Nan Dixon - Southern Comforts

“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?

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