“M’lord.”
“Wench.” His lips curved. “Do you have a minute?”
How about a lifetime?
Really, Shelby Mae?
“I—what’s that smell?” Something fragrant and delicious wafted from his apartment.
“Care to see for yourself?”
“Sure, Granny, what big cooking smells you have.”
He grinned and ushered me inside. I went easy. But then I was a weak, weak woman where this man was concerned.
Hatch startled beside me because I’d just let out an ear-piercing shriek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Lord, this is beautiful!” I grabbed his arm, needing something to keep me upright. “It’s like something in a fancy hotel.”
He had set a table with a pretty floral runner and full flatware settings, then added a pitcher of orange juice, a fruit plate, and a vase of flowers. Pale pink roses, my favorites. That should have bothered me because they were part of my wedding bouquet, but it didn’t. I liked the idea of that bad memory being attached to something new.
“Thought you might like to eat in a nice setting. As Conor would say, ‘chicks dig that shit.’ It’s a French toast bake, kind of a Kershaw tradition.” He looked a little embarrassed, probably at my OTT reaction. “This is what I wanted to feed you for breakfast before you fled Saugatuck.”
I couldn’t believe he had gone to all this trouble. But then I remembered the schedule timing for this afternoon.
“Is this why I can’t pick up your dry cleaning until five p.m.? Have you actually booked me for the whole afternoon?”
“I figured it’s the only way to get on Summer Landry’s busy schedule.”
“I-I can’t do this. It’s not … professional.”
“Violates the client-delivery person relationship, does it?”
I thumped his arm for his cheekiness. To be fair, this example was probably the least egregious of our sins. It was only breakfast at two in the afternoon in the home of someone who employed me vis-a-vis an independent contractor. Barely a blip on the ethics radar.
We spent a couple of minutes getting situated: juice poured, fruit side plated, napkins unfurled (cloths ones with pewter rings. I was in heaven.). He had even made me English Breakfast tea in a teapot! I took a bite of the eggy bread and closed my eyes.
“So. Good. I love French toast, but this is out of this world. What’s that flavor?”
“Flavors. Cinnamon, vanilla, and orange zest.”
I licked my lips. His gaze dipped to my mouth turned smoky.
“And?”
“A dollop of love. Or that’s what my mom would say.”
I grinned. “That’s it. Made with love.”
“It’s the first meal my dad made for my mom.”
“Really? Was that after they’d spent the infamous one night together?”
“Before, actually.”
My eyes went wide. “Sounds like a good story.”
