Southern Comforts

by Nan Dixon

  “Mostly to me and my dad, but my mother has her own charities.”

  Abby asked about his family, and they sipped wine as she finished preparing dinner.

  “You’ve seen me with my family. How is yours different?” she asked, wondering whether money changed things there, too.

  He didn’t answer. Maybe she’d overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. “Forget I asked.”

  He held up a hand. “No, I was thinking about your question.”

  She flipped the mushrooms while waiting for his response.

  “You and your sisters are close.” He nodded. “You have each other’s backs.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about that kind of loyalty. You have something special. Something I admire.”

  “And your family isn’t like that?” How sad.

  He lifted his glass for another sip of wine, but the glass was empty, and he set it down. “No. Maybe it’s because I only have a younger sister, but she’s not someone I would trust with anything important. I keep waiting for her to grow up but it hasn’t happened yet. I love them, but family for family’s sake isn’t that important to me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Family was everything to her.

  “I don’t know any different.” He rubbed his face, looking more tired than when he’d come in. “From what I’ve seen, you and your sisters are very lucky. It’s nice to see your family working together.”

  She wanted to see him smile again and didn’t know how to make that happen. Eating seemed to make him happy. “Dinner’s ready.”

  He leaned down to the beef tenderloin resting on the counter and inhaled. “My mouth is watering.”

  She sliced the beef and added the mushrooms to the plates. Then she drizzled them both with the sauce she’d thickened. Roasted potatoes and green beans flanked the meat.

  Gray waited through her prayer, his knife and fork already in hand.

  “When I went to New York, this used to be my favorite meal,” Gray said. He took a bite. “Wow, it tastes just like it.”

  “Maurice’s, right?” Maurice. The man who used me, made me believe I would be his partner in both the restaurant and his life, and then cheated on me.

  “How did you know?”

  “I was his sous chef.” She twisted her bare ring finger on her left hand.

  “You lived in New York?”

  “That’s where I went to culinary school.” Where she’d fallen in love. Where she’d been betrayed. “I worked at a couple of different restaurants before Maurice hired me.”

  “I remember reading something in the menu.” She could almost see him processing the information. “They were rated, right?”

  “Rising star the first year I was there.” Her work, her food, her cooking.

  “What’s the scale?”

  “Michelin ranks restaurants on a one to three scale. There aren’t a lot of three-star ratings. Rising star means that the restaurant has potential for a star in the future.” Would Gray laugh if she told him she wanted to run her own restaurant and earn a rating higher than that snake, Maurice?

  “You’re an incredible chef. Why did you leave?”

  Abby had crawled back home to lick her wounds after Maurice’s betrayal, but she couldn’t tell Gray that. “My great aunt has rheumatoid arthritis. About three years ago, Aunt CeCe needed more help. We’re the only family she has. Mamma’s in Atlanta with her now. My sisters and I took over running Fitzgerald House.”

  Her vision of becoming the next Cat Cora on Iron Chef had evaporated. All her energy was focused on the B and B. She would bring Fitzgerald House back to its former glory and fix the financial problems Papa had landed them in. Then she would build Southern Comforts, her own restaurant.

  “Well, I’m certainly benefiting from your expertise,” Gray said. “You’re an artist.”

  “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

  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 t
o 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.

  Now what? He could lay her on the love seat near the fire—but it was way too short. She needed a bed.

  “Oh, my.” Marion entered the kitchen with a tray of empty wine bottles. “Is Abby okay?”

  “Exhausted. She was asleep at the table. I tried to wake her.” God, he sounded pathetic. “Can I carry her to her room or another room?” Did Abby live on-site?

  Marion looked at the love seat and shook her head. “We don’t have an open room tonight.” She waved her hand at all of Abby’s work on the counters. “The guests for tomorrow’s engagement party filled all the vacancies.”

  “Why don’t I take her up to my room and let her nap there? If anyone needs her, let them know.”

  “She sleeps harder than anyone I know. She needs at least three alarms to get her up every morning.” Marion walked over and brushed a strand of hair off Abby’s face. Then she stared into Gray’s eyes. “You’ll be a gentleman?”

  “Absolutely.” He might dream about stripping off her clothes, but he would never do anything without her active participation.

  Up in his suite, he slipped off Abby’s shoes and tucked her into his bed. She rolled over and curled into a ball. Her hair had come free from the clip and spread across the white pillow like a sunset. He wanted to lie down and hold her while she slept.

  Instead, Gray went into the sitting area, leaving the bedroom door ajar. When Abby woke, he didn’t want her to be confused.

  Flipping open his phone, he called Daniel Forester.

  “Thanks for getting your bid back early,” Gray said.

  “We really want to work on this project,” Forester said.

  “Well, it’s yours if you bring over pizza and beer. I’m in the Jackie Kennedy room.”

  Forester didn’t answer.

  Okay, he knew his request had sounded strange.

  “Abby fell asleep in the kitchen. She looked so uncomfortable, I couldn’t leave her there,” Gray explained. “I carried her up to my room, and she didn’t even twitch. I want to be here when she wakes up.”

  What an idiot. He should have left her on the love seat next to the fireplace.

  Honesty smacked him in the face. He’d wanted her in his bed, even if he couldn’t be there with her.

  “I’ll be there after I pick up that pizza,” Forester said. “Anything you don’t like?”

  “Anything goes.”

  * * *

  ABBY ROLLED OVER and hugged her pillow. She’d been having such a lovely dream about the pine-and-sandalwood scent of Gray’s cologne. She stretched and looked around.

  No! Why was she in the Kennedy room? How had she ended up in Gray’s bed?

  The alarm clock next to her said nine o’clock. She’d lost three hours. Three hours! How would she get everything done?

  Male voices filtered into the bedroom from the sitting room. She found her shoes and clutched them to her chest.

  Abby tiptoed to the door but didn’t have a clear line of sight. When she pushed the door a little wider, it squealed.

  “Abby?” Gray called from the sofa.

  She bit her lip. Trying to act nonchalant, she entered the room. Not only was Gray on the sofa, but Daniel Forester sat in the chair across from him. As if she weren’t already embarrassed enough.

  Gray stood and met her in the middle of the room. “Are you feeling better?”

  He stood so close, she could whisper, “How did I get up here—in your bed?”

  He stroked a finger under her eyes, down her cheek, and tipped up her chin. “You were sound asleep at the table. I couldn’t wake you, so I carried you upstairs where you could at least be comfortable.”

  He’d hauled her up to his room? She inhaled a sharp breath, trying not to scream. “How could you? I have things I have to do. What if someone needed me?”

  “Marion knows where you are. Take a break—you’re exhausted.”

  She pressed her lips together, but couldn’t contain her anger. “I don’t have time to sleep. That’s why I was resting at the table.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “What gave you the right to interfere?”

  She headed for the door.

  He grabbed her arm. “I can help.”

  “You’ve done enough.” She wrenched her arm free. “Your dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “Forester brought pizza. I’m good.”

  Lord, now she wasn’t living up to her commitments.

  “Don’t be mad. I was trying to help.” He leaned down so only she could hear. “Have you been avoiding me?”

  “Hey, Abby,” Daniel called, looking away from the basketball game, concern creasing his face. “Everything all right? I heard you crashed and burned in the kitchen.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I can’t believe I slept that deeply.”

  “I can. Aren’t you the sister that requires a dozen alarms to wake up?”

  She mumbled a reply as she slipped her shoes on.

  Over the years, the Foresters and Fitzgeralds had become close, sharing meals and holidays. Apparently too close, if Daniel remembered her problem with waking up.

  “We still have pizza.” Daniel popped a beer. “A couple of beers left, too.”

  “I just lost three hours.” She shot Gray an icy look. “I have to work.”

  * * *

  GRAY SAID GOODBYE to Daniel and shut the B and B’s front door. He checked his watch and saw that it was a little before ten o’clock. Would Abby still be in the kitchen?

  He needed to apologize. He didn’t feel guilty for letting her sleep. She had to have been beyond exhausted.

  He would offer to help. Again. Maybe there was something he could do to help her catch up. Hopefully she wouldn’t snap his head off this time.

  His mother’s voice rang inside
his head. You always assume you know how to run everyone else’s lives.

  He straightened his shoulders and pushed through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Incredible aromas greeted him. Whatever Abby was cooking made tonight’s pizza, which had been a mighty fine pie, seem like cardboard.

  All the tarts had disappeared. Now a massive pot bubbled on the stove. Piles of colorful sliced vegetables overflowed a cutting board.

  “What do you need, Mr. Smythe?” Frost coated her Southern drawl.

  He eyed the gigantic knife she was using. She waved it a little. He gritted his teeth—time to apologize.

  “I’m sorry I messed up your schedule. I shouldn’t have interfered.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d apologized to anyone. It was hard to get the words out. “I should have worked harder to wake you up and find out what you needed. I shouldn’t have hauled you upstairs.”

  She pointed her wicked knife at him. “No, you shouldn’t have. That wasn’t your decision to make.”

  “You were exhausted.” He raised both hands in emphasis, which had to be better than shaking some sense into her. “And your neck was going to hurt.”

  She went back to mincing the mushrooms, the knife a blur. “You should have left me where I was. Don’t overstep again, Mr. Smythe.”

  She turned, dismissing him. If he was going to grovel, the least she could do was forgive him.

  He moved up behind her. “Abby.”

  She turned, her knife held out in front of her.

  He jumped back. “I thought you’d only sleep an hour or so. The fact that you didn’t means you were exhausted. Next time, I’ll wake you after thirty minutes.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and the knife waved. “There won’t be a next time.”

  His heart raced. Her damn foot-long knife was too close to his stomach. He caught her wrist, pulled the knife out of her hand and set it on the counter with a clang. “I don’t feel like losing a body part.”

  “Get out of my kitchen.” Her eyes reminded him of flashing northern lights.

  He exhaled. Loudly. “Abby, I’m really sorry.”

  He set a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

  “Are you mad because I interfered with your schedule or because I let you sleep? Or because it was me taking care of you?”