Southern Comforts

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?