Kiss The Cook

* * *

Christopher Bishop stepped into the elevator, barely noting the fact that another person was in the car, and pushed L with a sigh of relief. He was tired. Bone weary. He glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five. Another fourteen-hour workday. He rolled his aching shoulders and sighed. Since he'd made partner at his accounting firm, his workload had become murderous. He couldn't wait to get home, ditch the suit and tie, get into his sweats, grab a beer, and relax. And food. Something to eat would be real nice.

While he watched the lit numbers drop, he became aware of an aroma… a mouthwatering, drool-inducing aroma in the elevator. Fried chicken. His nostrils twitched and his stomach let loose a ferocious growl.

He turned his head and noted the woman leaning against the back wall. Her eyes were closed and she looked about ready to drop. His gaze traveled over her, noting her disheveled reddish-brown hair, wrinkled white man- tailored blouse, short black skirt, and… one shoe? She stood lopsided, but she had great legs. Really great legs, even though her bare toes stuck out of a hole in her hose. The words PAMPERED PALATE were embroidered on the pocket of her shirt and printed in red block letters on the sides of the large box that sat at her feet. He'd obviously found the source of the tantalizing aroma.

Pampered Palate. Now why did that sound so familiar? He'd probably ordered an eat-it-at-your-desk lunch from them. A frown scrunched his brow. No, it was something else. He searched his mind, but his exhausted brain cells refused to function. It would come to him-eventually.

The elevator pinged and the door slid open. Almost groaning with relief, Chris hastily crossed the marble-tiled lobby.

'Thank God it's Friday,' he muttered with a weary nod to the security guard. A whole weekend to rest. Sleep late. Read the paper. Do the crossword puzzle. Fifteen minutes. He'd be home in fifteen minutes. His car was right out in front-he'd left it there when he ran back up to his office to pick up some forgotten papers. He pushed his way through the revolving doors, debating whether he wanted to watch the Braves game or a Titanic documentary. The thought had no more than entered his head when he stopped dead.

Someone-some idiot-had double-parked and blocked him in. He strode over to the offending vehicle and peered in the window of the dilapidated Dodge.

The car was empty.

'Terrific. The owner probably abandoned this junk heap.' He straightened and blew out a long breath. 'What else can go wrong today?' No sooner had the words passed his lips than a huge raindrop landed smack on his nose.

Chris closed his eyes and shook his head. 'I had to ask.'

* * *

Lugging the heavy warmer, Melanie limped in one shoe across the lobby to the security desk. The guard dialed Slickert, Cashman, and Rich and handed her the phone. She let it ring twenty times. No answer. She hung up and called the Pampered Palate.

'Pampered Palate,' a gravelly voice said at the other end. 'Gourmet To Go. It's on time or it's on us. May I help you?'

'Nana, it's Melanie. I'm-'

'Melanie! Thank goodness you called,' Sylvia Gibson said. 'The lawyers canceled their order not five minutes after you left.'

Melanie huffed out a breath. 'Great. I'm here now. What happened?'

'I don't know. Some emergency. They all had to leave. Looks like we'll be eating chicken for a while.'

'I guess so.' Melanie blew her hair out of her eyes. 'How are things going there, Nana? Is everything all right?' Melanie worried that her seventy-five-year-old grandmother would overwork herself.

'Everything's great. Mike's brother came in to help out with the deliveries, and Wendy's manning the front register.'

'Good.' She glanced at her watch, forgetting it was broken until she saw it still read 7:10. 'I'm leaving now. I'll see you within half an hour.'

'Take your time, dear. All's well here. The evening rush is over.'

Melanie hung up, thanked the guard, and hefted the heavy box into her arms. She limped across the lobby, then struggled with the revolving door, maneuvered herself around, and stepped outside.

That's when she discovered it was raining.

Actually, rain could not describe what was coming down. It was pouring. Pouring as if to make amends for a century-long drought. Torrents of water rushed from the canopy protecting the doorway. The rain fell in a veritable sheet, large drops that splashed up a good six inches once they hit the sidewalk.

'It figures.' Of course her umbrella was in the car. Even though the Dodge was close by, Melanie knew she'd be drenched by the time she reached it. Looks like I'll be getting my bath sooner than I wanted.

She kicked off her one unbroken shoe, tossing it and its heel-less mate into a trash can. Drawing a deep breath, she made a run for it.

A deluge of stinging rain pelted her, soaking her before she'd taken a dozen steps. She scurried across the cement, intent on reaching the sanctuary of the Dodge. While struggling to balance the box and unlock her door, she heard a car door slam.

'It's about time you got here,' a deep voice said.

Melanie paused and looked up. A tall man stood under a big black umbrella. He'd obviously come from the Mercedes she'd blocked in. He frowned at her over the roof of the Dodge.

Uh-oh. Mr. Mercedes looked pretty pissed. She squinted through the wet darkness and shook her streaming hair from her eyes. No smile, bunched-up eyebrows, set jaw, possible teeth grinding. He sounded pissed, too. Hopefully he didn't harbor latent homicidal tendencies. She wished she hadn't abandoned her shoes. The only weapon she had was a fried chicken leg. Well, she'd beat him to death with it if she had to.

She lifted her chin. 'I beg your pardon? Are you speaking to me?'

'You should beg my pardon. I've been waiting out here for almost fifteen minutes.' He peered at her through the rain. 'Where I come from, people who double-park run the risk of getting their tires slashed.'

'Must be a lovely neighborhood,' she muttered under her breath. Realizing he had a legitimate complaint, she said, 'Look, I'm really sorry. I only needed to run upstairs for a minute-'

'Since I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, that's not really true, is it?'

Melanie's anger flared to the surface. Well, excuuuuuse me, Mr. Mercedes. She had already apologized. Did this bozo want a blood oath?

'Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll just get in my car and toddle on home.' Suddenly wondering if Mr. Mercedes was angry enough to turn violent, she opened the car door, shoved the box of food across the seat, and slid in, quickly slamming and locking the door. She looked over and was relieved to see him get back into his car.

Melanie stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. A weak grrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing. She thunked her forehead on the steering wheel.

'This day has to end… this day has to end… this day has to end!' She turned the key again, but only silence met her ears.

A tap sounded on the driver's window and Melanie yelped in fright. She looked up and saw a face peering at her from beneath a black umbrella. Touching her palm to her beating heart, she took a deep breath. Mr. Mercedes. She rolled down the window an inch.

'I don't mean to harp on this,' he said in a distinctly sarcastic tone through the crack, 'but when you said you were leaving, I sort of assumed you meant sometime tonight.'

Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Mr. Mercedes was a veritable Jerry Seinfeld. Smothering a groan of annoyance, Melanie turned the knob to lower the window farther.

The knob came off in her palm.