Southern Comforts

Abby kissed her sister and inhaled Bess’s scent of earth and flowers. “Sorry to obsess. It’s been a crazy start to the week.”

Crazy because of their long-term guest, but she wasn’t going to tell her sister about this weird attraction she was feeling. She could barely admit it to herself.

* * *

GRAY HAD TIMED his arrival in the library perfectly. Abby’s back was to him as she uncorked a wine bottle. He was the first guest to arrive.

“What’s the theme tonight?” he asked.

She turned and his smile dimmed. This woman’s hair was almost the same color, but she wasn’t Abby.

“Hello,” she said with a warm smile.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Abby.”

“Thank you. My sister is lovely, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” The woman’s smile filled her face. “I’m Bess.”

“Nice to meet you. You and your sister look alike.”

But the two sisters were different, too. Bess’s nose was splattered with freckles. Her eyes had more gold in them than Abby’s emerald ones. Abby’s hair was an intriguing shade of strawberry blonde, while Bess’s was redder. And when Bess smiled, his body didn’t come to attention.

“What are the appetizers tonight?” he asked, trying to focus.

“Your theme is California Dreams. Artichoke dip, grilled tomatoes, olive tapenade, carrots, celery and other nibblers. California wines, of course.”

Setting down the wine bottle, Bess extended her hand. He shook it, surprised at both the strength and callouses. She smelled like flowers with an earthiness he couldn’t identify.

“I’m Gray Smythe.”

She laughed, making him frown.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that Abs was so mad. She didn’t know about your arrangements before you arrived. Dolley wasn’t able to get your information into the reservation system.” She leaned over and whispered, “Our sister wants new software.”

“There’s three of you, right?” He’d read that tidbit in the B and B’s pamphlet.

“Three girls. Our poor mother.” She opened another bottle and spoke over her shoulder. “Dolley’s the baby. She’s our computer expert and bookkeeper.”

“What can I pour for you?” Bess asked.

He looked at the offerings. “The cabernet, please.”

Bess poured a glass for him and then a small amount into another, swirling it around. She stuck her nose into the bowl and then sipped. “Nice.”

She leaned against the closest armchair, seeming more relaxed than Abby’s mysterious professional persona. “Is this your first visit to Savannah?”

“My second,” he replied. “Is February always this warm?”

“You Northerners,” she laughed, sinking into the chair. “This is cold.”

“When I left Boston, it was snowing.”

“If it ever snowed here, I’d lose half my gardens.” She frowned. “Of course, the blasted kudzu would survive.”

“I sat in the garden today. Your landscaper did a wonderful job.”

She blushed, a pink that highlighted her pale skin. “Thank you. I manage the gardens.”

“This really is a family operation.” And an impressive one. “You work in the garden—Abby in the kitchen.”

Without trying to show any interest, he sipped his wine and asked, “Where is Abby?” That sounded strange, so he added, “I wanted to thank her for getting the contractor names for me.”

“She’s at a Hospitality and Resort Association meeting.” A smile played across her lips. “Abs went dressed to kill just to mess with some guy who thought he could date three women at one time.”

“And he’s in the association?” He could understand any man being fascinated by Abby. She’d been popping into his head throughout the day. Probably because last night had been the nicest conversation he’d had in months.

“The jerk’s a manager at one of the area inns. He should know, no one treats a Fitzgerald like that and survives.” She stood and helped herself to a carrot stick. Crossing her ankles, she leaned against the table.

“Where are the rest of the guests?” he asked.

“Tuesday is our lowest census day. I like to chat with the guests, if that’s what they want, so I take the Tuesday wine tastings. Today, a couple of Moons checked in and there’s a group of ladies and two couples who leave tomorrow.”

“Moons? Honeymooners, right?” He moved over and loaded a plate with appetizers, chips and dip.

“Yeah. We get quite a few of them.”

A tall man walked in the room and Bess’s head jerked up, a frown creasing her forehead. “Forester, what are you doing here?”

Forester walked over and kissed her cheek. “Good to see you, babe.”

Her frown deepened. “Don’t call me that.”

Forester winked and then poured himself a glass of wine.

“Are you taking a room?” She crossed her arms, scowling.

Gray hid his grin by sipping his wine.

“I’m meeting one of your guests.” Forester chucked her under the chin. “Let me get some business done, and then you and I can catch up.”

Gray walked over to him. The man looked around his age, early thirties. “Daniel Forester, I presume.”

“Got me in one. Nice to meet you, Grayson Smythe from Boston.”

“Gray works best.”

“Gray it is,” Daniel said. “Whenever you’re ready, we can stroll over to your warehouse.”

“Finish your wine. I’ll have a little more of this dip.” Gray patted his stomach. “I need to start swinging a hammer, or they’ll have to roll me back to Boston.”

“Our Abby is a dream in the kitchen,” Daniel said.

Were he and Abby involved? Gray’s shoulders tightened. The answer shouldn’t matter. He’d left Boston to get off that particular merry-go-round.

“Do you know the previous warehouse owner?” asked Daniel.

“He’s more than an acquaintance, but not quite a friend.”

Daniel nodded. “He rarely came down to see the project. The rehab should be done by now.”

“I’d agree with you on that. If we end up working together, I should tell you that I’m a hands-on manager,” warned Gray.

“I can live with that.”

As Gray finished his wine, one of the honeymoon couples he’d met this morning entered the library. How did they know they could spend a lifetime together? He’d never come close to feeling that about anyone.

As they left the room, Forester said, “How the hell do they know they’re making the right choice?”

“I’m with you there. At least we know buildings can weather the storms. Let’s go look at mine.”

* * *

ABBY PARKED HER car next to the carriage house. The kitchen lights were on; Bess must be cleaning up. Maybe they could have a cup of chamomile tea before she headed to bed. Bess had added an herbal garden a couple of years ago and now made teas for the B and B. Abby loved having fresh herbs on hand for cooking.

She sighed as she got closer to the kitchen door. The cat had been hunting again and had left his prey on the step. Not the most appealing sight to come home to. Opening the door, she spotted Bess lounging in the alcove. “Reggie’s left us a gift. I’d rather not clean it up dressed like this. I can’t even bend over in this skirt. Will you get it, please?”

“Sure,” Bess said. “How was the meeting?”

“The association contracted with a new food distributor. I’ll check out their products and pricing. And the board is talking about raising the dues.” Abby filled the kettle before turning to the table.

“Gray,” she exclaimed. She hadn’t expected to find him there. Darn it, her face had to match her raspberry suit. And her other sister was at the table, too. “Dolley?”

“Love the suit, Abs.” Dolley pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks for the ideas, Gray.”

“Anything I need to know about?” Abby asked as Dolley slipped by her.

“Gray and I were talking about the third floor. He had some ideas on how to make sure the rooms are soundproofed.” Dolley gave her a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Watch out for Reggie’s gifts,” Abby said as Dolley headed out the door. How had their remodel come up?

Bess rocked to her feet. “What did Reggie leave?”

Abby shivered. “Rabbits. Two of them.”

“That’s two bunnies who won’t be dining in my garden.” Bess moved toward the door. “You’ve got to love a serial-killer cat.”

“You may love him, but I don’t like finding his gifts by the door.”

Bess gave her a quick hug on her way out. “See you tomorrow.”

The screen door slapped closed as her sisters left.

Without Dolley’s and Bess’s presence, Gray seemed to dominate the room.

Abby poured boiling water over the leaves, tapping her fingers as the tea brewed. She couldn’t just stand here for three minutes. She gathered up the pot and her mug and moved over to the table, hoping her face had returned to its normal color.

“So did you drive him crazy?” he asked.

“What?”

“The jerk that suit was meant for?”

Embarrassed, she swore under her breath. She brushed nonexistent lint off her sleeve. “He drooled—blubbered actually. I was cold and professional. I ground him under my heel.”

“I’ll bet you did.” Gray toasted her with his wineglass. She froze as his gaze trailed slowly down her body. It was almost as if his fingers followed the same path. Suddenly the room felt like a sauna.

Swallowing, she picked up his plate. “Dessert?”

“No. In the past two days I’ve had a year’s worth of sweets.”

“Port, then?”

“I’d prefer cognac, if you have it. Otherwise port is fine.”

She moved across the hall to the butler’s pantry and took a deep breath. When that didn’t calm her, she took another before retrieving a bottle and glasses.

“Say when,” she said, pouring.

Instead of telling her, he cupped her hand, lifting the bottle. A zing shot through her arm. The bottle chattered against the rim of the crystal tumbler.

Gray didn’t seem affected by their touch.

“Thanks again for the contractor leads,” he said. “I’ll get their bids, but I have a feeling I’ll pick Forester.”

Abby blinked, sinking into a chair. Her contractors? She’d screwed up her own restoration by being nice. “You’ve met with everyone already?”

“Can’t stand to have the place looking like a bombed-out ruin.”

“You’re showing your Yankee.” And the fact that he didn’t have to worry about cash flow. What would that be like? “The summer heat will knock that impatience right out of you. Eventually you’ll slow down.”

“Like you?” He shook his head. “You’re everywhere. When do you take time off?”

She frowned. “Never.”

What a timely reminder. She needed to ignore any zings flying around her kitchen. Fitzgerald House was the most important thing in her life, and it deserved her full attention.

* * *

ABBY ADDED OLIVE oil and a dab of butter to her sauté pan.

“I hate to repeat myself—” Gray moved into the kitchen carrying an open bottle of cabernet “—but it smells incredible in here.”

His smile had Abby melting like sorbet on a summer day. Earlier, she’d caught herself fantasizing about touching the dimple that appeared on his left cheek whenever he grinned.

Absolutely never get involved with a guest. She’d been repeating Mamma’s rule often. Mamma had once dated a guest who’d stayed at Fitzgerald House for an extended visit. He’d later turned out to be married.

Abby was pretty sure Gray was single, but she didn’t dare ask such a personal question. After nearly two weeks of dinners, she and Gray had yet to run out of topics to discuss, often talking well into the evening. She hadn’t laughed this much since her childhood.

She could look but not touch. Their agreement with Gray was profitable and she didn’t want to upset anything that helped Fitzgerald House.

Gray grabbed dishes from the pantry. He was a guest, but insisted on setting the table.

“Stop. You don’t have to help.” Abby waved her hand. She’d planned to get it done before he came in.

He swung by the range, dropping off a glass of wine for her. “I told you, I don’t mind.”

But she did. He was a guest. She took a deep breath.

“I haven’t seen you around today.” She’d wandered into the rooms where guests gathered on the off chance that he might be there. She hadn’t been so foolish since her days of high school crushes.

“I spent the morning at the warehouse and then drove to Hilton Head to visit friends.”

“How lovely.” Abby hadn’t been to Hilton Head in too long.

“It should have been nice.”

His tone of voice, so stern, made her turn toward him. “It wasn’t?”

“No.” His lips formed a straight line.

“Why not?” She tried to sound casual as she sliced mushrooms for dinner.

“The wife was looking for funding for a summer camp.” He took a sip of his wine. “She invited me to lunch to tap me for a donation.”

That didn’t sound so bad. “Good cause?”

He snorted. “Cheerleading camp.”

“For underprivileged children?”

“Not in her world. I should have known she’d try something.”

The mushrooms sizzled as they hit the sauté pan. “Why would you think that?”

“Everyone wants something—usually it’s money.”

What kind of world did he live in? “That can’t always be true.”

“Always.”

“Do people ask you for money often?” she asked.

He pulled salad dressing from the fridge and set it on the table. “All the time. When I first got here, it was an investment banker and a biotech opportunity.”

She chuckled. “That’s sounds like a joke.”

“Not when he was looking for ten million dollars.”

Her spoon clanged in her saucepan. “Holy cow. You have that kind of money?” she blurted out.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Throw some of it my way,” she said under her breath. They could finish off Fitzgerald House and put in gold-plated faucets.

His back stiffened.

She hadn’t meant for him to hear her.

“Does this happen to your whole family?”

“Mostly to me and my dad, but my mother has her own charities.”

Abby asked about his family, and they sipped wine as she finished preparing dinner.

“You’ve seen me with my family. How is yours different?” she asked, wondering whether money changed things there, too.

He didn’t answer. Maybe she’d overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. “Forget I asked.”

He held up a hand. “No, I was thinking about your question.”

She flipped the mushrooms while waiting for his response.

“You and your sisters are close.” He nodded. “You have each other’s backs.”

“Of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about that kind of loyalty. You have something special. Something I admire.”

“And your family isn’t like that?” How sad.

He lifted his glass for another sip of wine, but the glass was empty, and he set it down. “No. Maybe it’s because I only have a younger sister, but she’s not someone I would trust with anything important. I keep waiting for her to grow up but it hasn’t happened yet. I love them, but family for family’s sake isn’t that important to me.”

“I’m sorry.” Family was everything to her.

“I don’t know any different.” He rubbed his face, looking more tired than when he’d come in. “From what I’ve seen, you and your sisters are very lucky. It’s nice to see your family working together.”

She wanted to see him smile again and didn’t know how to make that happen. Eating seemed to make him happy. “Dinner’s ready.”

He leaned down to the beef tenderloin resting on the counter and inhaled. “My mouth is watering.”

She sliced the beef and added the mushrooms to the plates. Then she drizzled them both with the sauce she’d thickened. Roasted potatoes and green beans flanked the meat.

Gray waited through her prayer, his knife and fork already in hand.

“When I went to New York, this used to be my favorite meal,” Gray said. He took a bite. “Wow, it tastes just like it.”

“Maurice’s, right?” Maurice. The man who used me, made me believe I would be his partner in both the restaurant and his life, and then cheated on me.

“How did you know?”

“I was his sous chef.” She twisted her bare ring finger on her left hand.

“You lived in New York?”

“That’s where I went to culinary school.” Where she’d fallen in love. Where she’d been betrayed. “I worked at a couple of different restaurants before Maurice hired me.”

“I remember reading something in the menu.” She could almost see him processing the information. “They were rated, right?”

“Rising star the first year I was there.” Her work, her food, her cooking.

“What’s the scale?”

“Michelin ranks restaurants on a one to three scale. There aren’t a lot of three-star ratings. Rising star means that the restaurant has potential for a star in the future.” Would Gray laugh if she told him she wanted to run her own restaurant and earn a rating higher than that snake, Maurice?

“You’re an incredible chef. Why did you leave?”

Abby had crawled back home to lick her wounds after Maurice’s betrayal, but she couldn’t tell Gray that. “My great aunt has rheumatoid arthritis. About three years ago, Aunt CeCe needed more help. We’re the only family she has. Mamma’s in Atlanta with her now. My sisters and I took over running Fitzgerald House.”

Her vision of becoming the next Cat Cora on Iron Chef had evaporated. All her energy was focused on the B and B. She would bring Fitzgerald House back to its former glory and fix the financial problems Papa had landed them in. Then she would build Southern Comforts, her own restaurant.

“Well, I’m certainly benefiting from your expertise,” Gray said. “You’re an artist.”

“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

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.”