“Mitchell,” she said with a too-wide smile. “You must be early.”

“I’m late, actually,” he said, forcing his eyes up from her chest.

“Ah, right. Well, I’m just putting the last touches on dinner, and then I’ll go freshen up. Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes.”

He hoped by “freshen up” she meant “completely make herself over.” Although, truthfully, this rumpled version of Julie wasn’t without appeal. He’d never seen a woman in such complete disarray, and damned if he didn’t kind of like the unpretentiousness of it. Past girlfriends had never been caught dead without lipstick, much less looking like Little Orphan Annie.

He approached the mess carefully. If “dinner” would be ready anytime before the next Ice Age, he’d sell his right testicle.

“What, uh . . . what are you making?”

Mitchell wasn’t exactly a kitchen whiz, but he was pretty sure those tiny flecks of metal sticking out of some sort of mutilated meat weren’t edible.

She followed his gaze and slumped slightly. “Chicken Marsala. I was supposed to pound the chicken, but I didn’t have plastic wrap, so I used foil instead. It, um . . . it kind of broke apart.”

“I can see that.” It looked like a UFO had collided with road kill. “And that?” he asked, gesturing toward a mountain of something green and stringy.

“Leeks!” she said proudly. “Just finished slicing them.”

Mitchell’s eyes fell on the nearby knife and saw that the tip was crooked. Stabbing might have been a more appropriate word choice.

“Julie,” he said softly. “You don’t know how to cook, do you?”

She huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and he realized for the first time that her hair was a mess of soft, fuzzy curls instead of the shiny, straight version he’d seen last night.

“What makes you say that?” she asked as she wrestled a cork out of a bottle of Pinot grigio.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, trying not to stare at the way her br**sts swayed beneath her T-shirt as she tugged at the cork. “Maybe the box of ‘beginner’s set’ cookware in the corner.”

She followed his gaze to where a recently opened box of pots and pans had been shoved next to the fridge.

“Well, yeah . . . it’s been a little while since I’ve dabbled in the kitchen.”

More like a lifetime, he thought.

“Need help?” he asked as he accepted the glass of wine.

She brightened slightly. “You cook?”

“Not a bit. I’d have done the same thing as you when pounding the chicken, except I wouldn’t even have had foil on hand to improvise. But I do have this.” He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and wiggled it enticingly in front of her.

She rubbed at her nose and scowled. “What are we going to do with that, use it to cook the chicken?”

God help them, she actually sounded serious.

“Uh, no. But I can dial it. Maybe call . . . takeout?”

Julie’s eyebrows snapped into a scowl, and she chewed her bottom lip moodily. “I wanted to make you dinner.”

Yes, but why? It obviously wasn’t part of her usual dating routine. Probably another one of her carefully plotted ploys that he’d need to watch out for.

He smiled disarmingly. “Come on now, honey. Show Mitchell your collection of takeout menus.”

She hesitated for only about two seconds before scampering to a corner drawer and pulling out a rainbow stack of papers. Mitchell selected one that looked well used.

“Tasty Thai?”

Ten minutes later, their food was on the way and he was holding a garbage bag open as she scooped her disastrous cooking attempt into it. “What is this?” he asked, poking at a soggy log.

“Garlic bread,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I think I did it wrong.”

Her face was just inches from his, and he got a good look at her skin. He doubted she’d had a chance to apply a speck of makeup, but her skin looked smooth and golden.

California girl. Odd that the thought didn’t produce the same disdain it had before. His fingers tightened on the garbage bag so he wouldn’t reach out and stroke one silky cheek.

Not yet, Forbes. Instinct told him that touching Julie if she didn’t have her usual defenses in place would mean a lot of trouble for both of them.

By the time they got everything cleaned up and the stickers removed from her brand spanking new pans, the food had arrived. Mitchell ignored her insistence that they eat at her tiny kitchen table, and instead claimed a spot on the corner of her couch.

“This is a little better than my chicken,” she said, mouth full.

“So who taught you those killer cooking skills?” he asked. “Your mom?”

Julie’s face clouded over. “I wish. My parents died when I was eight.”

The pad thai turned to dust in Mitchell’s mouth. “God, Julie, I’m sorry. Both of them?”

She stared down at her noodles. “There was a car accident. They were on their way to my ballet recital. My sister was in the car too—”

Her voice broke off, and he started to reach toward her, but thought better of it. He barely knew her, after all.

“Everyone told me they died instantly,” she said softly. “As though that somehow made it better to an eight-year-old. They were still gone.”

His heart twisted at the thought of a tiny, sparkling Julie in a tutu waiting for her parents to show up and watch her much-practiced dance. He saw a sheen of tears in her eyes that she was blinking rapidly to keep at bay. He wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry, but to her it probably wasn’t.

“It wasn’t so bad,” she said finally. “My aunt and uncle raised me like one of their own, and my cousins were practically like brothers.”

Practically. But not quite. He wanted to know more. To know her.

Don’t even think about it, Forbes. This was supposed to be a fling, not a budding relationship. Emotional entanglement was one major step in the wrong direction.

Feeling like a jerk, he remained silent.

Mitchell waited until she’d pulled herself together and then changed the subject to safer territory. “So I’ve been wondering something since last night.”

Julie reached for a spring roll and looked at him curiously. “Yeah?”

“Does it get old? Being pigeonholed as a serial dater?”

She let out a choked laugh. “Ouch. But actually, no, not really. The society papers pretty much get it right. Stiletto’s my life. I’ve been there since I was twenty-two, and I know it’s a cliché, but I really can’t imagine working anywhere else.”

“You’re okay being defined by what you write?”

For some reason it bothered him that she was so quick to accept the label Manhattan had slapped on her as the dating guru. Dating was supposed to be a means to an end, not the end itself, and yet most of the women in the city seemed content to ride on her coattails as she tested the waters for them.

Hell, even he was using her career as a way to Yankee tickets. Mitchell felt a stab of guilt that hadn’t been there last night, but he promptly stifled it. Julie’s reputation was why he and Colin had picked her for their little bet—her very nature wouldn’t let her get her heart involved.

Then what’s with the attempt at domesticity tonight? Why didn’t she drag you to some trendy hotspot?

He pushed the thought away.

“I wouldn’t say I’m defined by it,” she said with a touch of annoyance. “But it’s a part of me. I love men. And I love sex,” she said with a saucy wink.

He tried to ignore this. She’d said it only for effect, and damned if it wasn’t working. His body craved a woman. He was beginning to worry that it craved Julie specifically.

But even with his c**k threatening to make a spectacle, Mitchell wasn’t about to be anybody’s puppet. Not even for the sake of this compellingly rumpled sexpot.

“I see.” He chewed slowly, carefully pushing the image of naked Julie from his mind. “But how do you come up with fresh content every month? I mean, dating’s been around forever. It’s not like you can reinvent the wheel. There’s only so much that can be manufactured.”