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Okay, that was enough. He would not listen to them discuss him like some sort of...object.
“I will not dig into his background.” She hummed, “Na, na, na,” just like a kid. “Stop. I don’t want... He’s worth how much?”
Enough. He moved to the doorway.
“Dolley Madison Fitzgerald, what would Mamma say?” Abigail scolded.
He rapped on the door frame. Loudly.
She turned. Her mouth dropped open and then snapped shut. “I have to go.”
Gray crossed his arms.
“Could you schedule a family meeting?” Her hand shook, mussing her hair. “Samuel did the walk-through with me this afternoon.”
She swiveled away from him, but he heard her say, “The third-floor remodel is going to be expensive.”
Maybe that explained the dust on her cheek when she’d checked him in.
Again she paused. “Next time, baby sister, talk to me.” Her low voice caressed the air, heating his body. She glanced over her shoulder.
Yup, still here.
“He’s eating lamb chops tonight, and no, I don’t have enough to feed you. I’m mad at you. I have to get to the wine tasting. Love you.”
Gray waited.
Abigail stood and turned; her fluid movements reminded him of a ballerina he’d dated several years ago. She walked around the small desk and stopped in front of him.
“Can I help you, Mr. Smythe?” Her tone was cool, but her gaze was fixed on the wall over his shoulder.
She couldn’t look him the eye. Interesting. His jaw unclenched. She didn’t look like the same woman who’d checked him in. Her golden red hair fell to her shoulders. The brows above her bewitching green eyes were furrowed.
His gaze slid from the top of her head to her high heels. From what he could tell, she had a killer body. Her silky top and skirt exploded with color. Pity, the skirt reached her knees.
“May I help you, Mr. Smythe?” Her brisk tone didn’t match her blushing cheeks.
He waited, letting her guilt hang between them. “I guess I got turned around looking for the library.”
“Please, follow me.” She brushed past him, and her perfume, a dark, spicy scent, curled through the hallway. His attention gravitated to the sway of her hips. A man could lose himself in those hips.
He jerked his eyes up. He wasn’t in a position to act on any chemistry with his innkeeper. He was here to do a job. He was here to clear his head.
“Is your room comfortable?” she asked as they entered the lobby.
“More than adequate.” Charming, even. “If the service lives up to the room, I won’t have any problem staying here for the duration.” Some demon in him had him adding, “And I’m looking forward to lamb chops tonight.”
Abigail’s cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red at the reminder that he’d overheard her gossiping. “I know the service will exceed your expectations. Please notify the staff if there’s anything you need.”
He followed her through carved-oak pocket doors that she glided open. Five middle-aged women milled around the library.
Mahogany bookshelves and paneling gleamed. The cherrywood floor included a central mosaic that echoed the stained glass above it.
“Good evening. I’m Abigail Fitzgerald,” she announced to the other guests. “I hope you enjoyed Savannah today.”
Gray stepped farther into the room. The curved walls ran up two stories and were topped by a stunning stained glass dome.
As the women greeted Abigail, Gray moved next to the fireplace. He stroked a finger over the feminine lines of the white marble mantelpiece.
Abigail turned to him. “Ladies, may I present another guest, Mr. Smythe.”
The women waved, and a couple of them asked, “Where are you from?”
“Are you on vacation?”
“How long are you staying?”
“I...I... Boston. Working. Six months.” He escaped over to the table of appetizers.
Abigail grinned as she opened bottles of wine.
“Ladies—” she nodded to him “—and gentleman. Tonight, you’ll taste Argentinean wines. They’re from the Mendoza region. The first is Malambo Chenin chardonnay. See if you can note the citrus and spice tones.” The cork made a hollow sound as she freed it from the bottle. She continued describing the wines and popping corks. “Enjoy.”
Abigail knew more about wines than he did. He edged closer to the table, gesturing to the food. “What’s all this?”
“Chimichurri. Try it on the toast points.” She handed him a plate. “Next to it are vegetable empanadas with a dipping sauce. And that’s a shrimp and scallop ceviche.”
He blinked. “You made Argentinean appetizers?”
Abigail flashed him a chilly smile. “Of course. They match the wine.”
She aligned a serving platter and adjusted the flame under a warming dish. Once everything met her standards, Ms. Fitzgerald glided out of the room. How did she move in those heels?
He frowned. Not a complication he needed. He was here to build condos.
* * *
GRAY TRIED TO enjoy the excellent wine and appetizers alone, but the women drew him into their conversation. By seven, he longed for solitude. Instead, he needed to endure eating in the kitchen.
Maybe he should have offered an additional twenty bucks to eat in his room. The B and B had to have a table they could set up. He just hadn’t quantified his request properly. Everyone had their price.
Gray touched the kitchen’s swinging door, but didn’t push it open. Would Ms. Fitzgerald watch him eat? Talk his ear off?
The past two weeks, he’d worked like a Tasmanian devil. And he’d avoided Gwen and her endless calls and emails. Even before he’d broken it off with her, he’d been exhausted from her constant demands to attend parties where he’d have the same conversation night after night with people who lived off their trust funds.
For the past year, he’d felt like a piece of laminate in the middle of a tiled floor. He was functional, but out of place. Something had to change. Maybe here in Savannah he’d get some perspective. And when he returned to Boston he’d find...peace?
He shivered. Crap, was this him getting in touch with his feelings?
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.”
