by Nan Dixon
“I got that.” And half the guests had probably overheard, too. But apparently the ex and Gray’s family didn’t think they were broken up. She touched his arm. “You really need to go.”
“She’s nothing to me.” He brushed her hair back. “I’d rather stay with you.”
“You should head out. They won’t hold your reservation.” She was repeating herself, but she didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m—sorry.” He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll come find you after dinner.”
She continued on her way to her kitchen, her pace slow and steady. Once there, she latched the swinging door closed and slid to the floor.
Gray’s family had brought his ex-girlfriend to Savannah.
His parents and sister hadn’t known about her. If they had, she hoped Gwen wouldn’t be here. And that they wouldn’t have treated her like a maid.
Neither she nor Gray had told their families they were in a relationship. There was a message in their actions. Actions were more important than words. Maurice had spouted words of love and then broken her heart. Her father had been able to sweet-talk anyone, but he’d left misery in his wake.
Gray’s actions said she wasn’t important to him.
It was time to follow Mamma’s rule. The weeks she’d spent with Gray had been amazing, but they didn’t belong together. By breaking up with him, she’d make sure Gray couldn’t disappoint her. He couldn’t break her heart.
The next time she saw him, she’d tell him they were through. Besides, they’d never really been together—had they? Not enough to tell either of their families.
Work. If she kept her hands busy, she’d stop obsessing about Gray.
She had sandwiches to prepare and scones to bake. Then she would make pecan bars.
Abby rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest. She didn’t want to make brandy-pecan bars. From now on, she would associate Gray with those stupid bars.
Unfortunately, Dolley had already printed the tea menus.
Abby turned on the CD player and booted up a Sarah McLachlan album. She would bake away her grief.
* * *
GRAY SQUEEZED THE arm of his chair. Why the hell had he agreed to have dinner with his family? Never mind Gwen?
Because Abby had done twice the work to get them their reservations. What was Abby thinking now? All he wanted to do was head home—well, to the B and B—and be with her.
Gray hated knowing that his family had tried to manipulate him into getting back together with Gwen. Hated sitting across from her. Hated the looks his sister shot at him like a Gatling gun.
He wasn’t the bad guy here.
Catching the server’s eye, he said, “Jameson, please.” It would be the only way to get through this evening.
He shifted and kicked someone’s foot. Gwen jerked. The table was too damn small.
Courtney whispered in Gwen’s ear. His sister covered Gwen’s hand, and she shot another venomous look at him from across the tiny table.
“Gray, you could at least...” his mother started to say.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Olivia.” His dad shook his head at his wife. “Gray, tell me more about your warehouse.”
He and his father discussed the project. No one else contributed to the conversation.
“Another Jameson, please,” he told a passing waiter. His mother raised an eyebrow but kept her mouth closed. Good.
When his dinner arrived, it tasted like sawdust. Nothing like the meals he ate with Abby.
“Gwen, you should go back to Boston,” he blurted out.
“The plane isn’t available.” His father grimaced. “An engine was acting up on the flight down here. The maintenance crew has it torn apart. The earliest it will be ready is Monday morning.”
“Then we can book a commercial flight,” Gray suggested.
“I texted my assistant on the way here. Nothing’s available.” His dad shook his head.
What else could go wrong?
“If we could just talk.” Gwen turned tear-reddened eyes to him.
“There’s nothing more to say.”
His mother started to speak and then closed her mouth.
His parents talked, Courtney murmured to Gwen and Gray gave up eating the tasteless food.
Happy freaking family get-together.
Why had he thought it would be any different? Because he’d watched the Fitzgeralds care for each other. He should have known—his family wasn’t anything like the Fitzgerald sisters.
Finally, dinner ended. Even back on the street, he couldn’t draw in a full breath. He needed to find Abby and explain.
He and his dad let the women walk ahead of them.
“Sorry for this mess,” his father said, puffing on his cigar.
“Can’t imagine you had anything to do with bringing Gwen down here.”
“I’ve always liked Gwen. She and Courtney are inseparable.” His dad shrugged. A ring of smoke circled his head. “I wouldn’t have talked you out of an alliance with her family.”
“Alliance? This isn’t the Middle Ages.” Gray’s hands formed fists. Or maybe they’d been that way since Gwen had walked into the library.
His father turned to him. “Marriage can work on many levels. Gwen’s family may not be as wealthy as ours, but her uncle’s a senator.”
“And you’d want me to get married to curry political favor? The senator’s not even from our party.”
His dad grimaced. “I never thought you were that naive.”
“I just hate all the...games.” Maybe that was what had bothered him in Boston. Everyone jockeyed for a favorable position. “It is too much to want to be myself?”
His dad’s eyes narrowed. “Anyone you interact with will be aware of your net worth. We’re Smythes.”
Abby was aware, but he didn’t yet know what effect that would have on their relationship. She’d made one joke about pecan bars for money. And one serious comment about not letting their personal involvement screw up their business relationship.
What did Abby want from him?
He climbed the steps of Fitzgerald House and swiped his key card.
The women had already gone upstairs. A small blessing in an otherwise awful night.
“I’m going to grab a soda.” And talk to Abby. “Want anything?”
“I’d better check on your mother.” His father hesitated and then said, “Don’t be too hard on her. She thought...”
Gray shook his head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He headed down the hallway but turned back. “It would be best if Gwen and I didn’t see each other again while she’s here.”
His father nodded.
Gray stopped in the dining room and grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge available for guests. Time to see what Abby was up to.
Pans rattled in the kitchen. He leaned his shoulder against the door to push it open. And stopped dead.
The damn door was locked.
What the hell?
He set his free hand against the wood. She was in there. Working, even though she’d been up before dawn fixing breakfast.
He could smell the buttery scent of her pecan bars even through the thick oak door.
“Abby,” he whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear him.
She’d locked him out. Hell, he hadn’t even realized she could lock the swinging door.
This night just kept getting better.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rule #16—Never let a guest see you sweat.
Mamie Fitzgerald
“MOMMY, THERE’S A bunk bed!”
Cheryl hurried down the short hall and peeked in her son’s new bedroom.
Her eyes fill
ed with tears. She’d planned on heading to Goodwill to buy furniture.
Instead, Mr. Smythe had already furnished the small two-bedroom apartment. Packets of new sheets and bedding sat on the mattresses. A new sofa and TV had been set up in the small living room. Cupboards were filled with dishes and silverware. It was too much.
Josh scurried up the ladder. The worn bottoms of his sneakers slipped on the rungs. They were going shoe shopping after the holiday.
“No shoes on the bed,” she warned.
He flopped onto the mattress and tossed his shoes over the railing. “I want to sleep up here.”
She wiggled the rail. “All right. But you’ll have to help me make the bed.”
He turned on his side, his brown eyes huge.
“I will,” he promised.
She checked her watch. “Okay, we need to wash sheets.”
His face crumpled. “Do we have to go to the Laundromat?”
“We’re never going back there.” She tapped him on the nose. “We talked about that before. We have our own washer and dryer. Come on, I’ll show you. Bring your sheets.”
He scrambled off the bunk.
The small stackable washer and dryer were next to the bathroom.
“Let’s rip these open,” she said.
Mr. Smythe had even supplied a bottle of detergent. A cold shiver ran down her back. What did he expect in return?
“Spider-Man! Like my backpack.” Josh hugged the sheets to his skinny chest as if they were his favorite toy.
With help from Mr. Smythe, she was making a better life for her son.
When the laundry had been started, she said, “We need to unpack your clothes. Then I have to get to work.”
His smile drooped a little. “Okay.” Those heartbreaking brown eyes stared into hers. Brad’s eyes. “Uncle Levi can’t find us here, right?”
“No way.” She grabbed her son in a bear hug. “We’re way too smart for him.”
He clung to her like a burr on a dog. “We are too smart for him.”
* * *
GRAY PULLED HIS car up in front of Fitzgerald House. As he waited for his parents, Courtney and Gwen exited the B and B arm in arm. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in aggravation. His anger hadn’t cooled from the day before.
He’d tried to change the dinner reservations—again. None of the restaurants would split their reservation for five into two tables, unless they wanted to sit down at eleven at night.
He still couldn’t believe Gwen was here. And Abby wouldn’t talk to him about it.
He’d sent Abby a text this morning asking when they could talk.
Her reply—Sorry, I’m busy.
She couldn’t spare five minutes? She’d locked him out of the kitchen last night, and now she was avoiding him?
His parents climbed into the car. He glanced at his mother’s silk pants. “Are you sure you want to wear that to a construction site?”
His father smiled. “I’ve never met a woman who can stay as clean as your mother.”
“I thought I’d show you the Historic District first.” They could have walked, but Gray took them on a driving tour of the city. Maybe Savannah’s charm would work its magic and put him in a better mood.
Pink-and-white flowers exploded throughout the city. The colors sparkled against black wrought iron fences and vibrant green hedges. Because of the one-way signs around the many squares, they enjoyed a leisurely trip through the prettiest part of Savannah.
“Look at all the Irish flags.” His dad pointed to the sights out the window.
“Everyone’s Irish this weekend,” Gray said.
“The city is lovely,” his mother offered from the backseat.
Gray wound his way as close to the warehouse as possible and parked the car. They stopped in front of his building, looking from the street to the Savannah River.
“The view is wonderful,” his dad commented. “I was surprised when you bought this place. Now I see your vision. Nice work.”
His father’s compliment burned a warm path to his heart. He was thirty-three, but parental approval still felt nice.
Gray gestured to the building facade. “We’ll add wrought iron balconies and open up the windows with sliders. We’ll have the requisite colorful awnings on street level. I might keep a unit for myself while we’re selling the others.”
That had been his plan when he’d first bought the building. Now the thought of not staying at Fitzgerald House had him rolling his shoulders.
His mother tripped on the uneven cobblestones, and he put a hand under her elbow to steady her.
“The stones you’re stumbling on are from England,” Gray said. “They were ballast and dumped when the ships picked up their loads of cotton and tobacco.”
“Very clever of the colonists.” His mother tilted her face up and gave him a penetrating stare. “You’re not getting attached to this town, are you?”
“There are great properties available at bargain prices.” He pointed to the warehouse next to his. “I may make an offer on that space.”
“No.” Sadness crossed his mother’s face. “I like having my children in Boston.”
“I’m debating other opportunities, as well. Fitzgerald House would be a great investment,” he blurted out.
What would Abby think if he offered her a loan? Maybe helping her out would get her talking to him again.
His father frowned slightly. “You’ve never taken on hospitality property.”
Gray shrugged. “I’ve looked over the B and B’s financials. They’re strapped for cash, but the potential is there.”
“But you live in Boston,” his mother insisted.
Savannah fit him better. As though he’d been wearing shoes that were too small and he’d finally slipped on the correct size. “It was good for me to leave.”
“Gray, I won’t interfere. I want you to be happy.” She touched his face. “I thought you were happy with Gwen.”
“I wasn’t.”
He inhaled and took his mother’s hand. He’d never thought about being happy, but Savannah was the closest he’d come to feeling content. What had Abby called it? Joy. She’d brought joy and peace to his life.
“Gray,” a young voice called.
Joshua ran toward him from the building.
“Josh.” Gray grinned.
The little boy jumped up and slapped his hand. Then he turned around and stuck his hand behind him.
Gray gave him a down-low. “How’s my man?”
“I got a new bed. It has a ladder and everything. And Spider-Man sheets.”
Cheryl hurried over and caught Josh’s hand. “You can’t run away like that.”
The fear in her eyes never left. What made her so afraid?
“But Gray was here.” Josh turned his sunny face up to his mother.
Gray’s parents stared at the boy and his mother. He quickly made introductions.
“How’s the apartment?’ he asked.
“It’s wonderful.” Cheryl crossed her arms over her chest. “The furniture, the linens, the food...”
“I got a bunk bed!” Josh piped in.
“Cool.” Furnishing the apartment had been a kick.
“It’s too much.” Cheryl’s hand waved around and then covered her mouth.
“You’re doing me a favor, remember? Hopefully, your presence will stop any more break-ins.”
“Break-ins?” his mother exclaimed.
“Someone grabbed some copper pipe.” Gray shrugged. “Cheryl and Josh are on-site as a deterrent.”
His mother didn’t look convinced.
“Did you find the phone I left for you?” Gray asked Cheryl.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. Thanks.”<
br />
“Good.” He didn’t want her crying. “I programmed in the numbers for Fitzgerald House, my cell and 911.”
“I saw the note.” Cheryl’s hand waved like the fluttering of a wounded bird. “It’s too much.”
“You need a phone to call if there’s any trouble.” He knelt and stared Josh in the eye. “Remember what we talked about. No going in the main building. And stay with your mom,” he added.
“I will.” Josh nodded solemnly.
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” Cheryl said. “And it’s good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Smythe.”
His mother stared at their backs as they climbed the stairs. “Again?”
“Cheryl works at the B and B.”
“Really?” his dad said. “And for you?”
“She’s had it rough.” At least that was his impression. “I needed someone on-site—she needed...” He shrugged. He really didn’t know what she needed.
“So she’s the reason you’re fixated on Savannah.” His dad winked.
“No. It’s Abby.”
His parents both gave him blank looks.
“Abby Fitzgerald.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Unfortunately, when Gwen came with you to Savannah—” he pointed a finger at his mother “—it screwed everything up.”
* * *
ABBY TIED AN apron over her pale green shirt and moss-colored skirt. This St. Patrick’s Day she would be wearing the green. She was a Fitzgerald after all.
For St. Patrick’s Day, she was serving a hearty Irish breakfast. Her guests would start with bacon, sausage, eggs, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and, of course, oatmeal. She’d already brewed a pot of Irish breakfast tea. Her guests might not notice all the details, but she did.
She and Gray were done. No more letting him distract her from the really important things. Their attraction had been a nice blip, but from now on she’d devote her energy to her business.
The Smythes had done her a favor. Now she could concentrate on her true priorities—Fitzgerald House and the future. She and her sisters would get through this cash crisis and then she’d move on to planning her restaurant.
Abby took a deep breath, pushing at the sharp pain in her stomach. After the holiday, Gray could have his dinner in the dining room.