“Why is she so determined to get you married?”

“I suppose because she had a wonderful marriage, and she wants the same for me.”

Ken leaned against the table and studied Chris. “Wouldn’t you like a wonderful marriage?”

“I’ve already tried marriage. It wasn’t wonderful.”

“But it could be. Don’t you want to give it another shot?”

“No.”

“Edna told me you were a great skater because you never gave up.”

“I never gave up on skating because I knew I was good. I’m not good at being married.” Chris turned away from the intensity of his blue-black gaze. Why was he doing this-it wasn’t like he was ready to propose or something.

“I think you’d make a great wife. You just need some practice.”

“Uh-huh.” Chris turned back toward him, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

“I could help you out…” He grinned. “You could practice on me.”

“That’s a very generous offer, but I think I’ll pass.” The sound of sputtering water turning to steam hissed from the kitchen. “The peas”-Chris gestured-“turn down the heat.”

A lid clanked in the kitchen. Silence followed. “Okay,” he finally called, “I give up. How the hell do you get these peas out of all this water?”

Endearing, Chris thought. Ruggedly masculine but soft on the underside. And very skillful at using his devastating smile and easy humor. She took the copper colander from the kitchen wall and placed it in the sink. “You can pour the peas in here. And then you can use the colander to drain and rinse the noodles.”

He gave a light husbandly kiss. “Thanks. Any other cooking tips I should know?”

“Are you really serious about this?”

“Absolutely.” He put the peas in the glass bowl Edna had left on the counter for him. He poured the steaming noodles into the colander and ran water over them. “How am I doing?”

Chris gave him a begrudging smile. He was doing fine with the noodles, and he was doing fine with his assignment of making a good impression. Ken was a man who knew how to drop back and punt. They carried the food into the dining room and took places opposite each other.

Ken looked at Edna’s chicken with reverent admiration.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man look at a piece of chicken like that.”

“I can’t remember the last time I had home cooking. It seems like I’ve been on the road for a century.” He put a pat of butter on his noodles and watched it melt. “My mother is a great cook-she makes these noodles in a cheese sauce…” He looked up at her with beguiling blue eyes. “Do you know how to do that? Do you suppose you could teach me to make cheese sauce?”

“There’s a recipe for cheese sauce in the recipe box on the counter.” She studied him intently for a minute, trying to imagine Ken as a young boy. He’d probably been spoiled rotten. What mother could say no to those big blue eyes? “Tell me about your family.”

He sliced a piece of chicken and chewed it thoughtfully. “I guess I come from a large family by today’s standards-one brother and three sisters. I’m the oldest, and I’m the only one unmarried. My parents still live in the same two-story frame house that I grew up in-in Pennsylvania. Nothing fancy, but lots of love and lots of noise. I have six nephews and four nieces. You can’t imagine what Christmas Day sounds like.”

“Does everyone come to your parents’ house for Christmas?”

Ken speared another piece of chicken. “The kids enjoy getting their presents under their own Christmas trees.” He savored a forkful of buttered noodles and grinned. “They were afraid Santa wouldn’t know to bring their presents to my parents’ house, so we designated December twenty-eighth as Family Christmas every year. It makes it easier to travel, too. My brother lives in Connecticut. My sister Maggie moved to Seattle last year. Cara lives in Cape May. My youngest sister, Erin, is the only one still in Pennsylvania. She lives about a half mile from my parents.”

“Sounds like a nice family.”

Ken nodded. “I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like.” He looked critically at the bowl still filled with peas. “Too many peas,” he agreed, taking another helping. “What about you? Do your parents still live in Colorado?”

Chris shook her head. “My mom died when I was nineteen. My dad died three years ago. Heart disease.”

“I’m sorry.”

Chris nodded.

“You have a brother?”

“Ted. Two years older than me. He’s still in Colorado.” Her gaze rested on his competent hands, slicing off another bite of chicken.

“What brought you east?”

“This job,” she said, turning her attention back to her own plate. “They needed someone with international experience to build a competitive skate program. It’s a small rink, but it has some good skaters-last year two of my students qualified for national competition.”

“You like teaching skating.” He speared a final forkful of noodles.

“I love it. I find it much more satisfying than competing. And much less painful.”

Ken looked at his empty plate with a contented sigh. “And I find cooking much more satisfying than construction work.”

Chris laughed softly. “What you find satisfying is eating…not cooking.”

He raised his eyes, suddenly filled with a hunger that had nothing to do with peas or oven-fried chicken. “I have something special planned for dessert.”

Chris felt her temperature rise and wondered how he did it. With a single teasing sentence and one semismoldering look, he had instantly turned her into a quivering mass of overheated half-wit. She narrowed her eyes and hoped she looked menacing. “You looking to get something else broken?”

Ken raised his hands in mock self-defense. His eyes softened with the recognition of her panic. “You don’t like dessert?” he asked in exaggerated innocence.

She shook her finger at him. “You weren’t talking about dessert.”

He began stacking the dishes. “I was going to suggest Irish coffee in front of a roaring fire, and”-he disappeared behind the kitchen door-“a plate full of goodies.” He reappeared with a bakery bag and a sterling plate covered with a paper doily. “I stopped at a bakery on the way home from the airport. You fix the cookies, and I’ll make coffee. I may not be much of a cook, but I make an excellent Irish coffee.”

Chris stared at the white bag. It was from her favorite bakery. She peeked inside. All her favorite cookies-and Linzer tortes. She loved Linzer tortes. Smells like a plot, she thought. This could only be Aunt Edna’s work. The heavenly aroma of coffee brewing drifted into the dining room. Chris sniffed in appreciation and arranged the cookies on the silver plate. A doily. She sighed. Edna was really going all out on this one.

“Chris,” Ken called. “I need help. I can’t carry two mugs of hot coffee with only one hand.”

Chris placed the cookies and the coffee on a tray and followed Ken downstairs. There was already a fire glowing in the fireplace. An electric thrill raced through Chris as she watched Ken add a log and stoke the embers into life. He wore a powder-blue polo shirt with the left sleeve cut at the elbow. His silky black hair curled over the cotton collar, the muscles in his back rippled as he moved, and his biceps bulged under the soft fabric. Chris allowed herself the intoxicating pleasure of admiring the broad shoulders and slim hips. His shirt hung loose over clean, faded jeans that were loose enough to be comfortable, but tight enough to display well-defined quadriceps and a perfect backside. I’d trade every Linzer torte on this plate for one nibble at that perfect behind, she decided, and was immediately horrified that she’d even thought such a thing. She felt her face flame.

He rose from the fire and regarded her with amused curiosity. “Are you flushed from the fire, or have you been thinking naughty thoughts?”

Chris put her hands to her burning cheeks. “This is embarrassing.”

He settled beside her on the big overstuffed couch and rested his injured foot on the coffee table. “Here”-he offered Chris half of his sugar cookie-“take a bite. It will be so exquisite you’ll forget about being embarrassed.”