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“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 (#ulink_3842dcd3-d2b0-55fe-80d4-1045d7c2c0b6)
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 to 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.
