Just a Taste (Private Relations 1)

Heading downstairs, on impulse he opened the double doors of the kitchen, and was surprised to see the light still on in Sara’s office.

Sara looked up, startled, as he stuck his head in the door.

“What are you still doing here, Sara? It’s kinda late.”

“I agree, but my seafood distributor is having some challenges getting the shrimp for the jambalaya. I’ve been hunting through my contacts for a new source. What about you, Mr. CFO? Shouldn’t you be home already?”

“Touché,” Deacon said, smiling. “My accounting team decided they were gonna stop billing some of our clients and double-bill others. I’ve been trying to make sense of all of it for the last week and a half. I’m done looking at it all for the night. Now, for some reason, I have this ridiculous craving for Indian food. I’m not sure where it came from though.”

He followed that with an accusing stare.

“Oh. There’s a great place in Burbank you should try. It’s in the downtown area next to the mall. The korma is delicious. I bribed the chef for his recipe,” Sara said, smiling at him.

“I love that place…but that seems fairly bad for business, doesn’t it? Giving away your recipes?” Deacon asked, confused.

“Maybe,” Sara said. “He just found me too charming to say no to.”

Deacon took a moment to absorb that.

“Or,” she concluded, “maybe I catered his daughter’s graduation when she insisted she wanted something other than Indian cuisine for once. I’ve never been entirely sure which one it was.”

Giving her a bland stare, he said, “I’m sure it was a little of column A and a little of column B.”

Smiling, she said, “Probably.”

Picking up her cell phone when it buzzed, she pressed a few buttons rapidly then gave a fist pump in celebration.

“Yes! My guy came through on the shrimp. I can go home now,” Sara said, as she snapped her laptop shut.

“Oh good. The jambalaya is saved. If that’s all you had on the agenda here, then I’ll walk you out. It’s already dark,” Deacon said, not wanting to leave her just yet.

Standing up, she rolled her shoulders and stretched. Taking the clip out of her hair, she massaged her scalp for a moment as if it had been hurting, then shook her hair loose. The scent of her shampoo filled the air.

Deacon stared at her, trying to figure out if she was doing this on purpose or not. Sighing, he decided he needed to get a grip.

“Oh. Okay. Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to walking through the dark parking garage by myself,” Sara replied.

They chatted idly for a few more minutes as she packed up her things. Then they headed out of the building. Walking toward the parking structure, the wind between the two high-rise towers had picked up. Sara hugged herself and tightened the scarf around her neck.

Seeing her discomfort, Deacon asked, “Are you okay? Do you want my jacket?”

Shaking her head, she said, “No, no. I’ve been out here for a few years now, but I still forget how cold it gets as soon as the sun sets. Totally different than back home.”

Ignoring her protestations, he took the overcoat off, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She immediately stopped shivering.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

Walking next to her, Deacon asked, “What floor?”

“Third floor,” she said, walking toward the elevator.

Stepping into the elevator with her for the second time today, Deacon was starting to run really low on impulse control. He could smell her shampoo still. His fingers itched to reach for her.

When the elevator dinged, and the doors opened, they stepped out. She walked toward the lone red Mini-Cooper and said, “Well, this is me. Thanks for walking me out, and for the jacket.”

Sliding his jacket off her shoulders, she grabbed her car keys from her bag. She held it in one arm.

“You’re welcome,” he said, looking at her slightly flushed cheeks.