exotic spice company. She knows them all, and since I don’t usually cook, it’s not a big deal. As long as I can recognize the salt and pepper, I’m good.”
At this point, she wasn’t sure she could pick those out of this line-up. What excuse would work this time? The hectic schedule made her forget? He distracted her to amnesia? Square dancing?
“Is there a problem?” He came up behind her, flaring heat everywhere. “I assumed you’d recognize the ones from the recipe. They’re pretty common.”
Common for someone who didn’t use their last cookbook as a doorstop. With hundreds of spices, many of which appeared identical, there was no way to select the right ones. Of course,she couldn’t tell him that. So instead, she lifted her chin, smiled and declared, “No problem.”
Oh, there was a problem. Ten to be exact, the number of jars she selected. By her not-so-scientific calculations, at least three were wrong, three were really wrong and the rest absolutely, positively wrong. He didn’t say anything as they returned to the table and began.
The creation of the meal went shockingly smooth, as did working beside Julian. She might not be an imaginative cook, but she could follow directions, and they put together the lasagna with clockwork ease. He washed while she mixed, she stirred while he chopped. As promised by the cookbook, half an hour later they put the dish in the pre-heated oven. It even looked like the picture!
It would take an hour to cook, so Julian took her to the den, an expansive chamber with thick navy carpeting, oak furnishings and bookcases that rose two stories high. Floor to ceiling windows took up one wall, and a massive fireplace played centerpiece to the other. Cheyenne blinked at the last, which the perceptive man noticed. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I can see your surprise.”
“I don’t want to be rude…”
He swept his hand back. “By all means, be honest.”
Well, he’d asked. “Isn’t a fireplace in Florida kind of like giving a polar bear a snow cone?”
Julian’s lips twitched. He leaned on the arm of the couch across from her. “It’s one of the advantages of fame. We’re impervious to heat.”
“Of course, you are.” Cheyenne chuckled. “Any other superpowers I should know about?”
“I can cook like a Michelin-starred chef, I’m an expert at square dancing, I won Miss Excavat– Wait, that’s not me.”
She looked upward, but couldn’t completely hide her amusement. “Extraneous fireplaces aside, your home truly is amazing. Do you live here permanently?”
“No.” He straightened a picture on the mantle. It showed him with an older woman and a lovely girl with the features of Down syndrome. “I own the house, but I live wherever work is. It’s useful to have whenever I’m in town.”
How could such an amazing home be vacant most of the time? But of course, it was, and he probably owned ten mansions just like it. Most people she knew worked long hours to afford a modest home, herself included.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘we’re so different’ look.”
“Weareso different.”
“No, we’re not. In fact, I’ll tell you a deep, dark secret. Heat actually does affect celebrities. A fireplace in Florida is absurd.” His grin faded. “My life isn’t perfect. I have goals, aspirations, problems.”
“Really?” Cheyenne teased softly. “Like picking out what you’re going to wear when you win another Oscar?”
The smile returned. “Actually, I’m not talking about acting. I have other goals.”
She shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t even care. With every sentence, she risked delving closer to this man. Only she couldn’t stop herself. “Like what?”