Southern Comforts

“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.