Michelle Major - Fortune's Fresh Start

“I don’t mind,” he assured her, grinning at the girls.

“The flowers are beautiful,” she said.

“They’re for you.” He looked down at the bouquet, then up at her again. “You probably guessed that.”

Despite her nerves and the craziness of the evening, Becky grinned. “I have a bottle of wine on the counter. Would you open it while I put them down?”

“Sure.”

It felt a bit strange to leave him alone in her house when he’d just arrived, but she didn’t have a choice.

She began to sing softly to the girls as she made her way back to their bedroom. As if on cue, both Luna and Sasha yawned when Becky turned off the overhead light in the room, leaving the space bathed in only the soft glow from the butterfly night-light plugged in next to the rocking chair in the corner.

She placed them in their cribs, smiling as they babbled to each other in that secret language they seemed to share. She finished the song, gave each one a last kiss and said good-night. After checking the monitor that sat on the dresser, she quietly closed the door to their room.

Once in the hallway, she glanced down at herself and cringed. The twins were normally asleep by six thirty so Becky had thought she’d have a few minutes to freshen up before Callum arrived. She’d changed from her scrubs into a faded T-shirt and black leggings, both of which were wet thanks to the dual tantrums she’d dealt with during bath time.

Hurrying to her bedroom, she changed into a chunky sweater and dark jeans, cursing the fact that she hadn’t been shopping for new clothes since before the girls were born. She hadn’t done anything for herself in far too long, which was why this night felt so special.

She dabbed a bit of gloss on her lips, fluffed her hair and headed for the kitchen and Callum. Her heartbeat fluttered in her chest once again.

Her reaction to his presence felt silly. He’d helped with her daughters and agreed to come for dinner. Nothing more. He probably regretted it already and was counting the minutes until he could make his escape.

But the warmth in his gaze when he looked up from his phone as she walked into the kitchen told a different story. One that made sparks tingle along her spine.

“You arranged the flowers,” she murmured, taking in the bouquet that had been placed in a vase on the table.

“I found a vase in the cabinet.” He offered a sheepish smile. “I hope you don’t mind. It was one less thing you’d have to deal with tonight.”

“They’re perfect,” she told him, then breathed out a soft laugh. “You can manage multiple construction projects and excel at the art of floral arranging. Quite the Renaissance man, Callum.”

Her silly comment seemed to relax them both. She could hardly believe he had nerves in the same way she did, but the thought made her feel more confident.

“Something smells really great,” he told her.

“I almost forgot about dinner,” she admitted, pulling a face. “It’s not fancy, but I hope you like chicken potpie.”

“I like everything.”

And didn’t those words just whisper across her skin like a promise? Becky gave herself a little head shake. He was talking about food and she stood there staring at him like he was the main course.

“My grandma used to make it when we went to her house for Sunday dinner. I make some modifications so the recipe doesn’t take so long, but the crust is homemade.”

“I’m impressed.” He handed her a glass of wine. “To new friends and new beginnings.”

She clinked her glass against his and took a drink of the bright pinot grigio. It was only a sip but she would have sworn the tangy liquid went right to her veins, making her feel almost drunk with pleasure.

More likely the man standing in her kitchen caused that. The first man who’d been there with her since her husband’s death.

“New beginnings,” she repeated softly, then busied herself with dinner preparations.

She’d done most of the work when she got home earlier. The pie was warm in the oven, and the scent of chicken and savory dough filled the air when she took it out and set it on the trivet she’d placed on the kitchen table.

She took a salad from the refrigerator, then frowned at the simple supper. Surely a man like Callum was used to fancier fare.

“I haven’t cooked for ages,” she admitted as she joined him at the table. “I’m out of practice at entertaining.”

As if understanding there was an apology implicit in her words, Callum shook his head. “This looks amazing, and I appreciate you going to the trouble for me.”

“It was no trouble.” She dished out a huge helping of the classic comfort food onto his plate. “I hope you’re hungry.”

As he took a first bite, he closed his eyes and groaned in pleasure. “I could eat this every night.”

“I used to make things that were more gourmet, but with the girls’ bedtime routine I figured I’d have better luck with a recipe I know by heart.”

“I’m not much for gourmet.”

“That surprises me.” She forked up a small piece of crust, pleased that it tasted as good as she remembered. “I figured anyone with the last name of Fortune would be accustomed to the finer things in life.”

“Nothing finer than a home-cooked meal,” he said, helping himself to another portion.

She chuckled. “Do you always eat so fast?”

“Only when it’s this good.” He shrugged. “My branch of the family is relatively new to the notoriety of the Texas Fortunes.”

“Really? Is that why you moved here? To get your moment in the spotlight?” She mentally kicked herself when he grimaced. He’d helped her and now her nerves had her babbling so much she was going to offend him. “I’m sorry. That came out sounding rude.”

“Rambling Rose appealed to me because I’m here in Texas, which gives me a sense of connection with the Fortune legacy, but it also feels like I’m blazing my own path.”

“That’s important to you?” She stabbed a few pieces of lettuce with her fork.

“Very important. You met my dad and stepmom and three of my siblings. Imagine four more added to the mix. There wasn’t much time for individuality growing up. I could hardly do my own thing when I constantly had a brother or younger sister trailing me.”

“Are you the oldest?”

He studied his plate for a long second, as if unsure how to answer. “No. Dillon, who was at the ribbon cutting ceremony, is a year younger than me. Our parents divorced when I was a toddler, and Dad met Marci shortly after. They married almost immediately. She also had two boys from her first marriage. Steven is two years older and Wiley is my age, although he has a couple of months on me. It felt like I went from being the oldest to the little brother overnight.”

“That’s a lot of blending,” Becky murmured, not quite able to imagine how that would have felt for a young boy.

He nodded. “We were a handful, especially at the beginning. I think each of us had something to prove. Unfortunately that meant we pushed every one of Marci’s buttons any chance we got.”

“How did she handle it?”

“Like a champ,” Callum confirmed. “I didn’t see my real mom much after the divorce, but Marci always made Dillon and me feel like we were her sons as much as Steven and Wiley. If we were testing her, she passed with flying colors.”

“And things got easier?”

“Stephanie was a turning point for the family. She was the most precious thing I’d ever seen. Suddenly, these four rowdy boys had something in common—our sister. She brought us together.”

“It’s obvious you’re close with her.”

“Yeah.” The softening of his features gave her that fizzy feeling again. “Mom…” He cleared his throat. “Marci became mom to me pretty quickly. She loved having a big family, but had a couple of pregnancies that ended in miscarriage after that. It took a toll on her.”