actually, I do lots of different sorts of things. French. Spanish. American.” She cleared her throat and bent down to retrieve the press. “You know how it is.”
He didn’t, but he wasn’t about to ask. Joe had bent down for the press, too. Now, he was staring at his new cook’s feet. They were small feet. Delicate, probably…despite the fact that they were shod in very sensible shoes.
Sensible. Not white, but sensible.
Joe stood up, so quickly that he almost bumped heads with his new cook, and shunted the insane thought out of his head.
“That garlic press seems determined to get away,” he said with a strained smile. “I—I, ah, I take it those shopping bags are filled with other tools of your trade?”
“Tools of my…Oh. Yes. Yes, they are.”
“And, ah, your luggage…?”
“It’s on the porch.”
“Right. Well, then, why don’t we stow these bags in the kitchen first, and I’ll bring in the rest of your stuff.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Romano. I can manage.”
She reached for the bag Joe was holding. He pulled it back. She tugged at it again and all but dragged it out of his hands.
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