Finding love at the right door

When Daisy hears someone knocking, she doesn't expect a handsome chef to be at her door. Will her lonely afternoon turn into a holiday to remember?

- Mina Beckett

Daisy stood at her sink, staring at the turkey.

The bird was massive, pale and accusatory. For 15 long minutes, she stood there, totally paralyzed by the absolute certainty she'd bitten off more than she could roast.

The sudden knock at her door made her jump hard enough to splash water on her shirt.

A guest?

She grabbed a dish towel, swiped at her hands, hurried to the front door and opened it. Her breath caught. A man she recognized instantly but hadn’t expected stood in her doorway. He wore a white chef's coat and dark jeans. His soft, dark hair was swept back like he’d been running his hands through it. Brown eyes, warm and knowing, locked on hers. He had a crate braced against one hip, pans rattling softly. A bundle of fresh rosemary jutted from his coat pocket, the piney scent threading into her apartment.

Tate Marino.

Her pulse did what it always did around him—stumbled, then raced.

She'd seen him three times in the lobby on his way to cater private parties in the building while she pretended to check her mail. She knew his family ran Marino's downtown, the Italian restaurant everyone loved. The line was always out the door on Friday nights. He had a smile that could make a woman forget her own name.

But she never expected to find him at her door. “Chef Marino, right?” she managed.

“Uh, yes,” he said, a slow smile blooming. “And wait... you're the woman with the dedicated mail-checking schedule.”

“Daisy,” she supplied, heat climbing her throat. She then fumbled the door open wider.

“Um, can I help you with something, Chef Marino?”

“Please, call me Tate.” He checked his phone with a slight frown. “I’m supposed to be catering a dinner in 14D.”

“This is 14B.” She pointed to the brass numbers on her door. “I think the B’s a little worn. Honest mistake.”

“Oh.” He glanced at the numbers, then back at her.