Dying for Dinner (A Cooking Class Mystery) (33 page)

Remember how he was worried that his past might come back to haunt him, I mean the whole thing about him not being a French chef, but being a convicted criminal instead?

As fate would have it, once the newspapers got ahold of the kidnapping story and the truth was revealed about Norman's past, word raced through the D.C. cooking community and beyond. It was only the following Saturday and already Norman had been interviewed by a couple of major newspapers, two weekly magazines, and producers for a segment on
Dateline
. Big time. And getting bigger. Just that afternoon, a producer had called from the Food Network. There was talk of creating a show called
The Cooking Con
, and they wanted Norman to star.

Thankfully, all was well that ended well, and keeping that in mind, along with the fact that I could finally get back to work doing what I was supposed to be doing instead of either running a gourmet shop or working on a murder investigation, I flicked on the computer in my office at Bellywasher's and got down to business. There were plenty of invoices to enter into my QuickBooks program and plenty of financial details to catch up with.

I was already deep into it when my office door opened.

"There you are!" Jim stepped inside and closed the door. But not before he set something down on the floor behind him. I cursed myself for being so caught up in the minutiae of our checking account, I hadn't been paying more attention. Whatever the something was, it was something big. Like the size of a gallon of milk.

It also was supposed to be a surprise. At least that's what I figured, considering that Jim went out of his way to make sure he stood dead in front of it so I couldn't see it.

I wheeled my desk chair a little to the right.

He moved to his left to block my line of sight.

"What's going on?"

It was a logical question so he shouldn't have just shrugged.

I'd been in such a good mood since the day I thought I was going to die and didn't, I didn't even mind this little bit of teasing. But turnabout is fair play, right? I got up and strolled over to where Jim stood, hoping to distract him, but he was too quick for me. Just when I was about to take a look at what was on the floor behind him, he swiveled to block me.

I had no choice but to pull out all the stops.

I tipped my head and gave him a tiny smile. "I thought you were happy I wasn't hurt by Matt O'Hara."

"As happy as any man can be."

"I thought you were grateful that Norman is fine and back working at Tres Bonne Cuisine. I thought you were thrilled to have me back here at the restaurant."

"Truer words were never spoken." Jim's smile was bright, but I couldn't help but notice it wavered a bit around the edges. As if he were nervous.

More curious than ever, I linked my hands around his waist and gave him a hug. There are few things I like better than hugging Jim. The fact that while I was doing it, I also got to take a peek behind his back was something of a bonus.

"A paint can!" As quickly as I hugged Jim, I pulled away. "You're being all mysterious about a paint can?"

"It's not just any paint can." To prove it, Jim reached down and picked up the gallon can of name-brand paint.

It looked like just any paint can to me.

"You see . . ." The can was heavy. He set it back down. "I've been doing my best to scrape the money together, but ye know how it is around here, Annie. There's always something that needs fixing, something that needs taking care of. So the paint . . . it doesn't really take the place of what I've been wanting to buy, but it conveys my message, you see."

"I don't."

He was exasperated with himself for not explaining things more clearly. "What I'm saying ..." Again he lifted the paint can, and this time, he turned it around so I could see the front. He pointed.

I read. "Simplicity Beige." I thought the look I gave him spoke volumes about how I had not a clue what he was getting at. When he didn't respond to it, I forged ahead. "Nice choice of color. What are you painting?"

"What are you painting?" Jim held the can out to me.

I had never been given a can of paint before. I accepted it as graciously as I could, lifting it with both hands and holding it close to my body.

I looked from the can to Jim. "I'm painting . . . ?"

"The living room. The dining room. Our bedroom. Whatever you like. They have lots of different shades of beige. I thought we'd start with the more basic one and, from there, you could just let yourself go wild."

"Wild?" I'm not usually slow on the uptake but right about then, I was feeling as if my intellect was mired in quicksand. I stuck with the tried and true. "My landlord takes care of the painting. Besides, they don't allow renters to paint."

"So it's a good thing you won't be renting anymore."

By this time, I'd about had it. I set the paint can on the floor so I could prop my fists on my hips. "Would you mind telling me what you're talking about?"

"It isn't a ring, Annie. And I will buy you a ring. I swear. As soon as I'm able. But it is a promise that I'll love you forever. And it is a way to show I love you, and--"

The truth dawned and my words stuck in my throat. "Are you . . . are you asking me . . . ?"

"To decide how you want to paint every single room of my house, yes. To live there with me, yes. To love me forever, yes, yes, yes. Because that's how long I'll be lovin' you, Annie, darling. I'm asking ye to marry me. Will you?"

I couldn't get my answer out fast enough.

But then I guess I didn't have to.

My kiss was the only answer Jim needed.