“I want to see if you live first.” When he only grinned and kept eating, she sat back and sipped her wine. “I’m a good cook. Put me in a kitchen, and I rule the world. I’m presentable, but I don’t look like an angel.”

“I’m the one looking at you.”

“I’m organized,” she continued, “because I keep my life simple.”

“Which is another way of saying you’re not going to complicate it with me.”

“There you go, dead on again. I’m going to get the salad.”

Zack waited until her back was turned before he let his amusement show. “Easy enough to ruffle her feathers,” he said to Diego, “when you know where to scratch. Let me tell you something I’ve learned over the years about women. Keep changing the rhythm, and they’ll never know what to expect next.”

When Nell came back out, Zack launched into the story of the pediatrician from Washington and the stockbroker from New York who’d bumped fenders outside the pharmacy on High Street.

He made her laugh, put her gently at ease again. Before she knew it, she was telling him about various kitchen feuds in restaurants where she’d worked.

“Temperaments and sharp implements,” she said. “A dangerous combination. I once had a line chef threaten me with an electric whisk.”

Because dusk was falling, he lit the squat red candle she’d set on the table. “I had no idea there was so much danger and intrigue behind those swinging doors.”

“And sexual tension,” she added, twirling linguini onto her fork. “Smoldering looks over simmering pots of stock, broken hearts shattering in the whipping cream. It’s a hotbed.”

“Food’s got all that sensuality. Flavor, texture, scent. This tuna’s getting me pretty worked up.”

“So, the dish passes the audition.”

“It’s great.” Candlelight suited her, he thought. It put little gold lights in those deep blue pools. “Do you make this stuff up, or collect recipes, what?”

“Both, I like to experiment. When my mother . . .” She trailed off, but Zack merely picked up the wine bottle, topped off their glasses. “She liked to cook,” Nell said simply. “And entertain.”

“My mother—well, we’ll just say the kitchen wasn’t her best room. I was twenty before I realized a pork chop wasn’t supposed to bounce if you dropped it. She lived on an island most of her life, but as far as she was concerned tuna came out of a can. She’s hell with numbers, though.”

“Numbers.”

“Certified public accountant—retired now. She and my dad bought themselves one of those big tin cans on wheels and hit the great American highway about a year ago. They’re having a terrific time.”

“That’s nice.” And so was the unmistakable affection in his voice. “Do you miss them?”