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Southern Comforts
Nan Dixon
Rule #2—Never get involved with a guestAbigail Fitzgerald has always followed her mama's rules when it comes to running their family's B and B. But her mama never had to resist a man like Grayson Smythe. A long-term guest, Gray spends his evenings having dinner with Abby in her kitchen—and it's not long before their attraction begins to sizzle.Although Gray's kisses are a delicious distraction, Abby's priorities are the B and B and the dream of opening her own restaurant. And Gray definitely has the means to help her. But when money seems to be all he can offer, Abby suspects she might get burned.


Rule #2—Never get involved with a guest
Abigail Fitzgerald has always followed her mama’s rules when it comes to running their family’s B and B. But her mama never had to resist a man like Grayson Smythe. A long-term guest, Gray spends his evenings having dinner with Abby in her kitchen—and it’s not long before their attraction begins to sizzle.
Although Gray’s kisses are a delicious distraction, Abby’s priorities are the B and B and the dream of opening her own restaurant. And Gray definitely has the means to help her. But when money seems to be all he can offer, Abby suspects she might get burned.
“Actions speak louder than words.”
Tears trickled down Abigail’s cheek. The ice in her eyes frightened Gray. “I’m going back to Savannah. I’m going home.”
“Abby.” This couldn’t be happening. Not when he was in love with her. “Stay. Please.”
“We’re done.” She wheeled her bag around him.
Desperate, he blurted out, “I think I’m in love with you.”
She stopped. Her shoulders shook. She turned around, pity filled her face. “You can’t buy my love, Gray. That’s not how it works. It’s something I would have given freely.”
Panic bubbled inside his chest like lava in a volcano ready to blow. “I’m not trying to buy your love.”
She didn’t even stop.
He ripped a hand through his hair. He’d been trying to help her, for God’s sake, and she’d thrown everything back in his face. He told her he loved her. He had the money. He could fix her problems. Make her life easier. Why wouldn’t the stubborn woman let him help?
Dear Reader (#ulink_b937febc-abbc-59dd-b222-0d7502a3d46c),
Thank you for purchasing my debut Mills & Boon Superromance novel.
Southern Comforts is about sisters—a subject I know well. I have three of my own. And they are the reason this story came to life.
My sisters and I visited Savannah and I fell in love with this lush, quirky, vibrant city. In the magical historic district, oak trees drip with Spanish moss and squares are filled with fountains, statues and flowers. Ghost stories abound. The city made me wonder.
What if a group of sisters were struggling to run a bed-and-breakfast in their family’s old mansion? Maybe the oldest sister, a chef, has big dreams but every dollar is poured into the business? Why not force her to feed a cynical, rich developer for six months? Will her lack of money and his wealth put barriers on their developing relationship?
Settle back with a glass of sweet tea and one of Abby’s brandy pecan bars and find out if Abby and Gray can find their happily-ever-after.
I’d love to hear what you think. Please contact me through my website—nandixon.com (http://nandixon.com). Or stop on over if you want some of Abby’s recipes.
Happy reading,
Nan Dixon
Southern Comforts
Nan Dixon


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NAN DIXON spent her formative years as an actress, singer, dancer and competitive golfer. But the need to eat had her studying accounting in college. Unfortunately, being a successful financial executive didn’t feed her passion to perform. When the pharmaceutical company she worked for was purchased, Nan got the chance of a lifetime—the opportunity to pursue a writing career. She’s a five-time Golden Heart finalist and lives in the Midwest where she is active in her local RWA chapter and on the board of a dance company. She has five children, two sons-in-law, one grandchild, a husband and one neurotic cat.
To Mom and Dad—you taught me to work hard to make my dreams come true. I wish you were here to celebrate with me.
To my family—no one can top your enthusiasm, support and laughter. Don, Nicholas, Meghan, Dan, Allison, Joe, Anne, Matthew, little Lily, Dad E and Diana. My characters would be lucky to be blessed with loud, crazy, loving families just like ours.
Special thanks go out to my writing community. First, my critique groups—Ann Hinnenkamp, Ann Holliday, Neroli Lacey, Greta MacEachern, Leanne Farrell and Kathryn Kohorst. You’ve put up with my messy drafts, lack of conflict, lack of scene goals and pushed me to become a better writer. Second, my Golden Heart sisters: the Unsinkables, Starcatchers, Lucky13s and Dreamweavers. When I’ve stumbled, you picked me up, dusted me off and pushed me back into the fight. Even better, you’re there to celebrate my successes—Prosecco for all! And I can’t forget my RWA chapter, Midwest Fiction Writers. Our authors are gracious and willing to share their knowledge. They know how to pay it forward. Thank you.
I also want to thank the people who took a chance on me—Laura Bradford and Megan Long. I appreciate your confidence and advice.
And finally, this book is for my sisters—Mo, Sue and Trish. Without our weekend, I never would have written Southern Comforts. (Where are we going this year and will I get another series idea?)
Contents
Cover (#ud6c4a428-df47-59b4-8ac2-a0ac56ad32a5)
Back Cover Text (#uc15f7109-32a8-5e2f-861a-67f39b699f7e)
Introduction (#u76656221-9e46-51dc-b759-d5fc967e864d)
Dear Reader (#ulink_23fce6c3-bc42-53a9-aff8-bbd097b8ad4a)
Title Page (#u2c7cc87e-fb88-5e76-b6c9-191ac2a0dd5e)
About the Author (#u4b7ea47c-9404-5985-8044-92e1d6cb772f)
Dedication (#ud91b782f-e741-57ac-b80f-c6793075712d)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_66ddbde1-1a4c-5746-9481-09b894f96134)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bd107f1f-3eb7-5a7f-8715-4ba2925e03c1)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c59ed496-fbf2-595d-abe0-d7688d0fe754)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e2bfb457-cc11-5593-90ca-c39c4c6ceb7a)
Rule #1—The guests are always right, even when they’re wrong.
Mamie Fitzgerald
“SCORE ONE FOR Team Fitzgerald.” Abby tapped the occupancy permit against the porch railing and waved to her contractor as he headed for his truck. The final room on the second floor could be used.
She propped open the bed-and-breakfast’s bright blue doors. For February 1, the day was gorgeous, with temperatures hitting the mid 70s. Sunlight streamed through the leaded-glass side windows and sparkled on the foyer’s crystal chandelier. The gold streaks in the green-marble entry floor gleamed.
Abby wanted all of Fitzgerald House to sparkle like the entry.
That meant renovating the rest of the third floor, and finally the carriage house. They just needed a reasonable bid, money and a whole lot of luck.
Her hand brushed the brass plaque set inside the door.

Fitzgerald House—1837
Savannah, Georgia
Bed & Breakfast opened
March 1, 1998—Mamie Fitzgerald
Owners—Abigail, Bess and Dolley Fitzgerald

As always, she made a wish. Let the renovation costs be reasonable.
A fresh floral arrangement graced the console table. The tang of lemon wax mingled with the warm scent of the foyer’s sandalwood candles. While she’d been with her contractor, the cleaning crew had performed their magic.
With no one in the entry, she held out her arms and twirled, tipping her head up, grinning. The sparkling prisms were all she could see.
Dizzy, she stopped. Whoa. Hadn’t done that since she’d been young.
She’d call Mamma and her sisters later. Let them know they were one room closer to finishing the main house restoration. And she was one room closer to opening her restaurant in the carriage house. She gave herself a hug. One step at a time.
Abby walked over to the Queen Anne secretary they used for a reception desk. The front door opened as she logged on to the computer, and she glanced up. “Welcome to Fitzgerald House. How can I help you?”
A man stalked toward her. Black brows framed laser-blue eyes. He was tall and lean. My, my. Some days God took pity on working women and gave them something to dream about. She indulged in a quick fantasy of running her fingers through his thick black hair. Too bad he had a frown on his face and a cell phone glued to his ear.
Mr. Fantasy dropped his bag, smiled and pointed to the phone, holding up one finger. He patted his pockets.
She handed him a pen and a piece of paper.
He mouthed a thank-you.
“Severn,” he said. “What was the contracted completion date?”
He wrote down the date in bold slashes.
“What’s the remaining payout?” Again the hand-scrawled numbers on the paper.
Abby tried not to look, but the number was big. With that kind of money, she and her sisters could finish off the third-floor rooms and still have enough left over for new linens.
“So what’s the problem?” the man growled.
Abby stepped back, giving him privacy. She wouldn’t want to be the person failing to meet this man’s expectations.
“The only way I’ll extend the deadline is if we recontract,” he stated. “You have options. Overtime, more crew. Think about it and get back to me.” He switched off his phone without so much as a goodbye.
Apparently Mr. Fantasy hadn’t gone to the same customer-service seminars Abby had.
She stepped back up to the desk. “May I help you?”
“Grayson Smythe. S-m-y-t-h-e.” The man’s voice was as rich and smooth as bourbon, and his smile was just as intoxicating.
Abby searched the reservation system. Nothing. She tried incorrect spellings of the man’s name. Nada. She tried his first name as his last. Still nothing. Her fingers tapped the desktop in a staccato beat.
The man’s intense gaze weakened her knees. His dark eyebrows came together over his bright blue eyes.
Had the system eaten another reservation? She forced a smile. “Do you have a confirmation number?”
“No, I don’t. My assistant confirmed the details yesterday.” He leaned over the desk, staring at the computer screen. The temperature in the room seemed to climb ten degrees.
Abby kept smiling, but her mouth wanted to droop into a frown. She couldn’t. She had a guest in front of her.
A quick patter of feet turned her attention to the open door.
“I told you, Mama.” A blond boy, maybe four or five years old, darted into the entry. “I’ll catch you a rainbow.”
Catch a rainbow?
Sure enough, the sunbeams were now hitting the chandelier, and rainbows danced over her head. She hadn’t noticed, too caught up in their guest. But she really hadn’t noticed the rainbows since she’d been young. Since her dad had died.
Mr. Smythe whipped around at the noise.
“Joshua!” A thin young woman entered behind the boy. “Come back.”
The boy jumped up and down, his hand outstretched. His clothes were clean, but the knees were patched. “I can’t reach them!”
Mr. Smythe knelt in front of the boy. The little boy’s eyes widened and he stepped back.
Abby moved out from behind the desk. She didn’t want her guest snarling at this cute kid the way he had on the phone.
Before she could rescue the child, Mr. Smythe said, “Would you like me to lift you up?”
The boy held up his arms. “Yes, please.”
Abby’s eyebrows popped up as Mr. Smythe held him in the air. Joshua’s hands waved, trying to grab hold of the colors.
“Hold still and the rainbow will shine on your fingers,” Mr. Smythe said.
“I’m sorry.” The woman leaned a hand against the desk, catching her breath. “He’s so fast.”
“Are you looking for a room?” Abby shouldn’t judge the woman, but her clothes were...worn.
“Oh, no.” Color washed over the woman’s pale face. “I’m here about the help-wanted ad.”
Abby nodded. “The housekeeping position?”
Both the man and the boy had rainbows coloring their palms. Mr. Smythe whispered to the little boy and Joshua giggled.
Joshua’s mother straightened. “I know the ad is a couple of weeks old, but is the position still open?”
“It is.” Abby smiled, trying to put the woman at ease. “Marion, our head of housekeeping, has left for the day, but if you come back tomorrow morning around ten, I’ll make sure she knows you’re coming in.”
“Thank you, thank you.” The young woman’s smile erased the furrows in her forehead. She turned.
“Oh, what’s your name?” Abby asked.
“Cheryl.”
“Nice to meet you, Cheryl. I’m Abby.” She hoped Marion would hire the young mother.
Mr. Smythe set the boy down.
“Mommy, I held a rainbow.” Joshua threw his arms around her legs. “But I let it go so other kids can see it.”
Cheryl took her son’s hand. Staring at Mr. Smythe, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“No reason to thank me.” He grinned, flashing a dimple. “I held a rainbow, too.”
A flutter filled Abby’s chest. She loved dimples. And her guest had been kind to the child.
Cheryl gave him a nervous smile. Joshua took a little bit of the sun with him as the two of them headed down the porch steps.
“That was nice,” Abby said, starting to type again. Where was Mr. Grayson Smythe’s registration information?
“I like kids. The world hasn’t screwed them up yet.” His shoulders rose and fell. “Are we done?” The don’t-screw-with-me tone was back in his voice.
Sometimes Marion or her sisters left her notes about reservations, so she searched the desk. A piece of paper peeked out from underneath the keyboard. The breath she’d been holding whispered out.

Abs—The Kennedy Suite is booked for six months starting Feb 1! Guy named G Smythe booked it. Marion’s aware—you were in wine tasting when I finished the deal. Until I move other reservations around, I can’t get his info in the system. 10% discount for the long-term stay and charge by the week. Two-week trial. We have to replace the reservation system!!! This year—not next. It’s...

Abby refolded the paper without finishing Dolley’s message. Her techy sister always ranted about their software. The replacement reservation system had to wait at least one more year, possibly two. Dolley knew that.
“I’m sorry that took so long.” She wanted this stern man to know the Fitzgerald House team weren’t incompetents. “I’ve found your information.”
Her professional smile was fixed in place, but her heart rate revved into overdrive. She wanted to twirl and hoot. A six-month booking in their biggest suite meant cash. It wouldn’t refill the gap left by last year’s emergency purchases, but even at a discount, this was fantastic. “You’re staying with us for six months?”
“That’s correct.” The man’s bourbon-infused voice came with a crisp Yankee accent. “I’ve agreed to a two-week trial.”
Abby quickly made his key cards. They would show Mr. Smythe Southern hospitality—Fitzgerald style. After two weeks, he’d be begging to stay.
As his credit card processed, she gave him her spiel on breakfast, tea and appetizers. “And since we’re Irish, there’s always Jameson whiskey in the library.”
The man took it all in without reaction. Usually a guest nodded or smiled.
“Your room is on the second floor and to the left. There’s an elevator down this hall.” She pointed. “If you have any other questions, please ask our staff. We at Fitzgerald House want you to have a pleasant stay.”
“Thank you.” He slung his briefcase over one shoulder. “I’d like dinner brought up at seven o’clock tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Abby shook her head. “We don’t offer dinner—just breakfast, tea and appetizers.”
He raised an eyebrow. “My assistant negotiated dinner with my extended stay. Your chef’s reputation is the reason I chose this establishment.” He did a little finger wave. “Perhaps you should call someone.”
She reopened Dolley’s note.

We have to replace the reservation system!!! This year—not next. It’s archaic. One more unusual request on this res—twenty-five dollars extra per day for providing box lunch and dinner. Agreement’s in the mail.

Her stomach churned. Dolley hadn’t just been ranting about the software glitches.
She blinked, hoping the message would change.
No luck.
She’d already seen how Mr. Smythe reacted when people didn’t live up to their commitments. As upsetting as it was to be blindsided like this, she couldn’t violate Dolley’s agreement.
She dug deep for the graciousness Mamma had drummed into her daughters. “You’re correct. However, we don’t have room service. May I invite you to eat in the kitchen?”
“I’d prefer eating in my room.”
Panic bubbled up in her chest. His room wasn’t an option, since there wasn’t enough space. And the dining room was already set for breakfast. Swallowing, she said, “I know you’ll be more comfortable in the kitchen.”
His eyes narrowed. “How much will it cost me for room service?”
The B and B wasn’t set up for room service. Mr. Smythe would end up hunched over his coffee table. “I’m afraid it’s not a matter of money.”
“It’s always about money.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you get your manager?”
Didn’t anyone ever say no to him? She stood a little taller. “I’m Abigail Fitzgerald, owner, manager and your chef. This is an unusual request, and I apologize that Fitzgerald House can’t accommodate room service. I would be pleased to serve your dinner in the kitchen at seven o’clock. Your dining experience will be more pleasant there.”
He took a long, slow scan from her head down to her sneakers. She refused to squirm under his scrutiny.
“Fine.”
He turned toward the stairway, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.
She headed down the hall. What was she going to cook? Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she saw a streak of dirt on her face and dust all over her shirt.
What must he have thought? Now his dinner would have to be even more amazing.
* * *
THE ROOM WAS SPOTLESS. Gray wondered what the “owner, manager and chef” had been doing to get so dirty. Well, he had two weeks to decide if this arrangement would work.
Two people had recommended staying at Fitzgerald House. Derrick, the man who’d needed to liquidate his Savannah warehouse, had raved about the food, and his attorney. Gray hadn’t planned to acquire property in Savannah, but his frat brother, Derrick, had been desperate.
And Gray had needed a break from Boston. Drawing in a deep breath, he pressed the aching sinuses between his eyes. God, he’d had this headache for what seemed like months.
Maybe Savannah would bring him peace. Maybe his mother and sister would leave him alone. Maybe he’d figure out what was wrong with his life. He rolled his shoulders. Right now, all he wanted was to get settled in his room.
While he unpacked, he listened to the CNBC newscasters dissecting the financial markets. He rolled his shoulders. The past two weeks in Boston had been a work marathon. Standing in the entry while trying to register, all he’d wanted to do was get into his room.
But helping the kid catch rainbows had been fun. He used to do the same thing with his little sister. He hadn’t thought about that in years.
He set his laptop on the small desk. It barely fit. Now he understood why Ms. Fitzgerald had asked him to eat elsewhere, but, damn—the kitchen?
He was in the Jacqueline Kennedy room. Her biography on the coffee table had him smiling. His face ached a little, as though he hadn’t smiled much lately.
He opened the French doors to his private porch overlooking a courtyard garden. Leaning on the railing, he took a deep breath. The air smelled green. New. Nothing like the snow he’d left this morning.
There was a tiny table and a couple of chairs on the porch. He could imagine having a beer or a glass of wine or even a shot of whiskey in the evening. But dinner? No way. At least the sofa in front of the flat-screen television looked comfortable.
His cell phone rang. Reluctantly he moved back into the room and answered it. “Smythe.”
“Adam Severn.” Severn’s frustration vibrated through the phone. “We’ll meet your deadline. Everything will be demolished and drywall installed and taped on time.”
“Good.” Severn didn’t respond. Gray’s eyebrows shot up. Did Severn expect gratitude for meeting his contractual obligations? “Anything else?”
“You’re all business, aren’t you, Smythe?”
Should Gray tell him he’d helped a little boy catch rainbows? Nope. Wouldn’t want to ruin his image. “When I grant bids, I expect the work to be done as agreed.”
“Well, the plumbers and electricians better not hold us up.”
“Phillips will coordinate the other subs.” His manager would monitor the timelines. “Make sure you keep him informed.”
“I won’t be held accountable for other people’s screwups,” Severn growled.
“Get your own work done in a professional manner, and we won’t have any problems.” Gray shook his head. Severn’s company would never work on another one of his projects.
Severn grunted an acknowledgment and hung up.
If his time in Savannah was going to reduce the pressure he’d been under, he needed to turf problems like Severn to his project managers. Next time.
He opened one of the complimentary bottles of water and booted up his laptop. He rolled the cold bottle across his forehead.
Gray quickly worked through his emails. He hesitated, staring at Gwen’s familiar address. He paused with the cursor hovering over the open-mail icon.
He shook his head and deleted the message. Why was Gwen still emailing him? He’d broken up with her. Just last week he’d asked her to stop contacting him. One of the bonuses about being in Savannah was that he wouldn’t constantly run into her.
He worked through the rest of his mail. Nothing he couldn’t handle from here. Pushing away from the desk, he checked his watch—almost five-thirty. The B and B’s wireless connection had worked flawlessly. Excellent.
He had time to kill before dinner. He could walk around town or have a glass of wine. What quality of wines would a B and B serve?
The floor plan showed him a route to the library via a back stairway. As he emerged on the first floor, Abigail Fitzgerald’s voice filled the hallway.
“Damnation, Dolley,” she said. “Why didn’t you warn me about Mr. Smythe?”
He jerked to a stop before she could see him.
“I should have known about his meals before he checked in,” Abigail said.
He shouldn’t eavesdrop from the hallway, but his feet wouldn’t move. He leaned his shoulder against the wall.
“The money is great. But—six months. Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was a pause.
“Whoops?” Pause. “We have to communicate or we’ll look like amateurs.”
Not amateurs—just inept, Gray thought.
Another pause.
“Dolley, you owe me, big-time. The dining room’s already set for breakfast. The desk in his room is too small for meals. For pity’s sake, I was so stunned, I invited him to eat in the kitchen.”
Invited? She’d insisted.
“I don’t have time to Google guests.”
Okay, that was enough. He would not listen to them discuss him like some sort of...object.
“I will not dig into his background.” She hummed, “Na, na, na,” just like a kid. “Stop. I don’t want... He’s worth how much?”
Enough. He moved to the doorway.
“Dolley Madison Fitzgerald, what would Mamma say?” Abigail scolded.
He rapped on the door frame. Loudly.
She turned. Her mouth dropped open and then snapped shut. “I have to go.”
Gray crossed his arms.
“Could you schedule a family meeting?” Her hand shook, mussing her hair. “Samuel did the walk-through with me this afternoon.”
She swiveled away from him, but he heard her say, “The third-floor remodel is going to be expensive.”
Maybe that explained the dust on her cheek when she’d checked him in.
Again she paused. “Next time, baby sister, talk to me.” Her low voice caressed the air, heating his body. She glanced over her shoulder.
Yup, still here.
“He’s eating lamb chops tonight, and no, I don’t have enough to feed you. I’m mad at you. I have to get to the wine tasting. Love you.”
Gray waited.
Abigail stood and turned; her fluid movements reminded him of a ballerina he’d dated several years ago. She walked around the small desk and stopped in front of him.
“Can I help you, Mr. Smythe?” Her tone was cool, but her gaze was fixed on the wall over his shoulder.
She couldn’t look him the eye. Interesting. His jaw unclenched. She didn’t look like the same woman who’d checked him in. Her golden red hair fell to her shoulders. The brows above her bewitching green eyes were furrowed.
His gaze slid from the top of her head to her high heels. From what he could tell, she had a killer body. Her silky top and skirt exploded with color. Pity, the skirt reached her knees.
“May I help you, Mr. Smythe?” Her brisk tone didn’t match her blushing cheeks.
He waited, letting her guilt hang between them. “I guess I got turned around looking for the library.”
“Please, follow me.” She brushed past him, and her perfume, a dark, spicy scent, curled through the hallway. His attention gravitated to the sway of her hips. A man could lose himself in those hips.
He jerked his eyes up. He wasn’t in a position to act on any chemistry with his innkeeper. He was here to do a job. He was here to clear his head.
“Is your room comfortable?” she asked as they entered the lobby.
“More than adequate.” Charming, even. “If the service lives up to the room, I won’t have any problem staying here for the duration.” Some demon in him had him adding, “And I’m looking forward to lamb chops tonight.”
Abigail’s cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red at the reminder that he’d overheard her gossiping. “I know the service will exceed your expectations. Please notify the staff if there’s anything you need.”
He followed her through carved-oak pocket doors that she glided open. Five middle-aged women milled around the library.
Mahogany bookshelves and paneling gleamed. The cherrywood floor included a central mosaic that echoed the stained glass above it.
“Good evening. I’m Abigail Fitzgerald,” she announced to the other guests. “I hope you enjoyed Savannah today.”
Gray stepped farther into the room. The curved walls ran up two stories and were topped by a stunning stained glass dome.
As the women greeted Abigail, Gray moved next to the fireplace. He stroked a finger over the feminine lines of the white marble mantelpiece.
Abigail turned to him. “Ladies, may I present another guest, Mr. Smythe.”
The women waved, and a couple of them asked, “Where are you from?”
“Are you on vacation?”
“How long are you staying?”
“I...I... Boston. Working. Six months.” He escaped over to the table of appetizers.
Abigail grinned as she opened bottles of wine.
“Ladies—” she nodded to him “—and gentleman. Tonight, you’ll taste Argentinean wines. They’re from the Mendoza region. The first is Malambo Chenin chardonnay. See if you can note the citrus and spice tones.” The cork made a hollow sound as she freed it from the bottle. She continued describing the wines and popping corks. “Enjoy.”
Abigail knew more about wines than he did. He edged closer to the table, gesturing to the food. “What’s all this?”
“Chimichurri. Try it on the toast points.” She handed him a plate. “Next to it are vegetable empanadas with a dipping sauce. And that’s a shrimp and scallop ceviche.”
He blinked. “You made Argentinean appetizers?”
Abigail flashed him a chilly smile. “Of course. They match the wine.”
She aligned a serving platter and adjusted the flame under a warming dish. Once everything met her standards, Ms. Fitzgerald glided out of the room. How did she move in those heels?
He frowned. Not a complication he needed. He was here to build condos.
* * *
GRAY TRIED TO enjoy the excellent wine and appetizers alone, but the women drew him into their conversation. By seven, he longed for solitude. Instead, he needed to endure eating in the kitchen.
Maybe he should have offered an additional twenty bucks to eat in his room. The B and B had to have a table they could set up. He just hadn’t quantified his request properly. Everyone had their price.
Gray touched the kitchen’s swinging door, but didn’t push it open. Would Ms. Fitzgerald watch him eat? Talk his ear off?
The past two weeks, he’d worked like a Tasmanian devil. And he’d avoided Gwen and her endless calls and emails. Even before he’d broken it off with her, he’d been exhausted from her constant demands to attend parties where he’d have the same conversation night after night with people who lived off their trust funds.
For the past year, he’d felt like a piece of laminate in the middle of a tiled floor. He was functional, but out of place. Something had to change. Maybe here in Savannah he’d get some perspective. And when he returned to Boston he’d find...peace?
He shivered. Crap, was this him getting in touch with his feelings?
Gray shoved that thought away and pushed open the door. He walked into a symphony of scents. Lamb, onions and an herb he couldn’t identify. Abigail stood in front of a mammoth range with a monster stainless steel hood.
The walls were a warm yellow, and the granite counters were golden brown offset by white cabinetry.
She’d changed into a T-shirt and tight jeans. Oh, yeah, her body was as beautiful as he’d imagined. “You changed again.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Oh, I can’t cook in silk—oil splatters. Have a seat, Mr. Smythe.”
With a nod, she indicated a table in an alcove off the main room.
“Please stop calling me Mr. Smythe. It makes me feel old. People call me Gray.”
The single place setting looked...lonely. A folded napkin sat beside a salad plate filled with field greens and red peppers. He frowned. He’d never noticed so much color in his life. He waved a hand at the table. “What about your dinner?”
Why had he asked? He’d wanted room service. Would have worked while he ate or watched the news. Now he didn’t like the idea of sitting here and having her serve him.
“I’ll eat after you’re finished.” She turned back to the stove.
“Eat with me.” It sounded a little harsh, so he added, “Please.”
Abigail raised one eyebrow. “It’s not...appropriate.”
She made the idea sound as if he’d suggested torture.
“I’d feel uncomfortable having you watch me eat, especially since I’ve interrupted your normal routine.”
“But you’re a...guest.”
“One that’s made an unusual request, right?”
“Yes.” She gnawed on her lower lip.
He shrugged, not understanding why convincing her to join him seemed so important. “Eating together would be the most efficient way to handle this situation, Abigail.”
“Efficient? I can see that.” She stirred whatever was in the pan and then turned back to him. “I’ll eat with you, but only if you call me Abby. Six months of being called Abigail and I’d feel like I was back in grade school.”
“Done—Abby.” The name didn’t quite fit, but he’d already acknowledged that there were many sides to her. Maybe it fit one of them.
A bottle of Malbec, one of the wines he’d sampled earlier, sat breathing on the table. He poured a glass and then looked around for another glass for her. “Where are your wineglasses?”
“I can get everything set in a minute.”
“I’ll help.”
“Umm.” She chewed on her lip again. He assumed that was her sign of nervousness. “Wineglasses are in the butler’s pantry.” She pointed across the hall.
He found a glass and figured he might as well grab dishes for her, as well. There were a bunch of flowery china dishes in the cabinets. No doubt she’d want them to match. He grabbed a plate in the same pattern from the shelf. If he guessed right about the meticulous MissAbby, she wouldn’t want him to use the wrong one.
He carried her glass to the stove. “Wine for the chef.”
The space between the island and the stove was barely big enough for the two of them. He held the glass over her shoulder. The stainless steel vent reflected her frown as he crowded into her space.
“Thank you.” She scooped the glass out of his hand. “But you didn’t have to.”
“I don’t mind.” A hint of Abby’s perfume mixed with the great smells emanating from the pot on the stove. After all the appetizers, he hadn’t expected to be this hungry, but his stomach growled. “Smells great.”
Abby turned with a pan of potatoes and set it on the island, creating a barrier between them. She mashed the potatoes by hand, adding butter and sour cream.
He added another mile to his morning run.
“Please, sit,” she said. “What kind of salad dressing do you like?”
“A vinaigrette if you have it, otherwise Italian.”
“I’ve got balsamic vinaigrette.” She pulled a bottle out of the refrigerator.
Gray eyed the commercial-size appliances. The Fitzgerald family had invested in quality goods. This was a working chef’s kitchen.
Abby carried their plates to the table. The food looked as appealing as any meal he’d enjoyed in a fine-dining restaurant.
As Gray started to cut his lamb chop, she bowed her head and whispered a prayer. Hell. Christmas was the last time he’d heard grace at a table.
She grinned at him. “Please, eat.”
Gray sampled a piece of lamb and then a forkful of potatoes. He followed up with crisp green beans. The flavors melted in his mouth. Closing his eyes, he moaned. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
She laughed. A deep, mellow sound that vibrated through his body.
“How many marriage proposals do you get after people sample your cooking?” he asked.
“Not that many. Single men don’t usually stay with us. We get a lot of Moons, Repeaters and sister groups.”
“What?”
“Oh, sorry. Moons are honeymooners and Repeaters are anniversary couples. Bess came up with the idea of advertising for sister groups.” She took a sip of her wine. “We use our own shorthand.”
He frowned. “Are there really that many sisters around?”
“They don’t have to be related. It’s basically a weekend for women with a common interest—most of the time they know each other already, but some come for the theme and make new friends while they’re here. We organize their activities during their stay. For the Scrapbooking Sisters, we reserve a parlor for them to work in. And Nigel, our driver, will take them to a supply store where we’ve arranged a discount.” Her grin spread across her face. “Scary Sisters visit haunted houses and attend a Ghost Pub Crawl. But my favorite is the Sommelier Sisters weekend. It doesn’t get better than tasting wines.”
“Interesting marketing angle,” he said.
She waved her hand. “It fits our brand. My sisters and I run the place, so we do what we can to play that up.”
Gray took a few more bites of the best meal he’d had in months. Abby was a fantastic cook. At least Derrick hadn’t steered him wrong when he’d recommended Fitzgerald House.
“It sounds like you’re planning some renovations,” he said.
Her expression fell away like dirt being stripped by a power washer. “We’re hoping to work on the third floor.”
“Hoping?”
“There’s a lot of water damage up there.” She absently shook her head, the ends of her hair brushing the tops of her breasts.
“You had roof problems?” He forced his gaze back up to her face.
“In the fifties.” She nodded. “They repaired the roof but didn’t fix the damage. I guess they weren’t using those rooms at the time.”
When she’d talked to her sister, she’d said it was bad. Had she meant the damage or the cost?
And why should he care? The sections of Fitzgerald House he’d seen were clean and well maintained. That was all that should concern him.
But renovations were his business. His parents’ library restoration had gotten him hooked on rehab and real estate. “So what are your plans for the third floor?”
“More guest rooms.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table.
He ate while she talked. He plied her with questions because it was fun to see her eyes sparkle. Not that it took much prodding. It was easy to see that Abby really loved this old mansion. Loved what she and her sisters were creating.
Strange to think of working with your family.
“When do you start?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Right now we’re exploring the costs.”
She nibbled on her lip again.
Gray looked down at his plate, unwilling to watch her teeth work over that pink lip. He blinked in surprise. His plate was empty, though he didn’t remember finishing.
Abby noticed and brought over a tray of bars.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Decaf, if you have it.”
Abby ground beans and set an industrial-size coffeemaker to brewing. She gathered up a notepad and a pen before sitting back down.
“I need to get an idea of your likes and dislikes,” she said. “Any allergies?”
“None. If tonight is an example, anything you fix will be better than what I normally eat.” He’d have to look at pushing his housekeeper to be a little more adventurous.
“Beef, chicken, fish or pasta?” she asked.
“All of the above. I’ll eat anything.” He bit into a bar and groaned. “This is incredible.”
“Brandy-pecan bars.” She made a note.
His cell phone rang. His sister.
“Excuse me.” He paced to the back of the kitchen and a small sitting area. The space overlooked a patio and garden lit with decorative lights.
“Hey, gorgeous, what’s up?” he asked, finishing his bar.
“How could you?” Courtney blasted his eardrums without saying hello.
“How could I what?” Gray knew why she was calling. He forced his fingers to relax. He should never have dated his sister’s best friend.
“You sent Gwen a breakup bracelet,” she whispered.
How did his sister know that was his trick for getting out of relationships? “Stay out of this.”
“Hang on,” his sister said.
“Courtney, I’m—”
“Gray?” Gwen’s voice was so soft he almost couldn’t hear it over his pulse pounding in his ear.
He closed his eyes. “Yes?”
“Did you mean the bracelet to be a...a parting gift?”
It had worked before. “We broke up.”
“But Mark and Liz invited us to the vineyard next weekend.”
“Gwen.” He closed his eyes. “I won’t be home. I’m working in Savannah. Even if I was back in Boston, we wouldn’t be together.”
“But they—” She hesitated. “They expect us.”
His headache was back, the pressure building behind his eyes. He should have read her emails. Then he could have avoided this phone call. “I’m not coming home for a damn party.”
In the beginning of their relationship, going to parties every weekend had been exciting. Gwen’s energy had been thrilling. Now she exhausted him.
“When will you be home?” Her voice was quiet and low. “I think we should talk.”
He took a deep breath. “No, Gwen.”
“Oh.”
He rubbed the cords at the back of his neck. What a disaster. There were too many connections between his family and Gwen’s. Their mothers had been best friends since college. Gwen and his sister had been best friends forever. It had been a mistake to date someone so entrenched in his family.
He glanced over at Abby as she filled a coffeepot. “I have to go. Say goodbye to Courtney for me.”
He shut his phone off, but the call had soured his night. Back at the table, Abby poured his coffee. He tried to neutralize his expression, but he could feel himself frowning.
“I need to ask about lunch,” Abby said. “Are sandwiches okay?”
He added cream to his cup and sipped. Great coffee. “Sandwiches are fine.”
“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll serve your dinner in the dining room.”
Listening to Abby describe the B and B’s renovations had been the most relaxing dinner he’d had in months. He didn’t want to eat alone in the dining room. “I’m good with the kitchen.”
“Really?” She blinked her green eyes.
He wanted to relax. And she was calm personified. “The kitchen’s fine.”
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_678bf4f7-1873-57f1-9927-7b9e12483ec1)
Rule #11—If cleanliness is next to godliness, then Fitzgerald House must be heaven.
Mamie Fitzgerald
GRAY CHECKED THE time again. The contractor was late. He glanced at his checklist. It was already early February, and he expected to complete the bulk of the work by July.
He shoved at a stack of cardboard piled in the middle of the warehouse floor. He couldn’t wait to get the renovations started, but he needed a contractor that matched his work ethic.
He’d never planned to work anywhere but New England. He had no contacts in Georgia. He shook his head. He hadn’t been able to refuse Derrick’s offer, even though he was sure his frat brother had remembered his phone number only because he’d needed financial help.
Gray slapped his hand on his thigh. Was Gwen any different? If he hadn’t been rich, would she have ever been interested in him? Maybe their similar backgrounds and mutual friends had made their relationship too easy.
Maybe that was why he couldn’t commit. His family wanted him to settle down with Gwen. But he wasn’t convinced a relationship with her would make him happy.
Relationships were a mystery to him, but he trusted his construction knowledge. He knocked on the sturdy interior wall. This place could withstand hurricanes. It had been built on the Savannah River for commercial reasons, but the view would guarantee a good price for the condos.
The sun struggled to shine through grimy windows. He poured coffee from the thermos the B and B staff had sent with him this morning. He took a moment and sipped the strong brew laced with a hint of cinnamon.
At least here in Savannah, he wouldn’t have to attend parties and benefits for causes he didn’t believe in. He could avoid making small talk with people who didn’t share his interests.
His dinner conversation with Abby hadn’t been small talk. They’d talked about creating legacies and restoring a building that would last generations. There’d been reverence in her voice when she’d talked about her family’s B and B.
His phone buzzed. Gray looked at the call display and smiled. “Hello, Mother.”
“Grayson, how are you, dear? How’s Savannah?” Her voice was so Bostonian. So different from the warm drawls he’d heard all morning at Fitzgerald House.
“I’m in hog heaven.”
She groaned. “Gray.”
“Georgia’s great.” He nodded. “The bed-and-breakfast I’m staying at is fascinating. Built in the early 1800s, so you’d feel right at home.”
“I hope you’re not implying anything about my age, dear.”
His laugh echoed in the cavernous room. It sounded—rusty. “Never.”
“Well, no matter how lovely Savannah is, I could never live there. Boston has always been home.”
His mother had grown up in Maine, but he let it go.
“How’s your warehouse?” she asked.
“A disaster.”
“I hear that glee in your voice. You can’t wait to get started.”
“You know me too well.”
“Well, don’t be too much of a perfectionist. I would like to see you sometime. I know you said you’d be there for six months, but you will come home, won’t you? It is possible I might miss my only son.”
And he would miss her. If he was here long enough, he might even miss his sister, Courtney, but not if she kept pushing Gwen his way.
“I’m sure I’ll come home, but why don’t you and Dad come down for a long weekend? I can work something out with the B and B. If my breakfast today was an example, you won’t push away from the table unhappy. Pick a weekend.”
“Your father and I will discuss it.”
“Savannah is amazing,” he said, trying to entice her.
Yesterday, he’d driven through tree-lined streets around squares filled with statues, fountains and people. “I walked to work this morning.” He sighed. “February, and I wore a light jacket.”
The city had sparkled. The air had been cool but springlike. The stress had sluiced off him like paint peeling off a roller. “Come down. Bring Dad and that little pest, Courtney, too.”
“She’s the reason I called.”
“What’s she done now?” He watched a container ship chug up the river.
“Rather, it’s what she says you’ve done. Did you really leave town without telling Gwendolyn?”
“We broke up.” He turned away from the window, fingers choking the phone. “We haven’t seen each other for over two weeks.”
If what he and Gwen had had was special, he should miss her by now. All he felt was relief.
“Gwen’s from such a good family,” his mother said. “I’d hoped you’d suit. She’s lovely and her manners are impeccable.”
Gwen was his match, born of the right people, as his mother would say. She’d forced him to think about more than work. Forced him to get out and do things. She loved parties, loved having throngs of people around her. And she rarely took no for an answer.
Her constant need to be with people, to party, had worn him down. That wasn’t how he wanted to spend his life. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it wasn’t crowds of people. Peace seemed too nebulous a desire.
“We don’t fit together.” Gray rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the itch that ran up his spine. Why couldn’t he commit? “I’m not ready to settle down.”
“Perhaps absence will make the heart grow fonder. Her mother and I would love to plan a wedding.”
Her words were like the plop of slushy Boston snow invading the collar of his coat.
“I’m not ready to get married,” he said. “My life’s exactly the way I want it.”
“If your life was perfect, I’d have grandchildren.”
“So talk to Courtney.”
The picture of Gwen as a mother didn’t materialize. Abby’s colorful skirt floating around dynamite legs flashed through his mind. He shook his head, but the image stayed.
“You’re thirty-three,” his mother began. It was a familiar refrain and not one he wanted to listen to again.
A door banged, rescuing him.
“The contractor is here.” Finally. “I’ll call when I can.”
No time to argue grandkids with his mother. He had a building to finish.
* * *
CHERYL CLOSED THE back door of her car with her hip. “Here’s your backpack,” she said, handing Joshua the Spider-Man bag filled with his few toys.
They walked through a garden leading from the B and B’s small parking lot. God, her car looked out of place among the guests’ late-model SUVs and luxury sedans.
Her car was more rust than metal. The gray hood didn’t match the green paint on the rest of the body. And it sucked gas and oil like a drunk with a bottle of hooch. But it ran.
They passed a small table in a secluded section of the courtyard. The table was all but hidden from the house and the rest of the grounds. This would work.
She swallowed. “Okay. Wait here for me.” She pulled out Josh’s crayons and a pad of paper. “Draw a picture. I won’t be long.”
Josh looked up at her, his big brown eyes so like Brad’s her heart ached. “Can’t I come with you?”
“I wish you could, but I have to talk to a woman about working here.” She had to get this job. To keep Josh safe, she had to earn a living. She couldn’t go back.
“The rainbow house?”
“Yes, the rainbow house.” She knelt and cupped his cheeks. “Don’t talk to anyone. If you get scared, run to the car and lock yourself in.”
“Like you taught me when Uncle Levi smelled funny and got mean.” He looked solemn and older than a five-year-old ever should. “I run fast, jump in the car and slam down the lock.”
“Yup.” She was a terrible mother, leaving her son alone in a strange place like this. She brushed a kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll be right back.”
She hurried around the corner of the house and up the stairs.
The entry was empty. She pushed the buzzer on the desk.
The house was big. She hadn’t really noticed the day before. When they’d walked up the steps, Joshua had spotted the rainbows and taken off before she could get much sense of their surroundings.
“Can I help you?” An older woman came down the hall.
“I’m here to see...” Her mind went blank.
“Are you Cheryl? No last name?” the woman filled in.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re here to see me. I’m Marion. Last name Winters.”
“Cheryl Henshaw.” After running from Atlanta, she’d decided to use her mother’s maiden name. Levi shouldn’t be able to find them, since he’d never heard the name before.
Marion pointed to a small parlor. “We can talk in here.”
“This house is beautiful.” The words rushed out.
“That it is. And it takes dedication and elbow grease to keep it that way.”
The rich smell of coffee mingled with the scent of lemon wood polish. Cheryl stared at a tray with two coffee mugs and a plate of banana bread. The aromas intensified her light-headedness, and she sank onto the sofa.
“Take a sip.” Marion pointed. “You won’t find coffee this good at any of those chain places.”
“Thank you.”
Marion picked up a second mug. “Are you from around here?”
“Atlanta most recently. Before that, Fort McPherson, though I grew up in Richmond.” Cheryl took a sip. “Oh, this is good.”
“How many years have you been cleaning?” Marion asked her.
Cheryl took another sip and then set her mug down. “I’ve cleaned all my life, but I’ve never...been paid to clean.”
“Oh.” Marion frowned.
“I know how to work hard. I won’t let you down.” Please, please, please.
Marion watched her, not saying a word.
Cheryl figured the interview was over. Sighing, she grabbed her wallet. Her Coach purse, a gift from Brad, had been hocked along with her wedding ring. She knew Brad would have understood; she needed to keep Josh safe.
She stood.
Where are you going?” Marion asked.
“I...assumed...” She pointed out of the room.
“Sit on down. Have a piece of that banana bread.”
Cheryl sank into her chair. She couldn’t swallow much more than the coffee.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.” Marion tapped her finger on her nose. “We’ll try you out for a couple of days.”
“You will?” Had she really heard Marion right?
“Sure. Miss Abby says you’ve got a little boy.”
“I do.” She wanted to tell this woman with the warm brown eyes that her son was waiting in the garden for her. If she did, would Marion rescind the offer? “He’s an angel.”
“I’m sure he is. Can you start today? That damn fool, Kikki, took off for California with her boyfriend. Going to be movie stars or some such nonsense. Put me in a bind leaving without notice.”
Today? “I... I’d love to. But my son. He’s here, outside, waiting for me in the courtyard.” Her words ran together.
Marion tilted her head. “He’s here?”
“I don’t...” She took a deep breath, her face burning with embarrassment. “Miss Winters, I don’t have money for day care.” Without money for rent, how could she pay someone to watch her child?
“Is he in school yet?”
Cheryl shook her head. “He just turned five. He won’t start kindergarten until September.” If they were here that long. Staying away from Levi was more important than staying in one place.
“I’ll bet he would love some of this banana bread.” A grin spread across the older woman’s face. “It’ll keep him busy while I show you the ropes.”
As the meaning of Marion’s words sank in, Cheryl burst into tears. “Thank you!”
Marion moved over and laid a gentle hand on Cheryl’s arm. “Now, now. No need for all that. Let’s see how your boy is doing.”
* * *
ABBY PUSHED THE remnants of lunch to the end of the kitchen table and convened the weekly Fitzgerald House staff meeting.
Dolley checked her laptop. “This week we have three sets of Moons checking in—two today, one on Wednesday. There’s a Scrapbooking Sister group coming in today, thanks to Bess’s efforts—two rooms and one of the parlors for their work.”
“There’s a group coming for the Scary Sister weekend—three rooms. They’re staying Friday through Monday.” Dolley tucked her bright red curls behind her ears. “Another Repeater couple, oh...it’s their fortieth anniversary. Neat. They’ll be here Saturday and Sunday.”
“So I need three honeymoons and one anniversary basket. Got it,” said Marion.
“Ten out of twelve rooms occupied.” Abby grinned. “Nigel, keep the vacancy sign up. I’d love to fill up this weekend.”
If they could keep up this pace and open more rooms, they would easily make their balloon payment. Assuming nothing else broke down.
“That’s better than last year at this time.” Dolley tipped her chair back on two legs. “We need to firm up Fitzgerald House’s St. Paddy’s Day plans.”
“Give me a couple of days.” Abby took a deep breath. The celebration, parade and bedlam would be here before they knew it.
“I can pull together the packages.” There was an unexpected sharpness to Dolley’s tone.
The group around the table went quiet. Abby pushed her hair back and looked at her sister. “You already do so much.”
“So do you,” Dolley replied.
“But I don’t have to hold down an outside job,” Abby explained.
“That doesn’t mean you have to do everything around here.” Dolley pointed a finger at her.
Marion patted Abby’s arm. “If she’s volunteering, let her do the work.” She leaned in. “You need to learn to take help when it’s offered.”
“I do,” Abby said defensively.
Marion raised her eyebrows. “And be gracious when you do.”
Abby huffed out a breath. “Thanks, Dolley.”
Her sister rolled her eyes.
Abby looked at her to-do list without seeing it. She did let people help her.
“Nigel,” she said. “The hallway near Eleanor Roosevelt needs touching up—again.”
He nodded, running his fingers through his white hair. How much longer would they have him to rely on? They’d celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday last month.
He’d been driver, handyman, assistant gardener and jack-of-all-trades since Mamma had first turned their home into a B and B.
“I think we should add wainscoting in the hall,” he suggested. “It’s too narrow. People bump the walls with their luggage. It would take a little more of a beating and we wouldn’t have to paint the whole wall.”
The group discussed the hallway and the following weekend’s catering event.
Abby checked her notes. “Nigel, Bess would like the tables set up by four-thirty, so she can bring in the flower arrangements.”
Bess was part owner and operator of Fitzgerald House, but she also worked at a local florist and landscaping business, which was why she rarely attended the staff meetings.
“I’ll shoot you copies of the St. Paddy’s Day info before I post it.” Dolley closed her laptop. “I’ve got to get back. My client is howling for his website redesign. Can I help it if he’s changed his mind—three times?”
Abby couldn’t wait for the day that her sisters didn’t have to work second jobs. Someday the B and B would support them all. She would make it happen.
Nigel picked up his notebook. “I’ll paint the hallway tomorrow and get those bids on wainscoting. Got to get to it.” He ambled out the door.
“Hey, Abs, it’s karaoke night at McMillian’s.” Dolley slipped her computer into a messenger bag. “Want to go?”
“I’ll pass. I barely wake up with two alarms now. If I gallivanted with a night owl like you, our guests wouldn’t get breakfast tomorrow. Plus, I have an association meeting tonight.”
“Your loss.” Dolley shrugged on her jacket.
“Any more surprises coming this week?” Abby asked. Although having dinner with Gray hadn’t been a hardship.
“I’m sorry about the Smythe mix-up, really, I am.” Dolley tucked her phone into her pocket. “I was working on the arrangements but didn’t want to get your hopes up. The assistant was talking to two other places at the same time. Originally, he’d asked for a twenty-percent discount.”
“I’m glad you talked him down to ten percent.” She touched her sister’s hand. “You’re our best negotiator.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But her sister grinned. “We need new registration software. After I shifted the other bookings, I had to wait for a system backup before locking in Smythe’s reservation.”
“We need a lot of things. We need to fix the third-floor water damage. We need to open more rooms. But foremost, we need to make the loan payment.”
Personally, Abby would like to replace her eight-year-old car, but that wouldn’t get her any closer to restoring the main house and opening Southern Comforts. Hard work, frugality and dedication were the only ways she would open her own restaurant.
“You’re right. Loan payment first.” Dolley sighed and headed out the door.
Marion pushed her wiry body away from the table. “You know you can’t live and breathe the B and B. A young, pretty thing like you should be out enjoying yourself.”
Enjoying herself? “I’ve got a business to run.”
“And you do it well.” Marion wrapped her arm around Abby’s shoulders. “Just don’t be afraid to accept help when it’s offered and to have a little fun.”
“I feel guilty.” Abby leaned her head on Marion’s shoulder. “Both Dolley and Bess work so hard.”
“And so do you.” Marion gave her a quick, tight hug. “But there’s more to life than Fitzgerald House. If your mamma wasn’t taking care of your aunt in Atlanta, she’d say the same thing. Live a little.”
Abby didn’t think so. When Papa had died, Mamma had worked 24/7 to make their home into a B and B. Enjoying life would come after Abby had opened her restaurant. “I’ll think about it.”
She had goals to achieve. She didn’t have time for fun.
Marion gathered up her notebook. “By the way, I hired Cheryl, trial run.”
“Good.”
“Her boy is here with her. I said it would be okay until she got her feet under her. Don’t be surprised if he’s in the garden or near his mom.”
“Of course.” Marion had a big heart. “Do you think they want some sandwiches?”
Marion grinned and then piled the uneaten sandwiches on a plate. “I’ll check how she’s doing. I’m thinking these will be appreciated. She ’bout fainted at the sight of your banana bread.”
* * *
GRAY WALKED INTO the sunroom, and Abby almost dropped the food and tea description cards she’d been setting out for teatime. No man should look that good in jeans and a chambray shirt.
Her face warmed. At dinner last night, he’d encouraged her to tell him about Fitzgerald House. He’d been easy to talk to. Had she talked too much?
No. If she had, he wouldn’t have insisted on eating in the kitchen from now on. Right?
Mamma always advised her daughters not to get involved with guests. So Abby would stay professional if it killed her.
“Hi,” she said. “Are you done working for the day?”
“I just met with a contractor,” he said. “Now I need other options. I hope you can help or point me in the right direction.”
“I’ll try.” Why was Gray in Savannah for six months? She should have asked when he’d registered, but yesterday had been...awkward.
She set the cards by the teapots and straightened the napkins. Still not quite looking at him, she asked, “What are you doing in Savannah?”
“Rehabbing a warehouse on River Street.”
“The one that the work started and stopped on last year? I remember the man who owned it, but he hasn’t been around for a while.” He’d stayed at Fitzgerald House several times.
“That’s the one. Derrick ran out of money and needed to liquidate fast.” Gray had a gleam in his blue eyes. “I helped him out.”
It sounded more as if Gray had gotten a great bargain. “Will you still develop it as condominiums?”
He nodded. “Great location. Very marketable.”
Abby’s shoulders tightened. How many times had her daddy used the same phrase about the Tybee Island condos he’d started to develop? Great location. Those condos had sat for years half built, looking sad and lonely. Actually, the previous owner of Gray’s River Street warehouse reminded her of her father. Smiling, charming and unable to finish what he started.
Because of her father, her mother’s family mansion was now a B and B. Because of her father, she and her sisters’ college funds had disappeared. Instead of going to football or basketball games, they’d learned how to make beds and clean rooms.
Marion came in, wheeling the loaded tea trolley and distracting Abby from her thoughts.
“Marion, this is Mr. Smythe,” Abby said.
“We met this morning.” Marion maneuvered the trolley across the room. “How was your warehouse?”
“A mess.” Gray eyed the food on the trolley as though he hadn’t eaten in months.
“You’ll soon set it to rights.” Marion moved to the fireplace and turned on the gas flames. “There. That’ll take the chill off the room.”
“Thanks, Marion,” Abby said, amused by the way Gray gaped at the food.
“My mother would kill for that trolley.”
Abby could believe it. The silver four-tiered trolley was an heirloom that her own mother had always loved. She set the description cards next to each platter.
“It’s been in the family for generations. Did you have enough to eat for lunch?” Abby had made two sandwiches, but she didn’t know how big an appetite her guest had.
“Lunch was great.” Gray headed over to the trolley. “But I’ve got room for one of those bars.”
If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, all she had to do to win Gray’s was make him her brandy-pecan bars.
“Coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Coffee.” He demolished one bar. “I’ll have to run to Atlanta and back each day if I keep eating this way,” he mumbled around a second bar.
She poured his coffee and set the cup and saucer next to his chair.
As she left, she whispered to Marion, “Let me know if I need to bring up more bars.”
She was almost out the door when he called, “Wait, Abby, I have a question.”
She paused. He waved her over to a chair, before taking another bar.
“Can you recommend any contractors?” he asked. “I’m putting the work out for bids.”
Settling into the chair, she tried to remember who’d worked on the warehouse before Gray took over. “Did you talk to Jeb Haskins?”
“Just met with him.” He frowned. “Not letting that guy back on the project. I have a couple of other names, but I like the work you’ve done on your B and B. I wondered who you’d used.”
“I can give you the names, but our focus has always been on restoration. I’m not sure this would be the same kind of job.”
“You’re right—I’m not looking for restoration, but I need a contractor who’s experienced with old buildings.”
Abby’s heart warmed at his respectful tone. “I use Sam Forester. He’s done all the work here since we started. He and his son, Daniel, run a local construction company. I’ll call and see who he’d recommend.”
“Thanks. Add this Forester to the list, too, would you? They’ve done a nice job here.”
She froze. Gray wanted to talk to the Foresters? Samuel fit their work in between his other projects to help keep her costs low. Gray’s work might slow down her own restoration.
But she couldn’t keep business from Sam and Daniel. They were practically family.
Hoping he hadn’t noticed her delay, she said, “I can do that.”
Abby tapped her lip, thinking of other contractors she could direct him to.
Gray stared at her mouth, making Abby’s heart beat a little faster. What was it the magazines said? If a man stared at your mouth, he was thinking of kissing you?
“I’ll be back with those phone numbers.” She scrambled out of the chair. “Have another bar.”
He could have a bar, not her.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and inhaled. A man had stared at her mouth and stolen her breath.
* * *
AFTER ABBY LEFT, ten older women swooped into the sunroom. Half of them had the soft drawl Gray associated with Savannah and wore outrageous red hats. The other group was on one of those sisters things, like the ladies in the library last night.
Gray made polite chitchat for a few minutes. Then he guarded the pecan bars and let the women have the sandwiches. Their conversations churned around him.
His thoughts drifted to Abby. Today she wore a khaki skirt and sleeveless white blouse, and he’d wondered if she lifted weights to keep her arms so trim. As he’d been pondering what those plump pink lips would taste like, she’d taken off.
Abby came back into the parlor, giving no sign that she’d felt even slightly uncomfortable. She worked the room, setting a hand to a shoulder or giving a quick buss on the cheek to the red-hat women. She sat on an ottoman next to the ladies from the sister outing and asked about their day. Her smile wasn’t the practiced one she’d given him earlier. This smile shone like a beacon.
Once she’d made her rounds, she stepped toward him. “I’ve talked to Samuel. He’s come up with two contractors he feels are qualified.”
She handed him a note written in clear, precise script.
“Thanks. I appreciate the help,” he said.
“No problem.” Glancing over at the trolley, she added, “I can bring out more pecan bars if you want.”
He shook his head. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”
She laughed. “Only in the kitchen.”
Gray watched her walk away, appreciating her fine ass.
He grabbed another bar and cup of coffee and carried it into the courtyard garden to make his calls. He sat at a cast-iron table tucked under a green umbrella on the patio.
He set up appointments with contractors for that afternoon. When he phoned the Foresters he got the son, Daniel.
“Fitzgerald House still serves wine at five-thirty?” Daniel asked.
“They did last night, Argentinean wines.” And damn fine appetizers.
“I’ll just invite myself to happy hour. Then we can walk over to your building after a glass of wine.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Pleased with his progress, Gray propped his feet on another chair and took a sip of coffee. He smiled at the fountain, a huge frog spewing water over copper lily pads. He could even swear he saw a bronze troll wink from where it was half-hidden under a palm tree.
The gardens were an intense green loaded with splashes of color. If his mother could see the landscaping, she’d probably try to lure their gardener back to Boston with her. He inhaled a lungful of flowery scents. The sun warmed his shoulders and eased the tension in his muscles.
There was something about this place. He could almost close his eyes and take a nap. For the first time he could remember, he noticed birds singing.
His phone buzzed. “Smythe.”
“Gray, my friend. How’s business?”
“Good.” He didn’t recognize the voice, and the number had come up as private.
“Just wondering if you’ve considered my proposition.”
He still didn’t know who he was talking to. “Who is this?”
“Jeremy Atwater. I ran into you at the opera opener last month. Intermission.”
Gray frowned, trying to picture the guy.
“We talked about a great biotech investment opportunity,” Atwater said. “You wanted to think about investing in the company.”
Ding. Gwen had dragged him to the opening. This yahoo had caught him while he’d waited in the drink line.
“We’re putting together a ten-million-dollar tranche. I’d love to get together and talk about how much of the tranche you’d like to take, unless you and your dad want to take the whole thing.” Atwater laughed.
Gray gripped the table’s edge. “I’m out of town. I’ll have to forgo this opportunity.”
“Oh.” Atwater’s tone dripped with disappointment. “I could talk to your father.”
“You could.”
“Umm. I can’t get past his assistant.”
Gray shook his head. “I’ll mention you called.” It was as much as he would commit.
“Great, great.” Atwater rattled off his phone numbers, though Gray was barely listening.
Even from a thousand miles away, the vultures found him and tapped him for money. He closed his eyes and rubbed at the headache now pounding in his temples.
“Hey, mister, can we catch rainbows again?” a small voice asked.
Gray looked up into a face dominated by a pair of brown eyes. How had the kid snuck up on him? “Joshua, right?”
“Yup.” The boy scratched at an ugly-looking scab on his hand. “Can we go catch rainbows?”
Gray checked his watch. “Sorry, kid, it’s too early.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
“Are you staying here?” Gray asked. He’d thought he’d heard Abby and Joshua’s mom talking about a job, but maybe he’d been mistaken.
“Mommy’s working.” Josh kept rubbing at the small circular scab.
“You shouldn’t pick at that,” Gray warned.
“It itches.”
“That’s your skin healing. But you don’t want to rip it off too soon, or it might get infected.”
“I had infected before.” The boy started to pull up his sleeve.
“Joshua!” His mother came out through a side door. She was twisting a cloth in her hand. Her face was as torqued as the cloth.
The boy turned and ran to her. “The rainbows aren’t here yet. I have to wait.”
His mom knelt. “I said you could sit at one of the tables, but you can’t bother the guests.”
“But he’s at the frog table.” Joshua pointed.
“You can sit here,” Gray said. “I have...things to do.”
Joshua’s mom grabbed his hand and took a quick step back. “I’m sorry he disturbed you.”
“No problem.” The young woman was as skittish as the feral cat he’d brought home when he was ten. “So you got the job.”
She inched away, glancing at the door she’d just come through. “I did. But it’s on a trial basis.”
“Well, good luck.” Gray stood and started gathering his things. “Joshua can sit at the table.”
The little boy snatched up a well-used backpack. It flopped on the chair.
“You’re a guest.” The woman was twisting her hands again.
“No problem. I’m Gray.”
“Umm, Cheryl.”
“Nice to meet you.” He nodded to Joshua. “Be good for your mother.”
The little boy took out a pack of crayons and a well-filled tablet of paper. He waved without looking up from his scribbling. “Bye.”
Gray shouldn’t be lounging in a garden anyway. People who wanted to succeed didn’t sit around drinking coffee in the middle of the day.
* * *
ABBY SMOOTHED THE cranberry pencil skirt that ended a couple of inches above her knees and did a little spin. The matching jacket floated away from a white shell that showed a hint of cleavage.
“Looking good, Abs. Who are you trying to drive crazy with that suit?” Bess leaned against the kitchen table, snacking on a carrot stick.
“Jacob Tinsley.”
“Do tell,” her sister encouraged.
“I want to show him what he can’t have.” Abby tugged her jacket back into place. “He’s asked me out at every meeting for the past three months. Then I discovered he’s living with one woman and dating another.”
Was there something about her that attracted cheaters? First Maurice and now Jacob. Unfortunately, she’d been engaged to Maurice.
“I never liked Jacob,” Bess said.
Abby could always count on her sister’s support.
“Mr. Smythe’s dinner is in the warming drawer. He likes vinaigrette on his salad. It’s in the fridge on the middle shelf.”
She walked Bess through the to-do list, even though she’d left instructions pinned to the kitchen bulletin board. “Serve the Petite Sirah with his stew.”
“Trust me, I can handle this. I’ve hosted tastings for years.” Bess looked at her watch and pointed to the doorway. “Out. No one will walk off in a huff because you miss an evening.”
Abby kissed her sister and inhaled Bess’s scent of earth and flowers. “Sorry to obsess. It’s been a crazy start to the week.”
Crazy because of their long-term guest, but she wasn’t going to tell her sister about this weird attraction she was feeling. She could barely admit it to herself.
* * *
GRAY HAD TIMED his arrival in the library perfectly. Abby’s back was to him as she uncorked a wine bottle. He was the first guest to arrive.
“What’s the theme tonight?” he asked.
She turned and his smile dimmed. This woman’s hair was almost the same color, but she wasn’t Abby.
“Hello,” she said with a warm smile.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Abby.”
“Thank you. My sister is lovely, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” The woman’s smile filled her face. “I’m Bess.”
“Nice to meet you. You and your sister look alike.”
But the two sisters were different, too. Bess’s nose was splattered with freckles. Her eyes had more gold in them than Abby’s emerald ones. Abby’s hair was an intriguing shade of strawberry blonde, while Bess’s was redder. And when Bess smiled, his body didn’t come to attention.
“What are the appetizers tonight?” he asked, trying to focus.
“Your theme is California Dreams. Artichoke dip, grilled tomatoes, olive tapenade, carrots, celery and other nibblers. California wines, of course.”
Setting down the wine bottle, Bess extended her hand. He shook it, surprised at both the strength and callouses. She smelled like flowers with an earthiness he couldn’t identify.
“I’m Gray Smythe.”
She laughed, making him frown.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that Abs was so mad. She didn’t know about your arrangements before you arrived. Dolley wasn’t able to get your information into the reservation system.” She leaned over and whispered, “Our sister wants new software.”
“There’s three of you, right?” He’d read that tidbit in the B and B’s pamphlet.
“Three girls. Our poor mother.” She opened another bottle and spoke over her shoulder. “Dolley’s the baby. She’s our computer expert and bookkeeper.”
“What can I pour for you?” Bess asked.
He looked at the offerings. “The cabernet, please.”
Bess poured a glass for him and then a small amount into another, swirling it around. She stuck her nose into the bowl and then sipped. “Nice.”
She leaned against the closest armchair, seeming more relaxed than Abby’s mysterious professional persona. “Is this your first visit to Savannah?”
“My second,” he replied. “Is February always this warm?”
“You Northerners,” she laughed, sinking into the chair. “This is cold.”
“When I left Boston, it was snowing.”
“If it ever snowed here, I’d lose half my gardens.” She frowned. “Of course, the blasted kudzu would survive.”
“I sat in the garden today. Your landscaper did a wonderful job.”
She blushed, a pink that highlighted her pale skin. “Thank you. I manage the gardens.”
“This really is a family operation.” And an impressive one. “You work in the garden—Abby in the kitchen.”
Without trying to show any interest, he sipped his wine and asked, “Where is Abby?” That sounded strange, so he added, “I wanted to thank her for getting the contractor names for me.”
“She’s at a Hospitality and Resort Association meeting.” A smile played across her lips. “Abs went dressed to kill just to mess with some guy who thought he could date three women at one time.”
“And he’s in the association?” He could understand any man being fascinated by Abby. She’d been popping into his head throughout the day. Probably because last night had been the nicest conversation he’d had in months.
“The jerk’s a manager at one of the area inns. He should know, no one treats a Fitzgerald like that and survives.” She stood and helped herself to a carrot stick. Crossing her ankles, she leaned against the table.
“Where are the rest of the guests?” he asked.
“Tuesday is our lowest census day. I like to chat with the guests, if that’s what they want, so I take the Tuesday wine tastings. Today, a couple of Moons checked in and there’s a group of ladies and two couples who leave tomorrow.”
“Moons? Honeymooners, right?” He moved over and loaded a plate with appetizers, chips and dip.
“Yeah. We get quite a few of them.”
A tall man walked in the room and Bess’s head jerked up, a frown creasing her forehead. “Forester, what are you doing here?”
Forester walked over and kissed her cheek. “Good to see you, babe.”
Her frown deepened. “Don’t call me that.”
Forester winked and then poured himself a glass of wine.
“Are you taking a room?” She crossed her arms, scowling.
Gray hid his grin by sipping his wine.
“I’m meeting one of your guests.” Forester chucked her under the chin. “Let me get some business done, and then you and I can catch up.”
Gray walked over to him. The man looked around his age, early thirties. “Daniel Forester, I presume.”
“Got me in one. Nice to meet you, Grayson Smythe from Boston.”
“Gray works best.”
“Gray it is,” Daniel said. “Whenever you’re ready, we can stroll over to your warehouse.”
“Finish your wine. I’ll have a little more of this dip.” Gray patted his stomach. “I need to start swinging a hammer, or they’ll have to roll me back to Boston.”
“Our Abby is a dream in the kitchen,” Daniel said.
Were he and Abby involved? Gray’s shoulders tightened. The answer shouldn’t matter. He’d left Boston to get off that particular merry-go-round.
“Do you know the previous warehouse owner?” asked Daniel.
“He’s more than an acquaintance, but not quite a friend.”
Daniel nodded. “He rarely came down to see the project. The rehab should be done by now.”
“I’d agree with you on that. If we end up working together, I should tell you that I’m a hands-on manager,” warned Gray.
“I can live with that.”
As Gray finished his wine, one of the honeymoon couples he’d met this morning entered the library. How did they know they could spend a lifetime together? He’d never come close to feeling that about anyone.
As they left the room, Forester said, “How the hell do they know they’re making the right choice?”
“I’m with you there. At least we know buildings can weather the storms. Let’s go look at mine.”
* * *
ABBY PARKED HER car next to the carriage house. The kitchen lights were on; Bess must be cleaning up. Maybe they could have a cup of chamomile tea before she headed to bed. Bess had added an herbal garden a couple of years ago and now made teas for the B and B. Abby loved having fresh herbs on hand for cooking.
She sighed as she got closer to the kitchen door. The cat had been hunting again and had left his prey on the step. Not the most appealing sight to come home to. Opening the door, she spotted Bess lounging in the alcove. “Reggie’s left us a gift. I’d rather not clean it up dressed like this. I can’t even bend over in this skirt. Will you get it, please?”
“Sure,” Bess said. “How was the meeting?”
“The association contracted with a new food distributor. I’ll check out their products and pricing. And the board is talking about raising the dues.” Abby filled the kettle before turning to the table.
“Gray,” she exclaimed. She hadn’t expected to find him there. Darn it, her face had to match her raspberry suit. And her other sister was at the table, too. “Dolley?”
“Love the suit, Abs.” Dolley pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks for the ideas, Gray.”
“Anything I need to know about?” Abby asked as Dolley slipped by her.
“Gray and I were talking about the third floor. He had some ideas on how to make sure the rooms are soundproofed.” Dolley gave her a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Watch out for Reggie’s gifts,” Abby said as Dolley headed out the door. How had their remodel come up?
Bess rocked to her feet. “What did Reggie leave?”
Abby shivered. “Rabbits. Two of them.”
“That’s two bunnies who won’t be dining in my garden.” Bess moved toward the door. “You’ve got to love a serial-killer cat.”
“You may love him, but I don’t like finding his gifts by the door.”
Bess gave her a quick hug on her way out. “See you tomorrow.”
The screen door slapped closed as her sisters left.
Without Dolley’s and Bess’s presence, Gray seemed to dominate the room.
Abby poured boiling water over the leaves, tapping her fingers as the tea brewed. She couldn’t just stand here for three minutes. She gathered up the pot and her mug and moved over to the table, hoping her face had returned to its normal color.
“So did you drive him crazy?” he asked.
“What?”
“The jerk that suit was meant for?”
Embarrassed, she swore under her breath. She brushed nonexistent lint off her sleeve. “He drooled—blubbered actually. I was cold and professional. I ground him under my heel.”
“I’ll bet you did.” Gray toasted her with his wineglass. She froze as his gaze trailed slowly down her body. It was almost as if his fingers followed the same path. Suddenly the room felt like a sauna.
Swallowing, she picked up his plate. “Dessert?”
“No. In the past two days I’ve had a year’s worth of sweets.”
“Port, then?”
“I’d prefer cognac, if you have it. Otherwise port is fine.”
She moved across the hall to the butler’s pantry and took a deep breath. When that didn’t calm her, she took another before retrieving a bottle and glasses.
“Say when,” she said, pouring.
Instead of telling her, he cupped her hand, lifting the bottle. A zing shot through her arm. The bottle chattered against the rim of the crystal tumbler.
Gray didn’t seem affected by their touch.
“Thanks again for the contractor leads,” he said. “I’ll get their bids, but I have a feeling I’ll pick Forester.”
Abby blinked, sinking into a chair. Her contractors? She’d screwed up her own restoration by being nice. “You’ve met with everyone already?”
“Can’t stand to have the place looking like a bombed-out ruin.”
“You’re showing your Yankee.” And the fact that he didn’t have to worry about cash flow. What would that be like? “The summer heat will knock that impatience right out of you. Eventually you’ll slow down.”
“Like you?” He shook his head. “You’re everywhere. When do you take time off?”
She frowned. “Never.”
What a timely reminder. She needed to ignore any zings flying around her kitchen. Fitzgerald House was the most important thing in her life, and it deserved her full attention.
* * *
ABBY ADDED OLIVE oil and a dab of butter to her sauté pan.
“I hate to repeat myself—” Gray moved into the kitchen carrying an open bottle of cabernet “—but it smells incredible in here.”
His smile had Abby melting like sorbet on a summer day. Earlier, she’d caught herself fantasizing about touching the dimple that appeared on his left cheek whenever he grinned.
Absolutely never get involved with a guest. She’d been repeating Mamma’s rule often. Mamma had once dated a guest who’d stayed at Fitzgerald House for an extended visit. He’d later turned out to be married.
Abby was pretty sure Gray was single, but she didn’t dare ask such a personal question. After nearly two weeks of dinners, she and Gray had yet to run out of topics to discuss, often talking well into the evening. She hadn’t laughed this much since her childhood.
She could look but not touch. Their agreement with Gray was profitable and she didn’t want to upset anything that helped Fitzgerald House.
Gray grabbed dishes from the pantry. He was a guest, but insisted on setting the table.
“Stop. You don’t have to help.” Abby waved her hand. She’d planned to get it done before he came in.
He swung by the range, dropping off a glass of wine for her. “I told you, I don’t mind.”
But she did. He was a guest. She took a deep breath.
“I haven’t seen you around today.” She’d wandered into the rooms where guests gathered on the off chance that he might be there. She hadn’t been so foolish since her days of high school crushes.
“I spent the morning at the warehouse and then drove to Hilton Head to visit friends.”
“How lovely.” Abby hadn’t been to Hilton Head in too long.
“It should have been nice.”
His tone of voice, so stern, made her turn toward him. “It wasn’t?”
“No.” His lips formed a straight line.
“Why not?” She tried to sound casual as she sliced mushrooms for dinner.
“The wife was looking for funding for a summer camp.” He took a sip of his wine. “She invited me to lunch to tap me for a donation.”
That didn’t sound so bad. “Good cause?”
He snorted. “Cheerleading camp.”
“For underprivileged children?”
“Not in her world. I should have known she’d try something.”
The mushrooms sizzled as they hit the sauté pan. “Why would you think that?”
“Everyone wants something—usually it’s money.”
What kind of world did he live in? “That can’t always be true.”
“Always.”
“Do people ask you for money often?” she asked.
He pulled salad dressing from the fridge and set it on the table. “All the time. When I first got here, it was an investment banker and a biotech opportunity.”
She chuckled. “That’s sounds like a joke.”
“Not when he was looking for ten million dollars.”
Her spoon clanged in her saucepan. “Holy cow. You have that kind of money?” she blurted out.
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Throw some of it my way,” she said under her breath. They could finish off Fitzgerald House and put in gold-plated faucets.
His back stiffened.
She hadn’t meant for him to hear her.
“Does this happen to your whole family?”
“Mostly to me and my dad, but my mother has her own charities.”
Abby asked about his family, and they sipped wine as she finished preparing dinner.
“You’ve seen me with my family. How is yours different?” she asked, wondering whether money changed things there, too.
He didn’t answer. Maybe she’d overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. “Forget I asked.”
He held up a hand. “No, I was thinking about your question.”
She flipped the mushrooms while waiting for his response.
“You and your sisters are close.” He nodded. “You have each other’s backs.”
“Of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about that kind of loyalty. You have something special. Something I admire.”
“And your family isn’t like that?” How sad.
He lifted his glass for another sip of wine, but the glass was empty, and he set it down. “No. Maybe it’s because I only have a younger sister, but she’s not someone I would trust with anything important. I keep waiting for her to grow up but it hasn’t happened yet. I love them, but family for family’s sake isn’t that important to me.”
“I’m sorry.” Family was everything to her.
“I don’t know any different.” He rubbed his face, looking more tired than when he’d come in. “From what I’ve seen, you and your sisters are very lucky. It’s nice to see your family working together.”
She wanted to see him smile again and didn’t know how to make that happen. Eating seemed to make him happy. “Dinner’s ready.”
He leaned down to the beef tenderloin resting on the counter and inhaled. “My mouth is watering.”
She sliced the beef and added the mushrooms to the plates. Then she drizzled them both with the sauce she’d thickened. Roasted potatoes and green beans flanked the meat.
Gray waited through her prayer, his knife and fork already in hand.
“When I went to New York, this used to be my favorite meal,” Gray said. He took a bite. “Wow, it tastes just like it.”
“Maurice’s, right?” Maurice. The man who used me, made me believe I would be his partner in both the restaurant and his life, and then cheated on me.
“How did you know?”
“I was his sous chef.” She twisted her bare ring finger on her left hand.
“You lived in New York?”
“That’s where I went to culinary school.” Where she’d fallen in love. Where she’d been betrayed. “I worked at a couple of different restaurants before Maurice hired me.”
“I remember reading something in the menu.” She could almost see him processing the information. “They were rated, right?”
“Rising star the first year I was there.” Her work, her food, her cooking.
“What’s the scale?”
“Michelin ranks restaurants on a one to three scale. There aren’t a lot of three-star ratings. Rising star means that the restaurant has potential for a star in the future.” Would Gray laugh if she told him she wanted to run her own restaurant and earn a rating higher than that snake, Maurice?
“You’re an incredible chef. Why did you leave?”
Abby had crawled back home to lick her wounds after Maurice’s betrayal, but she couldn’t tell Gray that. “My great aunt has rheumatoid arthritis. About three years ago, Aunt CeCe needed more help. We’re the only family she has. Mamma’s in Atlanta with her now. My sisters and I took over running Fitzgerald House.”
Her vision of becoming the next Cat Cora on Iron Chef had evaporated. All her energy was focused on the B and B. She would bring Fitzgerald House back to its former glory and fix the financial problems Papa had landed them in. Then she would build Southern Comforts, her own restaurant.
“Well, I’m certainly benefiting from your expertise,” Gray said. “You’re an artist.”
“Thank you.” The man made her blush at least once a meal.
They talked about New York, places they’d eaten, shows they’d both seen. When she’d lived there, she’d actually had some free time—the good old days.
No pity party. She and her sisters were building something special at Fitzgerald House. To do that, she needed to stay focused. She wasn’t quite the Food Network star she’d imagined being while in culinary school, but she’d given up on pipe dreams long ago.
“What did you do at the warehouse today?” she asked, clearing their empty plates.
“I cleaned up garbage and ripped out some walls. Felt good. Now I’m waiting on bids.” He patted his flat stomach. “Another incredible dinner.”
Abby brought over the cognac decanter and Gray’s glass and then pulled out her pad of paper. “It’s been two weeks. We need to talk about the meals. What’s worked, what hasn’t.”
“You’re probably feeding me too much,” Gray said. “It’s those darn sweets, but I’m not going to tell you to stop sending the pecan bars in my lunch. If you stop, I’ll end up coming back to the house for afternoon tea.”
“I never realized my brandy-pecan bars had so much power. I’ll keep sending them.” She laughed. “Am I packing enough food for your lunch? Do you need another sandwich?” She tapped her pen on her chin.
Gray stared at her lips.
She pulled the pen away from her face. “Do I have something on my mouth?”
She reached up to check, but Gray beat her to it. His hand brushed against her cheek. She felt every callus on his palm.
Abby couldn’t breathe. What would his hands feel like caressing her body? Heat shot through her like an induction oven.
“Gray?” she whispered.
It was wrong to want him to keep touching her. So why did she?
Dropping his hand, he slid his chair back with a screech. His blue eyes chilled, transforming from the heat of her gas range to the ice of a glacier.
He held up both hands. “My meals are fine. Everything’s fine. Don’t change a thing.”
He stood so quickly that the chair rocked back and forth. “I need to make some calls. Good night.”
He picked up his snifter and almost ran from the room.
She blinked. What had just happened?
She sank back into the chair like a fallen soufflé. One minute she’d sworn Gray was about to kiss her; the next, he’d treated her as though she had the plague.
Absolutely no guest involvement.
Mamma’s rules made sense, but had she ever met a man like Gray?
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3842dcd3-d2b0-55fe-80d4-1045d7c2c0b6)
Rule #5—Never yell at a guest. Not even under your breath. (I’ve found the second-floor linen closet is pretty soundproof.)
Mamie Fitzgerald
EVER SINCE GRAY had brushed Abby’s cheek last Sunday, she’d vanished. Sure, her sisters had been around, but it wasn’t the same.
He hadn’t seen Gwen for almost a month and didn’t miss her. But after five days, he missed Abigail Fitzgerald.
He poured another glass of wine and moved over to the library window, staring out at the gardens.
He’d almost kissed Abby. Luckily, he’d caught himself. His fantasy of pressing Abby up against the counter and kissing her until those forest-glen eyes blurred had to stop. No more wondering what kind of underwear she hid under her clothes. Or how soft her hair would feel if he released it from the clip she wore when cooking.
It must be the wine and food—or the intimacy of sitting in the alcove amid all those incredible smells and the spicy scent that was pure Abby.
She fascinated him. He loved her different smiles—the bright one she flashed at familiar guests and the soft one she used to set strangers at ease. One minute she’d be checking people in and advising on Savannah sightseeing, and then she’d turn around and discuss wine characteristics.
Time to find her. Gray tapped his fingers on his jeans as he headed to the kitchen. He’d seen her handiwork all week, but no Abigail. People raved about the breakfasts, teas and appetizers, but every time he walked into a room expecting to find her, she’d just left.
What was it about Abby that he found so fascinating? Maybe it was that she was as goal-oriented as he was. He’d read her framed list hanging in the kitchen.
Complete restoration of Fitzgerald House
Open Southern Comforts
Get rated by international rating group—Zagat—Michelin (minimum 1 star)
Her list cost money. He had plenty of that. Was that why she was so nice?
She was like a sliver under his skin. He just couldn’t pull her free. Maybe if he kissed her, his fascination would dissipate.
“Abby,” he called, pushing the kitchen door open.
He jerked to a stop. He’d been looking for a confrontation, or at least an explanation for why she’d been avoiding him. Anything to help him resist this annoying attraction.
He shook his head. How could he argue with someone asleep at the table?
He stared at the counters. She’d been busy. The sinks overflowed with bowls and utensils. A rainbow of tarts covered every surface.
He headed to the table and stared down at her. Purple shadows under her eyes showed she hadn’t been sleeping enough. And her neck was twisted. She couldn’t possibly be comfortable. “Abby.”
She didn’t move.
He touched her arm, more a stroke than a touch. “You’re going to hurt your neck.”
She moaned and released a big sigh, but still didn’t wake.
This time he shook her shoulder. “Abigail.”
Nothing.
He tapped his foot on the floor. He couldn’t leave her like this.
Gray hoisted her in his arms. Surely that would wake her. But she simply burrowed her face into his shirt, and his heart raced. She smelled of her baking—sweet and spicy.
Now what? He could lay her on the love seat near the fire—but it was way too short. She needed a bed.
“Oh, my.” Marion entered the kitchen with a tray of empty wine bottles. “Is Abby okay?”
“Exhausted. She was asleep at the table. I tried to wake her.” God, he sounded pathetic. “Can I carry her to her room or another room?” Did Abby live on-site?
Marion looked at the love seat and shook her head. “We don’t have an open room tonight.” She waved her hand at all of Abby’s work on the counters. “The guests for tomorrow’s engagement party filled all the vacancies.”
“Why don’t I take her up to my room and let her nap there? If anyone needs her, let them know.”
“She sleeps harder than anyone I know. She needs at least three alarms to get her up every morning.” Marion walked over and brushed a strand of hair off Abby’s face. Then she stared into Gray’s eyes. “You’ll be a gentleman?”
“Absolutely.” He might dream about stripping off her clothes, but he would never do anything without her active participation.
Up in his suite, he slipped off Abby’s shoes and tucked her into his bed. She rolled over and curled into a ball. Her hair had come free from the clip and spread across the white pillow like a sunset. He wanted to lie down and hold her while she slept.
Instead, Gray went into the sitting area, leaving the bedroom door ajar. When Abby woke, he didn’t want her to be confused.
Flipping open his phone, he called Daniel Forester.
“Thanks for getting your bid back early,” Gray said.
“We really want to work on this project,” Forester said.
“Well, it’s yours if you bring over pizza and beer. I’m in the Jackie Kennedy room.”
Forester didn’t answer.
Okay, he knew his request had sounded strange.
“Abby fell asleep in the kitchen. She looked so uncomfortable, I couldn’t leave her there,” Gray explained. “I carried her up to my room, and she didn’t even twitch. I want to be here when she wakes up.”
What an idiot. He should have left her on the love seat next to the fireplace.
Honesty smacked him in the face. He’d wanted her in his bed, even if he couldn’t be there with her.
“I’ll be there after I pick up that pizza,” Forester said. “Anything you don’t like?”
“Anything goes.”
* * *
ABBY ROLLED OVER and hugged her pillow. She’d been having such a lovely dream about the pine-and-sandalwood scent of Gray’s cologne. She stretched and looked around.
No! Why was she in the Kennedy room? How had she ended up in Gray’s bed?
The alarm clock next to her said nine o’clock. She’d lost three hours. Three hours! How would she get everything done?
Male voices filtered into the bedroom from the sitting room. She found her shoes and clutched them to her chest.
Abby tiptoed to the door but didn’t have a clear line of sight. When she pushed the door a little wider, it squealed.
“Abby?” Gray called from the sofa.
She bit her lip. Trying to act nonchalant, she entered the room. Not only was Gray on the sofa, but Daniel Forester sat in the chair across from him. As if she weren’t already embarrassed enough.
Gray stood and met her in the middle of the room. “Are you feeling better?”
He stood so close, she could whisper, “How did I get up here—in your bed?”
He stroked a finger under her eyes, down her cheek, and tipped up her chin. “You were sound asleep at the table. I couldn’t wake you, so I carried you upstairs where you could at least be comfortable.”
He’d hauled her up to his room? She inhaled a sharp breath, trying not to scream. “How could you? I have things I have to do. What if someone needed me?”
“Marion knows where you are. Take a break—you’re exhausted.”
She pressed her lips together, but couldn’t contain her anger. “I don’t have time to sleep. That’s why I was resting at the table.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “What gave you the right to interfere?”
She headed for the door.
He grabbed her arm. “I can help.”
“You’ve done enough.” She wrenched her arm free. “Your dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Forester brought pizza. I’m good.”
Lord, now she wasn’t living up to her commitments.
“Don’t be mad. I was trying to help.” He leaned down so only she could hear. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“Hey, Abby,” Daniel called, looking away from the basketball game, concern creasing his face. “Everything all right? I heard you crashed and burned in the kitchen.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I can’t believe I slept that deeply.”
“I can. Aren’t you the sister that requires a dozen alarms to wake up?”
She mumbled a reply as she slipped her shoes on.
Over the years, the Foresters and Fitzgeralds had become close, sharing meals and holidays. Apparently too close, if Daniel remembered her problem with waking up.
“We still have pizza.” Daniel popped a beer. “A couple of beers left, too.”
“I just lost three hours.” She shot Gray an icy look. “I have to work.”
* * *
GRAY SAID GOODBYE to Daniel and shut the B and B’s front door. He checked his watch and saw that it was a little before ten o’clock. Would Abby still be in the kitchen?
He needed to apologize. He didn’t feel guilty for letting her sleep. She had to have been beyond exhausted.
He would offer to help. Again. Maybe there was something he could do to help her catch up. Hopefully she wouldn’t snap his head off this time.
His mother’s voice rang inside his head. You always assume you know how to run everyone else’s lives.
He straightened his shoulders and pushed through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Incredible aromas greeted him. Whatever Abby was cooking made tonight’s pizza, which had been a mighty fine pie, seem like cardboard.
All the tarts had disappeared. Now a massive pot bubbled on the stove. Piles of colorful sliced vegetables overflowed a cutting board.
“What do you need, Mr. Smythe?” Frost coated her Southern drawl.
He eyed the gigantic knife she was using. She waved it a little. He gritted his teeth—time to apologize.
“I’m sorry I messed up your schedule. I shouldn’t have interfered.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d apologized to anyone. It was hard to get the words out. “I should have worked harder to wake you up and find out what you needed. I shouldn’t have hauled you upstairs.”
She pointed her wicked knife at him. “No, you shouldn’t have. That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“You were exhausted.” He raised both hands in emphasis, which had to be better than shaking some sense into her. “And your neck was going to hurt.”
She went back to mincing the mushrooms, the knife a blur. “You should have left me where I was. Don’t overstep again, Mr. Smythe.”
She turned, dismissing him. If he was going to grovel, the least she could do was forgive him.
He moved up behind her. “Abby.”
She turned, her knife held out in front of her.
He jumped back. “I thought you’d only sleep an hour or so. The fact that you didn’t means you were exhausted. Next time, I’ll wake you after thirty minutes.”
Her mouth dropped open, and the knife waved. “There won’t be a next time.”
His heart raced. Her damn foot-long knife was too close to his stomach. He caught her wrist, pulled the knife out of her hand and set it on the counter with a clang. “I don’t feel like losing a body part.”
“Get out of my kitchen.” Her eyes reminded him of flashing northern lights.
He exhaled. Loudly. “Abby, I’m really sorry.”
He set a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
“Are you mad because I interfered with your schedule or because I let you sleep? Or because it was me taking care of you?”
“I don’t need taking care of.” She poked a finger at him.
“I know that.” But he liked taking care of her. He stepped closer and captured her hand in his. He just couldn’t stop touching her.
She looked up. There was more than anger simmering in her eyes. Desire?
He backed her into the counter. She smelled like herbs and flowers. The combination had him wavering between wanting to bite her or to carry her back upstairs.
“Gray...” She put her hands on his chest, and electricity shot through him.
Her pink bottom lip begged him to nibble it. Being this close to Abby was making him crazy. “Oh, hell.”
Abby’s fingers splayed across his chest, generating enough heat to brand his skin through his shirt.
He cupped her head between his hands.
Leaning in, he brushed his mouth against hers, just a feather’s touch. They both inhaled, a sharp, sweet sound. Then he dived in for another kiss.
Abby sighed, a sexy moan that curled into his groin. She tasted of coffee and cinnamon. Her fists relaxed and then gripped his shirt as her body melted into his. Her breasts pressed against his chest.
“Abby.” His tongue stroked hers, and heat flashed through his body.
Her fingers pushed into his hair, and he molded his body to her lush curves.
Her lips slid against his cheek. He ran his tongue along her jaw and nuzzled the frenzied pulse under her ear. Her arms tightened around his back.
“You taste so good.” He dived back in for a kiss.
“Gray.” She shook her head. “Stop.”
He rested his forehead against her, gasping for breath. What the hell had just happened?
She pushed against his shoulders.
“That was better than I’d imagined,” he whispered, drawing back.
Their kiss hadn’t eased the tension from his body. Every muscle cried out to take this woman back to his bed.
“You...you...” Her eyes, once glazed with arousal, were now filled with anger.
For the second time that night, Gray apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t regret kissing you, but I was out of line.”
“You idiot. You make me lose three hours of work, then interrupt me when I’m trying to catch up. You kiss me and then say sorry?” She was building up another head of steam. “Maybe we need to renegotiate your agreement. I’mnot part of the Fitzgerald House services. If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, you’ll need to find other accommodations.”
Gray backed away. An electrical charge still surged through him. “If you tell me you haven’t thought about what we would be like together, I’ll call you a liar.”
Before she could take another swipe at him, he added, “I apologize—again. Let me help you catch up. Could I find someone to help you out? Maybe before the party. That would help, right?”
“No.” She jerked away from him.
“There must be some sort of temp place. I could...find a kitchen assistant.” He held up a hand. “Let me help you.”
She glanced over at the unwashed pots and pans, and her eyes gleamed. “You want to help? You?”
He nodded.
“Soap’s above the sink. Gloves are on the towel rack. Make sure the water is hot, very hot.”
“Me?” This wasn’t working out the way he’d planned. He’d figured he could pay someone to help her.
“You.” Abby stalked away. “Keep to your side of the kitchen and stay away from me.”
* * *
“SALAD’S UP.” ABBY wiped one final drip of dressing off a plate. Perfect. The curls of beets, carrots and cilantro looked elegant next to the grilled white asparagus.
“They look too good to eat,” Michael, her sous chef, said.
“The bride-to-be is beaming.” Dolley stretched before she pushed out the cart. “The tables look spectacular.”
“She liked the centerpieces so much, she’s coming in for a flower consult.” Bess hefted a tray of crudités. “Once they try your food, I’m sure they’ll book the wedding reception here, too.”
Her sisters followed the food up to the ballroom. Abby took a drink of water, kneading the small of her back.
Gray walked into the kitchen.
The muscles she’d just relaxed seized up again.
Abby snatched up the salad plate she’d set aside. She and Gray had to get back to normal.
She was upset with herself. When he’d kissed her last night, she’d wanted to lean into him and let him take her back up to his big bed.
She couldn’t act on her attraction. He was a man who talked about ten-million-dollar deals. She worried about spending ten dollars on anything other than Fitzgerald House.
“Did you get everything done?” he asked, dodging a server carrying a tray of dirty glasses.
“Getting there.” She couldn’t stop her eyes from narrowing.
Gray held up his hands in surrender. “Do I have to apologize again?”
His last apology had led to a kiss that had almost consumed her. “No.” God, no.
“Hey, Miss Abby.”
Joshua stood next to Gray. How had she not noticed the little boy?
“Josh says his mom’s working the party, so I told him he could have dinner with me.” Gray mouthed, “Put it on my bill.”
She nodded, but she would do no such thing. Josh was a sweetie.
“You two men have a choice tonight. Do you want portabella lasagna or short ribs?”
Josh looked at Gray, his mouth scrunched up.
“My man will have lasagna, and I’ll have the short ribs.” Gray whispered to the little boy, “We can share.”
Gray stepped out of Michael’s path, taking Josh with him. “Busy in here,” he commented.
“We’re finishing up the party’s entrées,” she explained.
Gray helped Josh onto a chair.
She plated their meals and brought them to the table.
“Looks great,” Gray said, digging into his salad.
Josh sucked in his lower lip as he stared at the lasagna. “Can you cut this for me?”
“Sure.” Gray winked. “I used to do this for my sister.”
Abby kept an eye on them as she pulled out the tart trays for Marion’s staff to serve. The guests had their choice of raspberry, strawberry, kiwi or lemon curd tarts.
Seeing Gray’s plate licked clean, she asked, “More ribs?”
“Yes, thanks. And maybe a helping for short stuff.” He pointed at Josh.
The little boy’s plate was clean except for a pile of mushrooms.
“Everything is delicious.” Gray patted his stomach, and Josh mimicked him. “The people upstairs will be raving.”
This was why Abby had learned how to cook. She loved seeing people smile after eating her food. And Gray’s dimples were an even better reward. “Were you at the site today, on a Saturday?” she called over as she worked at the island.
“I wanted everything ready for Daniel’s crew on Monday. I got involved, and before I knew it, I’d missed the wine tasting. What was today’s theme?” Gray asked.
Abby placed the final tart on the tray. “Washington State. Smoked salmon, apple and bacon puffs with a pomegranate glaze and a cold curried apple soup.”
He looked pained. “Do you ever do repeats?”
She chuckled. “I can.”
With the tart trays loaded and on their way to the ballroom, Abby heaved a sigh. In spite of yesterday’s unplanned nap, they’d finished. She could rest. At least until the dirty dishes came back down.
She joined Gray and Josh in the alcove, bringing a plate of tarts with her.
She propped her aching feet up on a chair. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a foot rub. “If you want more, you’ll have to serve yourself. I’m too blessed tired.”
“This was incredible.” Gray had cleaned his plate—again. “Josh, do you want anything else?”
The little boy pointed to the tarts. “Red, please.”
Gray passed one to him with a napkin.
Gray didn’t bother with a napkin for himself. He popped an entire tart in his mouth. “Okay, I may need more than one,” he said as his eyes rolled back in pleasure.
The kitchen doors swung open and Cheryl stepped in. Her head jerked back and forth until she saw her son. “Josh!” Her relief was almost palpable. “What are you doing in here?”
“Gray askeded me to eat with him.”
“Asked,” Cheryl corrected. “And it’s Mr. Smythe.”
Cheryl shoved her pale hair back into her bun. She shot a guilty look at Abby before turning back to the boy. “You promised to stay put.”
“It was my fault. Josh kept me company while I ate, but I should have made sure you knew where he was.”
“I told you this afternoon, Josh is no problem,” Abby added. She didn’t mind the boy hanging around the B and B.
Cheryl twisted her hands together. “I don’t...”
“He’s okay with us.” Abby glanced over at Gray. “I mean...me.”
“Marion only needs me for another hour.” The young woman covered her mouth with one hand. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick.
“I’m okay, Mommy. You want a picture?” Josh pulled out a sketch pad and a mammoth box of crayons.
“Where did you get those?” Cheryl’s mouth fell open.
“I saw them at the store,” Gray mumbled.
Abby was surprised to see color brightening Gray’s cheek. She hadn’t thought anything could embarrass him.
“I remembered to say thank you,” Josh piped in.
Why did Gray have to be so sweet? Abby was trying to resist the man. She moved over to Cheryl, catching her hands so she wouldn’t twist them anymore.
“He’s okay with me.” Abby lowered her voice. “If he gets tired, I’ll tuck him in on the sofa.” She waved over to the sitting area.
“Thank you.” Cheryl nodded to Gray and then touched Abby’s arm. “For everything.”
Abby squeezed Cheryl’s fingers. “No problem.”
After Cheryl went back up to the ballroom, the small group sat in a comfortable silence. Abby closed her eyes. Michael hummed as he cleaned. A dishwasher rattled. Josh’s crayons scratched against the paper and then stopped. From across the table, she could smell Gray’s cologne.
The table jostled, and Abby pried her eyes open.
Gray was lifting Josh up. “He fell asleep, like someone flipped a switch.”
He settled the child on the sofa, tucking a throw around him. When he came back to the table, he asked, “Is Josh here whenever Cheryl works?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She could barely keep her eyes open.
“Do something for me.”
She tipped her face up. “What?”
“Make sure they’re eating. Put it on my tab.”
“I’m not charging you.” Abby clenched her jaw. “Cheryl’s my employee.” She took care of her own.
“But...”
She waved a hand in the air, wanting him to stop talking and let her rest.
“I want you to let me pay.”
“No,” she mumbled.
He grunted. The table rocked as he sat back down.
She closed her eyes again. Bliss. A few minutes of rest and she’d be able to go a couple more hours.
Gray tapped her hand. “You need to tell me what I should do if you fall asleep. I don’t want to get in trouble like yesterday.”
The heat of his fingers warmed her whole body. She smiled without opening her eyes. “If my head drops to the table, kick me.”
“Maybe what you need is to get out of the kitchen,” he said. “When do you get a day off?”
“Tomorrow,” she mumbled.
“Let’s eat out tomorrow night.”
Eat out? He was hitting on her. Again. “Gray, don’t.”
“We eat together all the time. Let me take you out for a change.”
She sat up and pulled her hand away from his. “I don’t date guests.”
“Who said anything about dating? I said dinner. I’d like to thank you for the gourmet meals you’ve served me.” His blue eyes held hers. “Think of it as an olive branch for the mess I made of your day yesterday. One more way to say sorry.”
She frowned.
“It’s just dinner,” he coaxed.
“I guess.” She nodded slowly. “Not a date.”
His gaze stayed on her mouth.
The memory of his kiss made her breath catch in her chest.
“Great.” He blinked, breaking the spell between them. “I’ll come down later and grab a cognac. There’s a basketball game I want to watch.”
He headed out the swinging door, and the kitchen seemed empty without him.
Her breath came out in a whoosh. Why had she agreed to go to dinner? It had to be exhaustion and his darn blue eyes. And the sweet way he treated Josh. Even so, this dinner was bound to be a mistake.
The monotonous chore of loading dishes didn’t take her mind off Gray. Saying good-night to Cheryl and Josh only made her remember how kind Gray had been to the little boy. He had such an easy way of chatting with guests. They had such lovely conversations, and he filled his jeans out... Whoops. Not going to think about that.
“Need anything else?” Michael asked, wiping down the stove.
“No. I think we’re done. Thanks.”
“See you in the morning.” Michael left as she finished cleaning the counter. Abby would have liked to have gone to bed, but since the sisters were all together, she’d called a short meeting even though it was nearly midnight.
Dolley burst into the kitchen, a champagne bottle in her hand.
“Success,” Bess called out as she followed, carrying three flutes. “They loved everything.”
“How’s Marion doing?” Abby asked.
“Everything’s under control,” Dolley said. “Let’s pop this bad boy. We rocked.”
The sisters gathered around the kitchen table. Golden liquid fizzed in their glasses.
“To the Fitzgerald ladies,” Bess said, raising her glass.
The reasons Abby worked so hard to bring Fitzgerald House back to its glory were gathered round the table. She swallowed. Mamma had started the recovery. When Great-Aunt Cecelia had gotten sick, Mamma had asked Abby, Bess and Dolley to take over. But Abby had always been in charge. She had the relevant experience, and as the oldest, she’d always felt it was up to her to fix what her father had broken.
“Great party, ladies,” Bess said.
“Did we have enough servers?” Abby asked.
“Amy and Cheryl did well for their first time. We could have used one more,” Bess said.
Abby made a note on the tablet by her side. “I’ll talk to Marion.”
Bess yawned. “I’ve got to work tomorrow. Can we make this quick?”
“Sure. Samuel’s given me his bid.” Abby fanned the papers out in front of her.
“What’s the bottom line?” Dolley filled her flute again.
“To finish the third floor, he’s quoting a little over a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Crap.” Dolley ran a hand through her curls. “No wonder you keep pushing back the software upgrade.”
“Samuel’s also given us ballpark numbers for turning the carriage house into the restaurant. That’s another three hundred thousand. If we add carriage house guest rooms, it’s just under a hundred thousand.”
Everyone groaned. The estimate might as well have been millions.
They talked through the possibilities and drank their champagne.
“The carriage house suites could be a little more modern. We could keep the furniture lighter and bring in the garden theme.” Bess nibbled on her thumbnail until Dolley slapped her hand.
“Great idea, but the carriage house renovations will have to wait.” Abby’s chest ached. “Third floor first.”
“I agree,” Dolley added.
Bess covered Abby’s hand. “When you moved back from New York, all you talked about was opening a restaurant.”
Abby shrugged. Realism had set in the minute she’d sat with the B and B’s accountant.
She was the reason Maurice had received the rising star designation. She wanted a real star rating to show him up. Without a restaurant, she would never be rated. She would just be...a B and B cook. Nothing special.
Dolley stuffed a tart in her mouth. “We have to finish the rooms in the main house first.”
Bess shook her head. “Shoot, what if we can’t get them booked?”
“We will.” Abby swallowed the lump forming in her throat. They had to. “Samuel’s bid has an option that allows us to finish one room at a time. If Nigel helps during the day, the short-term cost will be lower. In the long run, though, it will cost more, because the subcontractors would have to keep returning, rather than doing everything in one go.”
Bess cradled her head in her hand. “Why can’t this be easy? How about a loan?”
“Dolley?” Abby asked.
“I’ll make some inquiries next week.” Her sister grew thoughtful. “Maybe there’s a development loan we can tap.”
“We should extend that darn balloon,” Bess complained. “It’s hanging over our heads like a...”
“Noose?” Dolley filled in.
“That pendulum sword thing.” Bess waved her hand back and forth.
“Wow, you guys are morbid.” Abby figured she shouldn’t have held this meeting after a long day of work for all of them.
The kitchen door creaked as someone pushed it open. The sisters turned in unison.
Gray’s dark hair appeared in the doorway, and Abby’s stomach fluttered as if the champagne bubbles were tickling her.
“Hi ladies, still—” Gray frowned and looked at the bottle, the flutes and papers covering the table “—working?”
“Yeah. All work and no play—that’s us.” Dolley waved him over. “Hey, you know about our renovations. Can you tell us if these bids are reasonable?”
What? Abby kicked Dolley’s shoe.
Dolley glared. “What was that for?”
Abby tipped her head toward Gray and frowned.
He leaned against the dining alcove’s half wall. Those steely blue eyes held hers as he took of sip of the cognac he’d carried in with him.
“He’s a guest,” Abby hissed. A guest she’d kissed. The best kiss of her life.
“I don’t mind,” he said.
But Abby did. This was Fitzgerald business.
Gray moved to the table. Dolley scooted over to make room for him as he took a seat. “What’s going on?”
“Samuel’s just finished the last second-floor room, but we want to open up the third floor,” Dolley said.
He nodded.
Dolley shifted the papers in front of him. “We don’t have the cash to do the whole floor, but can you tell us if the room-by-room costs look reasonable? Maybe you have some ideas.”
Abby wanted to snatch the papers out of his hand. Guests shouldn’t know about their financial situation.

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