She felt movement, and then his breath hit the back of her neck. His hands slid over her shoulders and down her arms. Up again. A light touch that made her shiver. “Yes.”
She closed her eyes. Was she waiting for him to turn her around and kiss her, or was she waiting to make up her own mind? She didn’t know.
She only knew that she felt safe here, surrounded by the fragrance of soap and damp dryer lint and Ben’s body. Despite everything, and even though it didn’t make any sense.
“Hey, May?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you staying?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She had, though. It would take a powerful force to drag her away from him.
“Hey, Ben?” Her eyes were still closed.
“Yeah?”
“What happened? With Sandy?”
She felt the tension come into him, charging all the atoms in the air between them. Part of her wanted to retract the question, but that part of her had no place here, with him. That part of her needed to stay out of it.
Ben stepped away.
She turned around to see him rub his palm over his head. “She doesn’t go by Sandy Hausman anymore. She goes by Alessandra Alesci.”
He said the name carefully, as though she might recognize it. “Should I know who that is?”
“It would be nice if you didn’t.”
But Alessandra Alesci—she’d heard the name before, hadn’t she? “Give me a hint.”
“You ever shop at Shaker Prospect?”
Oh.
Oh.
“She’s the one with the cookbook and the spatulas and all that?”
“One and the same.”
May occasionally bought gifts at the Shaker Prospect store at the mall. Alesci’s smiling face graced a number of products, her name endorsing a premium line of gourmet sauces and powdered mixes—everything from steak sauce to orange-poppyseed scones.
“I think I bought my mom her cookbook last Christmas,” she said.
“My cookbook.”
“The one where she’s on the cover with the striped apron?”
“I wrote it. Most of it anyway. But Sandy’s name sells more books.”
“You’re a …” A ghostwriter? A cook? She wasn’t sure how to end the sentence. This conversation had taken her out of her depth.
“I’m a chef.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.