Southern Comforts

“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.”