A Brand New Ending (Page 21)

He unsnagged an apron from one of the kitchen hooks and tied it around his waist. The Tuscan flowers should’ve made him look ridiculous, but he exuded such masculinity and confidence it only made him look hotter.

“You can lead. I’ll take direction.”

She glowered. “You always sucked at that role.”

He shot her a heated glance. “You never complained about it before.”

Heat soaked her cheeks.

Damn him. He’d always been demanding in bed, and she’d been thrilled to surrender to every delicious command.

She grabbed at her composure. “Stop. If you’re going to keep bringing up our past, you can’t stay for dinner.”

He tried to look apologetic, but his eyes danced with mischief. “Sorry. I’ll be good. Let me help, Ophelia. I’ve missed cooking. It’s been too long since I helped prepare a meal.”

Her brow lifted. “Takeout? Or fancy in-house chef?”

“Both.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. She was such a sucker. “A pity you’ve gotten lazy on me. All those millions make you soft, Kimpton?”

He cocked his hip and regarded her in an obvious challenge. “My skills may be rusty, but they’re still badass. What’ve you got for me?”

She turned so he couldn’t spot her grin. “Pork loin roast. Rosemary-herbed potatoes. Butternut squash quiche. Biscuits.”

“I’m assuming not Pillsbury.”

She snorted. “Don’t curse in my kitchen. Pick.”

He regarded the various stations and ingredients like he was entering an Iron Chef competition. “Meat and potatoes.”

“A bit ambitious, don’t you think?”

He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “Always aim high.”

Her belly rolled and tumbled. She remembered the night he was referencing like yesterday. His arrogant assumption that he could break his record and give her a dozen orgasms before dawn. The patient, intense way he’d coaxed her body through the endless hours, wringing out pleasure after pleasure.

He’d not only met his goal, he exceeded it.

She shifted, growing wet and achy between her thighs. Those dark-green eyes lit with recognition, but he didn’t push—likely sensing she was on the edge of throwing him out.

Grabbing a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, she filled them both glasses of Chardonnay. “Oh, the spice rack is over there. Sauces to the left. Herbs in the till.”

“Got it.”

She nodded and commanded her Amazon Echo to play her cooking music list.

“Not the Broadway musicals,” he groaned, clearing out a work area at the end of the countertop. “I’ll fall asleep and chop my finger off.”

She made a face. “My kitchen, my songs. Don’t tell me you still enjoy that alternative stuff Ethan likes? The bands with the crazy names that make no sense?”

“Yes. Don’t even think of making fun of Radiohead or Nirvana. They’re like the Sinatra and Martin of our day.”

“Not with names like Cage the Elephant and the Arctic Monkeys.”

“At least the sound is sick. Those musicals are ridiculous. You get to the good part between the hero and heroine, and then they break into song and ruin the whole dramatic moment. True artists know that music needs to be listened to in its purest state—alone. Not as part of a musical.”

“Tell that to Meryl Streep, who starred in Mamma Mia! and gave ABBA a whole new resurgence of fans.”

He didn’t deign to answer, just shot her a look and got to chopping the garlic.

The strains of “City of Stars” from La La Land caressed her ears. The scent of a limoncello candle burned bright and soaked the air with fragrance.

Singing softly under her breath, she attacked the dough for the quiche crust with flour and a rolling pin. With each motion her body relaxed, her mind cleared, and she gave herself to the experience of preparing food for loved ones to eat.

“I like Mia,” he announced. “It’s good to see Ethan happy and settled here. Sometimes I can’t believe he actually lived in Hollywood.” In between Special Forces assignments, Ethan was a bodyguard to a famous actress. He had settled into the glitz and glamour before returning home wounded from a mission.

“Me, too. I’m glad home was not only able to heal him, but find him love. It was a hell of a summer watching those two dance around each other.”

“I bet—Mia’s a pistol.”

“I never knew much about his life in California. How often did you get to see him?”

He began prepping the marinade for the meat. “Not much. He had a crazy schedule as a bodyguard, and he was flying out on missions where he’d be gone for a while. He came to some of my big screenings, though, and I always knew he was there if I needed him.” A smile curved his lips. “He’s my brother,” Kyle said simply.

Her chest tightened. Yes, they were brothers—in the way that mattered. Which only made keeping Kyle distant from her family even harder, since he was truly one of them.

They fell into a companionable silence. He seemed busy with his own thoughts as they worked. “Other than Aubrey, do you have any help with running the inn? I know winter is a slower time, so I wondered how you handled the busier seasons.”

She shrugged. “I’m ruthlessly organized, so I don’t need much extra help. I have a savvy accountant, and Mia’s been incredible at instituting some marketing techniques to increase our bottom line. It all revolves around packing in high turnover for the tourist seasons and coming up with ways to get people to stay in the winter. Next year, I’m going to work with one of the parks that sponsor the Winter Festival and offer discounted rates on rooms.”

“Smart.” He looked up from his chopping to study her curiously. “Do you ever get bored doing the same thing day after day? Or lonely? It can get pretty isolated here in the winter, and then in the summer, you’re surrounded by strangers. You used to tell me this would be your nightmare job. In fact, it’s one of the reasons we moved away together—so we wouldn’t have to live a life like our parents’.”

His question hit her like a fist in the gut. Her fingers squeezed the dough, and she was confronted by the depth of her lie—to both him and herself. Although lie seemed a bit too stark, colored in black and white. Hers was more of an untruth, in muted gray, that she didn’t even realize until it was too late.

God, she didn’t have the strength to tackle the true answer to his inquiry. Not now, when they were deep in the intimacy of cooking a meal for her family.

She struggled to give him just enough to satisfy—and defend—the career she loved. “Yes, sometimes it’s hard. Even though my family’s here, I’m the one responsible for the inn. It took me a while to find what works best for me, rather than what worked for my mom. But I love meeting new people. For a little while, I get to share part of their lives and give them a beautiful memory.”

“Your mom used to say that—her real job was to give people a beautiful memory.”

She smiled with pleasure. “Yes. When the porch is full, and I hear laughter and chatter drift through the window, I realize how much I love my life. I love when they praise my food and leave reviews about their experiences. And I get postcards from onetime strangers who start to see me as a friend.” She motioned to the board by the refrigerator filled with various notes and cards. “Last summer, I hosted a group of six senior citizens—they were the most fun. They did horseback riding, skydiving, poker, you name it. They send me letters now, telling me what they’re doing and checking up on Mia and Ethan and the horses. They can’t wait to come back this year, and they’ve already rebooked. And a past guest told me her baby was conceived in this inn last year. Isn’t that cool?”