She laughed. “I did have a tendency to talk a lot, especially when I was nervous.”

He cocked a brow. “I made you nervous?”

“Exceedingly.”

He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help stepping closer, breathing in that sweet, citrusy scent that always seemed to surround her. “You don’t seem nervous now.”

She stepped in as well, her fingertip tracing circles around his forearm. “I am most definitely not nervous around you now, Barrett. Back then I was young and inexperienced and not accustomed to being around extremely attractive men like you.”

This was dangerous territory and he knew better than to court that kind of danger. He should put his defenses up and maintain his distance.

But damn if he wanted to right now. Not when Harmony’s mouth was painted a sweet, kissable shade of plum, and her tongue swept out to lick across her bottom lip, tempting him to lean in and take a taste. Or maybe even a bite.

She leaned in, expecting it. So easy to grab hold of her and take what she offered, what they both wanted.

But then he thought about Drake, and how betrayed his best friend would feel if this happened between Harmony and him.

Nope. Not gonna happen. He took a step back. “So how about I cook us some dinner?”

He read the disappointment on Harmony’s face, but she immediately masked it with a smile. “Sure. I’m anxious to see if you can really cook.”

He moved in beside her as they headed downstairs. “Honey, I never say what I don’t mean.”

She lifted her gaze to his. “I’ll file that comment away for some future date.”

He had no idea what she meant by that, but when they got back into the kitchen, she started unpacking the grocery bags.

“I have no clue what you intend to do with all that stuff, but I’m happy to help.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no. You laid down the challenge and told me men fail you in the kitchen. You just sit there and watch. I’ve got this.”

Harmony had no idea what Barrett was going to cook for her today. He’d asked her if she had an outdoor grill, which she did, so she knew he’d be grilling whatever he cooked, which suited her just fine, since it was hot and she wasn’t keen on the idea of using the oven.

She watched as he used the meat mallet she’d provided for him to pound the hell out of the boneless chicken breasts until they were small rectangles. Then he melted butter in a bowl and added lemon juice and zest and set it aside.

“What are you going to do with that?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “You’ll see.”

He took another bowl and mixed parmesan cheese, fresh basil, garlic and more butter.

Whatever it was he was doing with that concoction, it made her hungry.

He laid the flattened chicken breasts out and filled them with the parmesan mixture, then folded the chicken over and secured each one with a toothpick.

“Oh I see,” she said. “Stuffed chicken breasts.”

“You got it.”

He got out wooden skewers and soaked them in water while he sliced a red, yellow and green bell pepper, a red onion, zucchini and a yellow squash. He mixed up a marinade of olive oil, salt, pepper and garlic, then tossed the vegetables in the marinade.

“We’ll let those sit for a few minutes while I start cooking the chicken.”

He stepped out onto the downstairs balcony where she had her grill.

Huh. Maybe he did know what he was doing after all. If so, he’d be the first man she’d ever known who had.

Typically, when she dated a guy, she did all the cooking while he sat back with a drink in his hand, metaphorically scratching his balls, waiting to be served.

She had no problem with traditional gender roles. She knew how to cook and she did it well. She actually enjoyed it. But she was also a professional career woman and she worked as damn hard as men did. Just once she’d like to date someone who appreciated that, who understood how hard she worked and would surprise her by having dinner on the table when she came home.

Hell, she’d be happy dating a man who would offer to do the dishes.

Her friend Alyssa was right. Harmony knew there were awesome men out there, the kind who could appreciate her. She just hadn’t found one yet.

Though, focusing her attention back on Barrett, she found a glimmer of hope as she sat back, sipped her tea and watched him prepare the meal.

So unusual. But yet another reason to like this man.

He came back inside, and as he walked by she breathed in the grill scent on him.

Actually kind of an aphrodisiac.

“So where did you learn to cook?” she asked, as he pulled the vegetables from the marinade and laid them on a plate.

“My mom. And surprisingly, from my older brother Flynn. He’s taught me a few new cooking tricks over the past year.”

Her lips ticked up. “Not the typical types of things one hears uttered from the mouth of a big, well-muscled man.”

He laid his hands on her kitchen island. “Now that’s a sexist statement.”

“Probably. But still, you just don’t look like the cooking type.”

“There’s a cooking type? Do you ever watch cooking shows?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Trust me, there’s no cooking type. There are people from all walks of life who enjoy cooking, from kids to women—” He leveled a devastating smile on her. “Even men with muscles.”

She could tell she’d hit a raw nerve. “I’m sticking my foot in my mouth with this conversation, aren’t I?”