Southern Comforts

Gray’s dark hair appeared in the doorway, and Abby’s stomach fluttered as if the champagne bubbles were tickling her.

“Hi ladies, still—” Gray frowned and looked at the bottle, the flutes and papers covering the table “—working?”

“Yeah. All work and no play—that’s us.” Dolley waved him over. “Hey, you know about our renovations. Can you tell us if these bids are reasonable?”

What? Abby kicked Dolley’s shoe.

Dolley glared. “What was that for?”

Abby tipped her head toward Gray and frowned.

He leaned against the dining alcove’s half wall. Those steely blue eyes held hers as he took of sip of the cognac he’d carried in with him.

“He’s a guest,” Abby hissed. A guest she’d kissed. The best kiss of her life.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

But Abby did. This was Fitzgerald business.

Gray moved to the table. Dolley scooted over to make room for him as he took a seat. “What’s going on?”

“Samuel’s just finished the last second-floor room, but we want to open up the third floor,” Dolley said.

He nodded.

Dolley shifted the papers in front of him. “We don’t have the cash to do the whole floor, but can you tell us if the room-by-room costs look reasonable? Maybe you have some ideas.”

Abby wanted to snatch the papers out of his hand. Guests shouldn’t know about their financial situation.