Recipe for Kisses Read Online Free PDF Page A

in a breath as he reached out and traced a finger along her jaw. “I would never lay a hand on you that would cause pain, but I am going to hurt you. I own the building, and this is where I’m opening my restaurant.”
    A new level of panic spread through her as she absorbed the knowledge that he had a plan for her shop. “Why here?”
    “Because I want this space. And I always get what I want.”

CHAPTER THREE
    “Why that space?”
    Monday morning Ben watched his publicist, Michael Ames, root through the refrigerator in his father’s ramshackle house near Federal Boulevard on Denver’s northwest side, about a mile from the Highlands neighborhood that housed The Toy Chest.
    “Because it’s the space I want.”
    Michael set a plate of leftover pizza on the counter and took a bite of one slice.
    Ben pointed to the far side of the counter. “There’s a microwave in the corner if you’d like to heat it up.”
    “Did you just suggest I use a microwave?” he asked, swallowing audibly. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He glanced from the pizza to Ben. “By the way, this is phenomenal. What kind of cheese did you use?”
    “A mix of smoked mozzarella, Pecorino Romano, and Emmentaler.” Ben stepped forward to grab his own slice. He didn’t bother heating it either.
    “What’s wrong with plain old mozzarella?” a booming voice called. “If it’s good enough for the Italians, it should work for the rest of us.”
    Ben looked up as his father walked into the room. “Christ, Dad,” he muttered. “Put on some clothes. I’m going to lose my appetite.”
    “First, remember this isn’t your house, so don’t tell me what I can and can’t wear. And second, give me a break on the fancy cheeses.” Harry Haddox wiggled his hips with a smirk then scratched his crotch. He wore nothing but a pair of loose-fitting plaid boxers. In his youth, Ben’s dad had been an amateur boxer and his body still held some of its former muscle, but a basketball-sized paunch now drooped over the waistband of his boxer shorts. “I knew you before you were a food snob, Benny-boy. I know your tastes aren’t that picky.”
    “And there’s nothing wrong with a microwave oven, Mike,” he shouted. “It’s called technology, and how else am I supposed to reheat my Folgers?”
    The publicist shuddered, whether from Harry’s insistence on shortening his name or the thought of someone drinking instant coffee, Ben couldn’t tell. “Dad, stop yelling,” he hollered. “You’re going to wake Abby.”
    “He already did,” the girl said as she stalked into the room. She stopped at the sight of Ben’s father leaning down to take a plate from the dishwasher. “Christ, Harry. Put on some clothes. You’re going to scar me for life.”
    “Watch your language,” Ben muttered around a bite of pizza, ignoring the fact that he’d said almost the same thing minutes earlier.
    Michael quirked a brow. “Are you certain she’s not related to you?” He lifted the dish of pizza toward Abby. “Breakfast?”
    She rolled her eyes. “I’ll have a Pop-Tart.”
    “There are no Pop-Tarts in this kitchen,” Ben said.
    She grabbed a box from the pantry like a prize from a penny arcade game. “Harry bought groceries yesterday.”
    “Shit,” Ben muttered.
    “No,” Michael corrected him. “But mostly chemicals.” He finished the pizza then tore a paper towel from the roll, dabbing at the corner of his mouth like he was in a Michelin-rated restaurant. “By the way, Mr. Haddox,” he said as Harry leaned in to nab the final slice of pizza, “you have a lovely home.”
    Abby snorted as Ben coughed to hide his own laugh. His dad’s house looked much the same as it did when he was a kid, which was messy, cluttered, and without an ounce of hominess. The linoleum floors of the kitchen had seen better decades, and the appliances were mostly from the Cold War era.
    Ben had offered more than once to buy his father a different, bigger, and better