Page 50 of Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor

“You have no idea. She trained under Dino Cabrini. One of the best chefs in the world.”

I can’t help myself. I’ve been privileged to enjoy some of the most delectable food I’ve tasted in years over these last few weeks. Dara is an artist, and even though I don’t know why she left Dino’s restaurant, I know she learned a lot from the man. Though from what I hear, she was already pretty talented in her own right.

Jack clearly isn’t familiar with the name, but by the impressed recognition on one of his colleague’s faces, it’s obvious that man is.

“You’ve heard of him then?” I say, moving my attention from Jack.

The man nods. “He’s an amazing chef. I’ve seen him on TV lots of times.”

This guy is in his mid-thirties and far too tightly wound. He’s the one carrying the black, leatherbound folder, so I’ve already figured him as the legal representative.

“And where is this lovely fiancée of yours?” Jack asks, now we’ve reached the living area.

I grin. “I’ll give you three guesses, Jack.”

Jack smiles back and nods knowingly.

“Please,” I gesture to the room, “make yourselves at home. I’ll go and check on things and see if Dara can spare a second to say hello without burning the kitchen down.”

I hear Jack chuckle as I head toward the kitchen. So far, so good, but the evening hasn’t really started yet.

I find Dara doing what Dara does best: multitasking with several different pots, three different cutting boards, and several different food groups all chopped, sliced, or diced.

“How’s it going?” I ask, as I move toward the island.

Her hair is piled on top of her head in some intricate, yet fetching, fashion, with several soft tendrils falling to frame her face. Instead of her chef’s whites, she’s wearing a short-sleeved, navy-blue dress that hugs her body in all the right places, currently covered by an apron so it doesn’t get ruined.

When she arrived earlier, she quite took my breath away. I wasn’t able to hide it either, which caused red cheeks all round.

When the initial awkwardness was over, I helped her bring the groceries into the kitchen, and eyeing the paper bags that lined the kitchen counters, I’d said, “Are you planning to cook for the entire town?”

“I was thinking about it,” she quipped back, “but then I remembered you didn’t have enough chairs.”

“Cute. Very cute.”

She grinned at me and said, “You deal with your end,” she nodded toward the living room, “and I’ll deal with mine.” She gestured to the bags of food.

The bags are now emptied, and whatever was in them is clearly making the delicious smell that is currently ruminating around the house.

“We’re starting with tomato and basil soup which is pretty much ready,” she says, pointing to a large pot on the stove. “I have some more prep to do for the Korean Chilli Chicken, and then dessert is Pavlova. I have the egg whites baked. I just have to assemble it for presentation.”

All this time, I haven’t taken my eyes off her, and I’m still gazing at her in amazement when she looks up at me.

“What?” she says, looking a little confused.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and nods. “Fine. I think.”

I beam a smile, and she rewards me with a soft, if not nervous, one of her own.

“Can you spare a minute to come and meet everyone?”

She glances back at the stove and then nods. I wait for her to undo her apron, and then I hold out my hand. For a second, she looks at it and then gazes up at me. There’s something more in her expression, like an unasked question, but she doesn’t ask it. She then takes hold of my hand.

“Ready?” I say, looking down at her.

“Ready,” she says, trying to sound more confident than she clearly feels.

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