Page 33 of Recipe for Temptation

“Two months ago.”

He nodded slowly. “You blame yourself.” At her surprised look, he gently explained, “You didn’t say one of your patients had died in childbirth. You said you lost a patient, as if it was your fault.”

Reese swallowed hard, wanting to close her eyes against his intense scrutiny. “I did everything I could to save her.”

“Of course you did.” He wasn’t patronizing her. He’d spoken with absolute certainty, as though there was no room for doubt regarding her innocence. “So what happened?”

It was the tender concern in his voice that broke her. The raw emotions she’d been holding in check welled up inside her and spilled out: the grief, the guilt, the frustration over her inability to convince Deidra Thomas that she had too many risk factors to have another baby.

By the time Reese finished blurting out everything, Michael had brought his chair around to hers and pulled her into his arms. As she quietly sobbed into his broad chest, he stroked her back and murmured soothingly to her, his lips in her hair. It didn’t matter to Reese that they were in public. His arms were strong, his voice was understanding, and she’d needed a good shoulder to cry on for far too long.

Still, she felt more than a little embarrassed when she finally pulled away and met the sympathetic stares of several other diners, many of whom had asked for Michael’s autograph when he and Reese first arrived. What must those people be thinking now?

Reese fumbled out the handkerchief Michael had given her earlier and mopped at her streaming eyes. “I knew this would come in handy again,” she joked with a whispery laugh.

Michael smiled, kissing the top of her head.

“God, I didn’t mean to cause a scene.” She blew her nose, glancing around furtively. “I hope there aren’t any paparazzi around. They’ll run an exposé about a woman reduced to hysterical tears after you broke up with her.”

Michael chuckled. “I never do breakups over a meal. It’s sacrilegious.” He ran a thumb under her eye, wiping at the moisture she’d missed.

She gave him a rueful smile. “I assure you I’m not always this weepy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a good cry. And you definitely needed one.” He put a finger under her chin and lifted it. His gentle eyes searched hers. “Feel any better?”

“I do,” Reese admitted, surprised. “That was very…cathartic.”

In a moment of clarity, she’d decided to donate her grand prize money to Deidra’s family. It wouldn’t bring her back, but the hundred grand would help cover the family’s medical expenses and would enable Ian Thomas to start a college fund for little Faith.

Reese touched Michael on the shoulder. “Thank you for loaning this to me.”

He smiled into her eyes. “It’s yours anytime.”

Something melted inside her, tightening her throat. In the span of thirty minutes, he’d offered her more empathy and compassion, more emotional support and tenderness, than Victor ever had. It was a sobering realization, a bitter pill to swallow.

Seeking to lighten the mood, she picked up her wine and sipped, smiling at him over the rim of the glass. “So getting back to our original conversation. How many times have you been to Italy?”

He chuckled, not leaving her side. “How do you know I have?”

She gave him a look. “Any chef worth his knives has been there. So come on, Michael. Tell me all about it. Let me live vicariously through you.”

He smiled again, and she listened with rapt absorption as he told her about his forays to Italy over the years. When he casually mentioned owning a small cottage in Tuscany, Reese groaned with envy and jokingly lobbied to have the apprentice episodes shot from that location—which he didn’t think was such a bad idea.

When they left the museum, he surprised her by asking, “Have you ever played paintball?”

She laughed. “Not since childhood.”

He flashed a wicked grin. “Then you’re long overdue.”

Reese snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. And I know just the place. It’s usually closed to the public on Sundays, but they’re running a summer special.”

“Great,” Reese said weakly.

He winked at her. “It’ll be fun.”

He took her to a place called Paintball Atlanta. In exchange for two tickets to a live taping of Howlin’ Good, the manager gave Michael and Reese their own private field, and they spent the next two hours chasing each other around with loaded paintball guns.

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