He looked up from cutting chorizo sausage in a blur of motion and offered her a flashing grin. “Food first and then whatever. And I’m definitely open to suggestions.”

Ever since she’d arrived in the doorway, he’d been swiftly slicing and dicing while keeping an eye on two pans on the stove. Flipping in ingredients from time to time, he’d toss them with an effortless flick of his wrist before resuming his cutting. His movements were sure, smooth as silk, his unruffled calm Zen-like. Clearly, his expertise extended beyond the bedroom.

Leaning over to pull out a bottle of champagne from an under-counter wine cooler, he opened it with a deft twist and set it next to two glasses. “Lucky for us, Chaz left his kitchen fully supplied. I’m guessing he entertained up here.”

“He did. Chaz didn’t like to be alone. He always had people around.”

“From the looks of his stock of condoms, I’d say women in particular.”

“He was known for his beautiful waitpeople.”

She’d kept her statement gender neutral, so out of curiosity, he asked, “Was he a switch-hitter?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I just met him after I started my winery. He’s a local boy, though. Or was.”

“Very much was, according to him. Apparently, Saint Barts is his nirvana. He said he’s going to be buried there.”

“What about you?”

“About what?”

“Do you have any burial plans?”

He laughed. “Not in the near future, I hope. Do you ask that question often?”

“Not really. Coming from the West Coast, I just thought you might have some avant-garde notions… you know… like green burials.”

“Haven’t thought about it. You?” Was she into crystals and shit? Not that it was going to curb his enthusiasm in any way. As soon as he ate something, he was going to take care of his hard-on.

“My only plans are to live to a hundred.” She grinned. “So I’ve got time. What are you making?” She moved closer to the stove.