LITMIR.BIZ

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      “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 Miss Abby, 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

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