He laid the spoon on the stove, turned around, and kissed her thoroughly, making sure she understood just how much he still wanted her. “Depends on the payment plan.”
Her cheeks were bright pink, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the stove being hot. “Oh, I think I could definitely meet your payment demands.”
He patted her on the butt, and she moved out of his way while he drained the pasta and added parsley to the salmon and spinach in the pan.
While that heated up, he pulled the bread out of the oven, put some pasta on their plates, and scooped the cream, spinach, and salmon on top of the pasta, finishing it off with some fresh parsley. He brought the plates over to the table where Elizabeth had already poured fresh wine.
He waited while she took the first bite. Her closed eyes and murmured sounds of approval made him smile.
“Holy crap, Gavin. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be a chef? This is fantastic.”
“Thanks. And I like to eat but don’t always like to eat out. Told you my mom is a good cook and insisted we learned to fend for ourselves.”
She scooped another forkful into her mouth. More yummy sounds. He liked that.
“Fending for yourself is tossing a steak or burgers on the grill. This is cuisine. Men just don’t cook like this.”
He took a bite, enjoying her delight in his cooking. “This man does.”
She waved her fork at him. “You are a rare breed, Gavin Riley. Don’t tell too many women your secrets, or they’ll be lining up in droves to marry you.”
“You think so?”
“Hell, yes. You’re gorgeous; you play Major League Baseball, which means you’re a jock; you’re a millionaire; and you can cook, too? Women will swoon. I should get media to do a photo spread of you in the kitchen.”
He ate, watching the wheels turn in her head. Her eyes widened, and he knew the gears had clicked into place.
Shit.
“Oh, my God, the exposure would be fantastic. We could do the cooking angle, maybe get you on some of the cooking network shows, some of the morning shows, because they eat that up. The jock who can cook.” She grabbed a forkful of food and ate another bite.
“What else can you cook?”
He arched a brow. “Why?”
“Well, is it fancy stuff like this?”
“This isn’t a fancy meal, Elizabeth. It didn’t take long to make.”
“It doesn’t matter. It looks fancy and it tastes incredible. So tell me what else you can make.”
He ignored her. He was hungry, so he finished his food, drank his wine, and ate garlic bread, then fixed a second helping. Meanwhile, Elizabeth grabbed her laptop and ate while simultaneously typing notes.
“What was the name of this dish again?”
“Pan-seared salmon with pasta and spinach cream sauce.”
She typed, then looked over the top of her laptop at him. “Now tell me what else you can make.”
He sighed, pushing his plate to the side. “Pasta carbonara. Lime chicken with mango salsa. Steak fajitas with Spanish rice. Chicken Parmesan. I make a lot of stuff, Elizabeth. I don’t even remember half of it.”
She was wide eyed. “Really? This is great. We could do a cookbook. Or even a cooking show.”
“No.”
“What? Yes.”
“No. I don’t cook for a living. I play baseball.”
“You could do both. Are you kidding me? Women will go crazy over you. This will sell tickets like nobody’s business. I’ll make you famous.”
“Me cooking will not sell baseball tickets. That makes no sense.”
“Of course it will. See, this is why I’m in charge of your PR and you’re not. You just don’t get the connection.”
“Because there is no connection. And no, I’m not going to be your cooking baseball guy.”
“But—”
“No, Elizabeth.”
“Gavin . . .”
“No.”
She inhaled and let out a huge dramatic sigh. “Fine.”
She closed the laptop and took her dishes to the sink. Gavin sat back and finished his glass of wine, watching her take her frustrations out on the pots and pans.
She was cute when she didn’t get her own way. He let her storm about the kitchen for a while, then went in with his plate and helped her finish up the dishes. She didn’t speak to him or look at him, which meant she was either pissed or gearing up for round two.
“What do you do during your off-season?”
Round two.
“I come down here to fish, hang out at home. See my parents. Go see some of Mick’s games. Relax.”
She grabbed the dish towel and dried her hands. “Cook?”
His lips lifted. “Yeah. I cook.”
“Alone or with your mom?”
He snorted. “I don’t need to cook with my mom anymore, Elizabeth. I’m a big boy now and can handle the stove all by myself.”
“Not what I meant. Do you try out new recipes alongside your mother? Does she help you, or do you come up with dishes on your own?”
“I spend a lot of the off-season on my own, so yeah, I cook for myself. Why?”
She folded the towel and hung it on the rack. “No reason.”