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Southern Comforts
Nan Dixon
Rule #2—Never get involved with a guestAbigail Fitzgerald has always followed her mama's rules when it comes to running their family's B and B. But her mama never had to resist a man like Grayson Smythe. A long-term guest, Gray spends his evenings having dinner with Abby in her kitchen—and it's not long before their attraction begins to sizzle.Although Gray's kisses are a delicious distraction, Abby's priorities are the B and B and the dream of opening her own restaurant. And Gray definitely has the means to help her. But when money seems to be all he can offer, Abby suspects she might get burned.
Rule #2—Never get involved with a guest
Abigail Fitzgerald has always followed her mama’s rules when it comes to running their family’s B and B. But her mama never had to resist a man like Grayson Smythe. A long-term guest, Gray spends his evenings having dinner with Abby in her kitchen—and it’s not long before their attraction begins to sizzle.
Although Gray’s kisses are a delicious distraction, Abby’s priorities are the B and B and the dream of opening her own restaurant. And Gray definitely has the means to help her. But when money seems to be all he can offer, Abby suspects she might get burned.
“Actions speak louder than words.”
Tears trickled down Abigail’s cheek. The ice in her eyes frightened Gray. “I’m going back to Savannah. I’m going home.”
“Abby.” This couldn’t be happening. Not when he was in love with her. “Stay. Please.”
“We’re done.” She wheeled her bag around him.
Desperate, he blurted out, “I think I’m in love with you.”
She stopped. Her shoulders shook. She turned around, pity filled her face. “You can’t buy my love, Gray. That’s not how it works. It’s something I would have given freely.”
Panic bubbled inside his chest like lava in a volcano ready to blow. “I’m not trying to buy your love.”
She didn’t even stop.
He ripped a hand through his hair. He’d been trying to help her, for God’s sake, and she’d thrown everything back in his face. He told her he loved her. He had the money. He could fix her problems. Make her life easier. Why wouldn’t the stubborn woman let him help?
Dear Reader (#ulink_b937febc-abbc-59dd-b222-0d7502a3d46c),
Thank you for purchasing my debut Mills & Boon Superromance novel.
Southern Comforts is about sisters—a subject I know well. I have three of my own. And they are the reason this story came to life.
My sisters and I visited Savannah and I fell in love with this lush, quirky, vibrant city. In the magical historic district, oak trees drip with Spanish moss and squares are filled with fountains, statues and flowers. Ghost stories abound. The city made me wonder.
What if a group of sisters were struggling to run a bed-and-breakfast in their family’s old mansion? Maybe the oldest sister, a chef, has big dreams but every dollar is poured into the business? Why not force her to feed a cynical, rich developer for six months? Will her lack of money and his wealth put barriers on their developing relationship?
Settle back with a glass of sweet tea and one of Abby’s brandy pecan bars and find out if Abby and Gray can find their happily-ever-after.
I’d love to hear what you think. Please contact me through my website—nandixon.com (http://nandixon.com). Or stop on over if you want some of Abby’s recipes.
Happy reading,
Nan Dixon
Southern Comforts
Nan Dixon
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NAN DIXON spent her formative years as an actress, singer, dancer and competitive golfer. But the need to eat had her studying accounting in college. Unfortunately, being a successful financial executive didn’t feed her passion to perform. When the pharmaceutical company she worked for was purchased, Nan got the chance of a lifetime—the opportunity to pursue a writing career. She’s a five-time Golden Heart finalist and lives in the Midwest where she is active in her local RWA chapter and on the board of a dance company. She has five children, two sons-in-law, one grandchild, a husband and one neurotic cat.
To Mom and Dad—you taught me to work hard to make my dreams come true. I wish you were here to celebrate with me.
To my family—no one can top your enthusiasm, support and laughter. Don, Nicholas, Meghan, Dan, Allison, Joe, Anne, Matthew, little Lily, Dad E and Diana. My characters would be lucky to be blessed with loud, crazy, loving families just like ours.
Special thanks go out to my writing community. First, my critique groups—Ann Hinnenkamp, Ann Holliday, Neroli Lacey, Greta MacEachern, Leanne Farrell and Kathryn Kohorst. You’ve put up with my messy drafts, lack of conflict, lack of scene goals and pushed me to become a better writer. Second, my Golden Heart sisters: the Unsinkables, Starcatchers, Lucky13s and Dreamweavers. When I’ve stumbled, you picked me up, dusted me off and pushed me back into the fight. Even better, you’re there to celebrate my successes—Prosecco for all! And I can’t forget my RWA chapter, Midwest Fiction Writers. Our authors are gracious and willing to share their knowledge. They know how to pay it forward. Thank you.
I also want to thank the people who took a chance on me—Laura Bradford and Megan Long. I appreciate your confidence and advice.
And finally, this book is for my sisters—Mo, Sue and Trish. Without our weekend, I never would have written Southern Comforts. (Where are we going this year and will I get another series idea?)
Contents
Cover (#ud6c4a428-df47-59b4-8ac2-a0ac56ad32a5)
Back Cover Text (#uc15f7109-32a8-5e2f-861a-67f39b699f7e)
Introduction (#u76656221-9e46-51dc-b759-d5fc967e864d)
Dear Reader (#ulink_23fce6c3-bc42-53a9-aff8-bbd097b8ad4a)
Title Page (#u2c7cc87e-fb88-5e76-b6c9-191ac2a0dd5e)
About the Author (#u4b7ea47c-9404-5985-8044-92e1d6cb772f)
Dedication (#ud91b782f-e741-57ac-b80f-c6793075712d)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_66ddbde1-1a4c-5746-9481-09b894f96134)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bd107f1f-3eb7-5a7f-8715-4ba2925e03c1)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c59ed496-fbf2-595d-abe0-d7688d0fe754)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e2bfb457-cc11-5593-90ca-c39c4c6ceb7a)
Rule #1—The guests are always right, even when they’re wrong.
Mamie Fitzgerald
“SCORE ONE FOR Team Fitzgerald.” Abby tapped the occupancy permit against the porch railing and waved to her contractor as he headed for his truck. The final room on the second floor could be used.
She propped open the bed-and-breakfast’s bright blue doors. For February 1, the day was gorgeous, with temperatures hitting the mid 70s. Sunlight streamed through the leaded-glass side windows and sparkled on the foyer’s crystal chandelier. The gold streaks in the green-marble entry floor gleamed.
Abby wanted all of Fitzgerald House to sparkle like the entry.
That meant renovating the rest of the third floor, and finally the carriage house. They just needed a reasonable bid, money and a whole lot of luck.
Her hand brushed the brass plaque set inside the door.
Fitzgerald House—1837
Savannah, Georgia
Bed & Breakfast opened
March 1, 1998—Mamie Fitzgerald
Owners—Abigail, Bess and Dolley Fitzgerald
As always, she made a wish. Let the renovation costs be reasonable.
A fresh floral arrangement graced the console table. The tang of lemon wax mingled with the warm scent of the foyer’s sandalwood candles. While she’d been with her contractor, the cleaning crew had performed their magic.
With no one in the entry, she held out her arms and twirled, tipping her head up, grinning. The sparkling prisms were all she could see.
Dizzy, she stopped. Whoa. Hadn’t done that since she’d been young.
She’d call Mamma and her sisters later. Let them know they were one room closer to finishing the main house restoration. And she was one room closer to opening her restaurant in the carriage house. She gave herself a hug. One step at a time.
Abby walked over to the Queen Anne secretary they used for a reception desk. The front door opened as she logged on to the computer, and she glanced up. “Welcome to Fitzgerald House. How can I help you?”
A man stalked toward her. Black brows framed laser-blue eyes. He was tall and lean. My, my. Some days God took pity on working women and gave them something to dream about. She indulged in a quick fantasy of running her fingers through his thick black hair. Too bad he had a frown on his face and a cell phone glued to his ear.
Mr. Fantasy dropped his bag, smiled and pointed to the phone, holding up one finger. He patted his pockets.
She handed him a pen and a piece of paper.
He mouthed a thank-you.
“Severn,” he said. “What was the contracted completion date?”
He wrote down the date in bold slashes.
“What’s the remaining payout?” Again the hand-scrawled numbers on the paper.
Abby tried not to look, but the number was big. With that kind of money, she and her sisters could finish off the third-floor rooms and still have enough left over for new linens.
“So what’s the problem?” the man growled.
Abby stepped back, giving him privacy. She wouldn’t want to be the person failing to meet this man’s expectations.
“The only way I’ll extend the deadline is if we recontract,” he stated. “You have options. Overtime, more crew. Think about it and get back to me.” He switched off his phone without so much as a goodbye.
Apparently Mr. Fantasy hadn’t gone to the same customer-service seminars Abby had.
She stepped back up to the desk. “May I help you?”
“Grayson Smythe. S-m-y-t-h-e.” The man’s voice was as rich and smooth as bourbon, and his smile was just as intoxicating.
Abby searched the reservation system. Nothing. She tried incorrect spellings of the man’s name. Nada. She tried his first name as his last. Still nothing. Her fingers tapped the desktop in a staccato beat.
The man’s intense gaze weakened her knees. His dark eyebrows came together over his bright blue eyes.
Had the system eaten another reservation? She forced a smile. “Do you have a confirmation number?”
“No, I don’t. My assistant confirmed the details yesterday.” He leaned over the desk, staring at the computer screen. The temperature in the room seemed to climb ten degrees.
Abby kept smiling, but her mouth wanted to droop into a frown. She couldn’t. She had a guest in front of her.
A quick patter of feet turned her attention to the open door.
“I told you, Mama.” A blond boy, maybe four or five years old, darted into the entry. “I’ll catch you a rainbow.”
Catch a rainbow?
