Southern Comforts

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.”