She told herself she was only interested in the wine. The cool smile had nothing to do with her decision. “Properly chilled?” she asked, arching her brow. “The champagne, that is.”

“Of course.”

“You’re on, Mr. Cocharan. I never turn down champagne.”

“The car’s out in the back.” He took her hand rather than her arm as she’d expected. Before she could make any counter move, he was leading her from the kitchen. “Would it embarrass you if I said I was very impressed with what you did this evening?”

She was used to accolades, even expected them. Somehow, she couldn’t remember ever getting so much pleasure from one before. She moved her shoulders, hoping to lighten her own response. “I make it my business to be impressive. It doesn’t embarrass me.”

Perhaps if she hadn’t been tired, he wouldn’t have seen through the glib answer so easily. When they reached his car, Blake turned and took her by the shoulders. “You worked very hard in there.”

“Just part of the service.”

“No,” he corrected, soothing the muscles. “That’s not what you were hired for.”

“When I signed the contract, that became my kitchen. What goes out of it has to satisfy my standards, my pride.”

“Not an easy job.”

“You wanted the best.”

“Apparently I got it.”

She smiled, though she wanted badly just to sit down. “You definitely got it. Now, you did say something about champagne?”

“Yes, I did.” He opened the door for her. “You smell of vanilla.”

“I earned it.” When she sat, she let out a long, pleasurable sigh. Champagne, she thought, a hot bath with mountains of bubbles, and smooth, cool sheets. In that order. “Chances are,” she murmured, “even as we speak, someone in there is taking the first bite of my Black Forest cake.”

Blake shut the driver’s door, then glanced at her as he started the ignition. “Does it feel odd?” he asked. “Having strangers eat something you spent so much time and care creating?”

“Odd?” Summer stretched back, enjoying the plush luxury of the seat and the view of the dusky sky through the sun roof. “A painter creates on canvas for whoever will look, a composer creates a symphony for whoever will listen.”

“True enough.” Blake maneuvered his way onto the street and into the traffic. The sun was red and low. The night promised to be clear. “But wouldn’t it be more gratifying to be there when your desserts are served?”

She closed her eyes, completely relaxed for the first time in hours. “When one cooks in one’s own kitchen for friends, relatives, it can be a pleasure or a duty. Then there might be the satisfaction of watching something you’ve cooked being appreciated. But again, it’s a pleasure or a duty, not a profession.”

“You rarely eat what you cook.”

“I rarely cook for myself,” she countered. “Except the simpler things.”

“Why?”

“When you cook for yourself, there’s no one there to clean up the mess.”