When You Walked In

She felt her shoulders sinking toward the floor as she tried to imagine Joy doing anything other than float around. George knew when he needed to eat and when it was time to sleep and not much else. Grand-Em thought it was still 1953.

But then, with the vividness of a movie clip, she had a vision of Nate’s hands flying around the chicken she’d burned.

He was right. She did need a cook and he was, evidently, available.

And the man was good, she thought.

There was also the reality that there wasn’t a long line of people applying for the job.

Wheeling around, Frankie burst out of the pantry, prepared to run after him, but she jerked to a halt. He’d been waiting, leaning casually against the island.

“I didn’t want to leave until I knew you were okay,” he explained.

“Do you want the job?”

He cocked an eyebrow, apparently unfazed by her turnaround. “Yeah. I’ll stay until Labor Day.”

“I can’t pay you much, but then again, there won’t be much you’ll have to do.”

He shrugged. “Money’s not important to me.”

At least he had one good trait, she thought, naming what sounded like a pathetically small salary.

“And I can offer you room and board.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I want to be clear about something.”

“Let me guess, you’re the boss.”

“Well, yes. More importantly, stay away from my sister.”

He frowned. “Angel?”

“Her name is Joy. And she’s not interested.”

His laugh was short. “Don’t you think that should be her choice, not yours?”

“No, I don’t. Do we understand each other?”

A small smile played over his lips, but she couldn’t divine what he thought was so amusing.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Yeah, I understand you perfectly.” He extended his hand and raised that brow again. “You going to touch me this time?”

It was a taunt, a challenge.

And Frankie never backed down from anything.

She grabbed his hand like it was a door handle, in a tough grip meant to tell him that she was all business. But at the contact, she lost her pretensions. A shiver of awareness prickled across every square inch of her body and all she could do was blink up at him in confusion.

His eyes narrowed, the lids falling down over that fascinating spectrum of color. She felt him squeeze her hand and had a ludicrous image of him pulling her forward so he could kiss her.

God, what he could do to her, she thought, if they were naked and in a bed together—

Frankie stepped back quickly, thinking maybe she needed to get hit with some more water.

“Remember what I said,” she ground out. “Don’t go near my sister.”

He scratched the side of his neck casually and put his hands into his pockets. She had a feeling that he didn’t take orders well, but couldn’t have cared less. He was working for her, which meant she called the shots. Period. End of story.

And the last thing Frankie needed to worry about was Joy getting her heart broken. Or being left pregnant and alone at the end of the summer. God knew, they couldn’t afford another dependent.

“We’re clear?” she prompted.

He didn’t answer but she knew he understood her by the way his jaw was locked.

“Then I’ll show you to your room.” She walked around, flipping off lights, then headed for the back stairs.

When the Moorehouses had been rich, before generations of dandies enjoying the good life had drained the bank accounts and caused the stocks, jewelry and the best of the art to be sold off, the family had stayed in the big bedrooms in the front of the house that faced the lake. Now that they were the servants, they stayed where a fleet of maids and butlers had once slept. The staff wing, which stretched behind the mansion, had low ceilings, pine floors and no ornamentation. It was hot in the summer, drafty in the winter and the plumbing groaned.

Well, that last one was actually happening in the rest of the house by now, too.

At the head of the stairs, the corridor went off in both directions and there was no question where the new cook was going to sleep. Frankie didn’t relish the idea of him being close to her, but at least if he was she could keep an eye on him. She headed left, taking them away from Joy’s room.

As Frankie pushed open a door, she figured he’d be untroubled by the sparse accommodations. He looked as if he might have slept in cars and on park benches on occasion, so a bed was no doubt luxury enough.

“I’ll go get your sheets,” she said. “You and I are sharing a bathroom. It’s right next door.”

She went to the linen closet, which was down near Joy’s end of the house. On the way back, she heard the man speaking.

“Actually, ma’am, I’m the new cook.”

Oh, God, not Grand-Em.

Frankie hurried up and burst through the door, ready to peel her grandmother away from the stranger. The idea of insulating him from her family was an impulse she didn’t question.

“Cook?” Grand-Em looked up at him imperiously. “We have three cooks working here already. Why ever did Papa take you on?”

Grand-Em was tiny and ornate, a five-foot-two-inch waif dressed in a flowing, faded ball gown. Her long white hair, which hadn’t been cut in decades, fell down her back and she had the unlined face of someone who had never been outside without a parasol. Next to Nate she looked as sturdy as a china figurine.

“Grand-Em—”

Frankie was astonished as Nate cut her off with a sharp hand. Bending at the waist, with his head properly bowed, he said, “Madam, it is my pleasure to be of service to you. My name is Nathaniel, should you need anything.”

Grand-Em considered him thoughtfully and headed for the door.

“I like him,” she said to no one in particular as she left.

Frankie sighed and watched her grandmother drift down the hall. The dementia that had curdled that once-active mind was a terrible thief. And to miss someone, even though you saw them daily, was an odd sort of hell.