Page 24 of A Taste of Christmas Magic

Chloe was thrilled.“Really?”

“Yes.” Rustin’s attention was on the book, not her.

Of course. He was a trained chef. Cooking was his passion, and she’d just handed him a historical text. It had nothing to do with her. It was the same as if she’d found a handwritten draft of one of Milton’s works or notes on a Wagnerian choral composition.

“When do we start?” she asked humbly.

“Now. Choose a recipe.”

That proved more difficult than it should have. She kept mentally dismissing each recipe.Not elegant. Not sure what it is. How would I cook that? I’ll blow through the budget Grandma Millie has set.

“Choose something you like to eat, Chloe,” Rustin said, his dark-eyed attention finally shifted to her. “No point in making something to impress others if you don’t think you’ll love it.”

She blinked at him. “You’re right.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

And now she felt nervous for a different reason. She and Rustin stood side by side. She could feel his energy and smell the faint cedar and bergamot scent that wafted off his skin. Was it body wash? Shampoo? Aftershave? Cologne? Innate?

“You smell good.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Let’s stick to food. I’m coaching, not on the menu.” But she saw a hint of a smile curve his mouth.

Was that a dimple in his left cheek?

“Do you have dimples?”

She’d never seen anything resembling a dimple. But then she’d never seen Rustin Wildish smile. He’d mostly scowled. Or intently focused on what he was doing in Millie’s kitchen. Or fighting with an arrogant townie prepster who’d mocked him or trash-talked his family.

Yeah. Rustin hadn’t had much to smile about.

“Recipe, Clo Beau.”

She carefully turned the pages. “I want comfort food. Tradition, but with a twist. And colorful or holidayish, like the jalapeño poppers you made, but those aren’t a main dish.”

“They can be part of a main dish,” he said. “A side. The Movable Feast is a combination of small plates. I’m going to start off with an aperitif that’s dry with a sweet and savory garnish.”

“Of what?” she asked eagerly.

“You’ll have to wait.”

“I could help.” She couldn’t resist trying to make him almost smile again.

“You’ll have your hands full, so pick something you enjoy eating. Festive jalapeño poppers and…”

The way he waited was so seductive.

Not that she’d ever been seduced like a heroine in a romance or anything. It was hard to think about anything other than Rustin, but as he’d said, he was not on the menu.

“Pulled pork is hearty. There’s a barbecue sauce recipe in here, I bet.” She flipped through, but the handwritten recipes, sketches, and notes of advice—some geared toward men’s hearts and stomachs—seemed rather sexist, and she wondered if Rustin was having a hard time not busting out laughing.

She blushed for whose ever ancestors had had the book but felt guilty that she now was the keeper of so much history. The book should remain with the family who had created it.

“Whoever wrote the recipes were rather randy,” she murmured.

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