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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?”
“I don’t need taking care of.” She poked a finger at him.
“I know that.” But he liked taking care of her. He stepped closer and captured her hand in his. He just couldn’t stop touching her.
She looked up. There was more than anger simmering in her eyes. Desire?
He backed her into the counter. She smelled like herbs and flowers. The combination had him wavering between wanting to bite her or to carry her back upstairs.
“Gray...” She put her hands on his chest, and electricity shot through him.
Her pink bottom lip begged him to nibble it. Being this close to Abby was making him crazy. “Oh, hell.”
Abby’s fingers splayed across his chest, generating enough heat to brand his skin through his shirt.
He cupped her head between his hands.
Leaning in, he brushed his mouth against hers, just a feather’s touch. They both inhaled, a sharp, sweet sound. Then he dived in for another kiss.
Abby sighed, a sexy moan that curled into his groin. She tasted of coffee and cinnamon. Her fists relaxed and then gripped his shirt as her body melted into his. Her breasts pressed against his chest.
“Abby.” His tongue stroked hers, and heat flashed through his body.
Her fingers pushed into his hair, and he molded his body to her lush curves.
Her lips slid against his cheek. He ran his tongue along her jaw and nuzzled the frenzied pulse under her ear. Her arms tightened around his back.
“You taste so good.” He dived back in for a kiss.
“Gray.” She shook her head. “Stop.”
He rested his forehead against her, gasping for breath. What the hell had just happened?
She pushed against his shoulders.
“That was better than I’d imagined,” he whispered, drawing back.
Their kiss hadn’t eased the tension from his body. Every muscle cried out to take this woman back to his bed.
“You...you...” Her eyes, once glazed with arousal, were now filled with anger.
For the second time that night, Gray apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t regret kissing you, but I was out of line.”
“You idiot. You make me lose three hours of work, then interrupt me when I’m trying to catch up. You kiss me and then say sorry?” She was building up another head of steam. “Maybe we need to renegotiate your agreement. I’mnot part of the Fitzgerald House services. If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, you’ll need to find other accommodations.”
Gray backed away. An electrical charge still surged through him. “If you tell me you haven’t thought about what we would be like together, I’ll call you a liar.”
Before she could take another swipe at him, he added, “I apologize—again. Let me help you catch up. Could I find someone to help you out? Maybe before the party. That would help, right?”
“No.” She jerked away from him.
“There must be some sort of temp place. I could...find a kitchen assistant.” He held up a hand. “Let me help you.”
She glanced over at the unwashed pots and pans, and her eyes gleamed. “You want to help? You?”
He nodded.
“Soap’s above the sink. Gloves are on the towel rack. Make sure the water is hot, very hot.”
“Me?” This wasn’t working out the way he’d planned. He’d figured he could pay someone to help her.
“You.” Abby stalked away. “Keep to your side of the kitchen and stay away from me.”
* * *
“SALAD’S UP.” ABBY wiped one final drip of dressing off a plate. Perfect. The curls of beets, carrots and cilantro looked elegant next to the grilled white asparagus.
“They look too good to eat,” Michael, her sous chef, said.
“The bride-to-be is beaming.” Dolley stretched before she pushed out the cart. “The tables look spectacular.”
“She liked the centerpieces so much, she’s coming in for a flower consult.” Bess hefted a tray of crudités. “Once they try your food, I’m sure they’ll book the wedding reception here, too.”
Her sisters followed the food up to the ballroom. Abby took a drink of water, kneading the small of her back.
Gray walked into the kitchen.
The muscles she’d just relaxed seized up again.
Abby snatched up the salad plate she’d set aside. She and Gray had to get back to normal.
She was upset with herself. When he’d kissed her last night, she’d wanted to lean into him and let him take her back up to his big bed.
She couldn’t act on her attraction. He was a man who talked about ten-million-dollar deals. She worried about spending ten dollars on anything other than Fitzgerald House.
“Did you get everything done?” he asked, dodging a server carrying a tray of dirty glasses.
“Getting there.” She couldn’t stop her eyes from narrowing.
Gray held up his hands in surrender. “Do I have to apologize again?”
His last apology had led to a kiss that had almost consumed her. “No.” God, no.
“Hey, Miss Abby.”
Joshua stood next to Gray. How had she not noticed the little boy?
“Josh says his mom’s working the party, so I told him he could have dinner with me.” Gray mouthed, “Put it on my bill.”
She nodded, but she would do no such thing. Josh was a sweetie.
“You two men have a choice tonight. Do you want portabella lasagna or short ribs?”
Josh looked at Gray, his mouth scrunched up.
“My man will have lasagna, and I’ll have the short ribs.” Gray whispered to the little boy, “We can share.”
Gray stepped out of Michael’s path, taking Josh with him. “Busy in here,” he commented.
“We’re finishing up the party’s entrées,” she explained.
Gray helped Josh onto a chair.
She plated their meals and brought them to the table.
“Looks great,” Gray said, digging into his salad.
Josh sucked in his lower lip as he stared at the lasagna. “Can you cut this for me?”
“Sure.” Gray winked. “I used to do this for my sister.”
Abby kept an eye on them as she pulled out the tart trays for Marion’s staff to serve. The guests had their choice of raspberry, strawberry, kiwi or lemon curd tarts.
Seeing Gray’s plate licked clean, she asked, “More ribs?”
“Yes, thanks. And maybe a helping for short stuff.” He pointed at Josh.
The little boy’s plate was clean except for a pile of mushrooms.
“Everything is delicious.” Gray patted his stomach, and Josh mimicked him. “The people upstairs will be raving.”
This was why Abby had learned how to cook. She loved seeing people smile after eating her food. And Gray’s dimples were an even better reward. “Were you at the site today, on a Saturday?” she called over as she worked at the island.
“I wanted everything ready for Daniel’s crew on Monday. I got involved, and before I knew it, I’d missed the wine tasting. What was today’s theme?” Gray asked.
Abby placed the final tart on the tray. “Washington State. Smoked salmon, apple and bacon puffs with a pomegranate glaze and a cold curried apple soup.”
He looked pained. “Do you ever do repeats?”
She chuckled. “I can.”
With the tart trays loaded and on their way to the ballroom, Abby heaved a sigh. In spite of yesterday’s unplanned nap, they’d finished. She could rest. At least until the dirty dishes came back down.
She joined Gray and Josh in the alcove, bringing a plate of tarts with her.
She propped her aching feet up on a chair. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a foot rub. “If you want more, you’ll have to serve yourself. I’m too blessed tired.”
“This was incredible.” Gray had cleaned his plate—again. “Josh, do you want anything else?”
The little boy pointed to the tarts. “Red, please.”
Gray passed one to him with a napkin.
Gray didn’t bother with a napkin for himself. He popped an entire tart in his mouth. “Okay, I may need more than one,” he said as his eyes rolled back in pleasure.
The kitchen doors swung open and Cheryl stepped in. Her head jerked back and forth until she saw her son. “Josh!” Her relief was almost palpable. “What are you doing in here?”
“Gray askeded me to eat with him.”
“Asked,” Cheryl corrected. “And it’s Mr. Smythe.”
