was somewhat skewed by the fact that Mrs. Standridge’s loose white bun made her a dead ringer for Mrs. Claus. Although, Sarah thought as she set two plates of roast beef in front of them, stranger things could happen than Mrs. Claus and Blackbeard having a scandalous affair at her sister’s inn.
Not trying too terribly hard to hide her grin, she looked up to find herself face-to-face with Shane Peters. His angular features sported a half day’s stubble, and his smiling eyes were as blue as the berries on her sister’s stationery logo. Quite simply, the man was breathtaking. And the fact that she’d even noticed was a sure sign that, yes, stranger things than a pirate Mrs. Claus scandal could happen!
Mr. Standridge cleared his throat. “Freshly cracked pepper, please.”
“And I still haven’t gotten my Chablis,” Mrs. Standridge complained.
“Need more of my help?” Shane asked with a teasing grin, helping himself to the best seat in the room beside open French doors.
“I’m thinking maybe so,” she said with a discreet wink that she hadn’t intended on being flirty.
“Ma’am?” Mr. Standridge glowered.
“I would really like more tea,” Mrs. Helsing said with a wag of her empty glass. As robust as the Standridges were, the Helsings were stick-thin and white. Pasty yet slick. Complexions like Crisco.
“And when you get a chance,” Mr. Helsing said, “could I please get a new fork? The tines on this one are smudged.”
“Certainly, sir. Right away.”
“I hate to be contrary,” the woman who’d introduced herself as “the widow” Naomie Young said in a cottony tone that matched her fragile frame and pale blue eyes, “but I prefer white bread to pumpernickel.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have fresh white bread right out.”
Sarah managed a feeble smile, took one last intrigued glance at Shane, then worked up a sweat attempting to fulfill her guests’ never-ending requests. If only the two of them had met under other circumstances.
“THAT WAS DELICIOUS,” Heath said, toward the meal’s end, to the couple he’d heard addressed as the Standridges. He introduced himself as his brother had instructed, being careful to maintain a chatty, conversational tone and not tipping off anyone as to the true nature of his visit. “So far, what do you think of the inn?” he asked.
“The decor’s lovely,” Mrs. Standridge offered, glancing over her shoulder before speaking again. Checking to see if Sadie was out of the room? “But the food…” She blanched.
“You didn’t care for it?” Heath asked, more than a little surprised, since he’d enjoyed his roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy.
“It was tasty enough,” the woman said, “but a smidge heavy for my tastes. Reminiscent of a high-end TV dinner.”
“Not that we were eavesdropping,” the female half of the Helsing couple said, “but I booked this weekend because of fantastic recommendations from several of our friends. I enjoyed the meal, but the service seemed lackluster, if not altogether slow.”
Mr. Helsing nodded. “There were several times when my iced-tea glass was empty, and I had to wait a full three minutes or more for a refill.”
The horror.
Why, Heath couldn’t say, but as he made careful mental notes of a litany of bogus halfhearted complaints, he felt sorry for Sadie. According to his brother, the Blueberry Inn was one of the best-kept secrets in the Midwest—which was why the Zodor’s editor in chief was so hot to get the scoop.
Keeping that in mind—and registering the fact that he’d completely enjoyed his own lunch—Heath took his fellow diners’ complaints with a grain of salt. By the time the disgruntled bunch had wandered off to their rooms or the garden for reading or an afternoon nap, he’d pretty much decided that if dinner was as tasty as lunch, he’d simply strike the petty negativity from his files.
Experience had taught him that building your own business was tough. Other than the time it had taken Sadie to get him registered and that mile-a-minute room description, he hadn’t noticed anything even remotely remiss. And so what if she had ever so slightly fudged those couple of tasks? Just as he’d been burned by the discovery that it was his latest game design that Tess had really lusted after, maybe there was some sort of behind-the-scenes situation going on with Sadie. Something she had too much class to let him or any of her other guests see.
He’d just discreetly tucked his notepad into his jacket pocket when the woman at the center of his thoughts entered the dining room. The fact that the mere sight of her produced a pleasurable jolt set him on edge. The last time he’d felt an instant attraction had been with Tess.
“Whew,” Sarah said, drawing out the chair opposite Heath’s. Her pale complexion was flushed, and the afternoon’s heat dampened the tendrils that hugged the nape of her neck where she’d pulled back her hair. Would her skin taste salty? That tempting spot on her neck? As if it were possible to shake the thought from his mind, Heath shook his head, but the motion didn’t help. Big surprise. “That was tough.”
“I’d have thought you’d be an old pro at a simple lunch.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I just didn’t get much rest last night. But now that my right-hand person has finally fixed her car’s flat, I’ve got time for a breather.”
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks.”
After a few moments’ awkward silence, he leaned forward, toying with his blue napkin. “Not that it’s my business, but why?”
“Why what? Why was Helga’s tire flat?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “Why’d you get a lousy night’s rest?”
“Oh, that.” She leaned back in her chair.
Had his question been too forward? Probably. Regardless, Heath forged ahead. “Simple enough question.”
“W-why do you care?”
Would Heath’s brother care?
Who could explain it, but for whatever odd reason, Heath felt a compelling urge to know something more about what made the lovely innkeeper tick. From the time they’d met until now, her appearance had gone from frazzled to casual grace. Which image was the real Sadie? Over the course of the weekend, would he get the chance to learn the answer? With elegant fingers, she traced the floral-patterned white-on-white tablecloth.
“No reason,” he said, covering for himself when it seemed she preferred to avoid the topic. “Sorry I asked. I was just trying to make small talk, but maybe my question came out as invasive.”
“No,” she said, staring at Heath straight on and then sighing. “Truthfully, I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night for a fairly simple reason. You.”
Chapter Two
“Me?” Eyebrows raised, Heath said, “I’d like to be flattered, but
