two cookie sheets of scones onto cooling racks, she dug through a drawer and pulled out a linen napkin, then draped it in the silver basket.
“This morning we have orange, lemon and white chocolate scones,” she said as she pulled a small crystal dish of butter from the refrigerator. “They’re all delicious, which is probably tacky of me to say seeing as I made them, but it’s true. Being a man, you won’t care about the calories, so that’s a plus.”
She offered him a smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle, then nodded toward the door next to him.
“The dining room is through there.”
He took the hint and moved through to the next room. He found a large table set for one. The local paper lay on top of a copy of USA TODAY.
Stephanie followed him into the room, but waited until he was seated before serving him his breakfast. She poured coffee, removed the plastic wrap from his plate of fruit and made sure the butter was within easy reach. Then she wished him “bon appétit” before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Nash picked up one of the still-steaming scones. The scent of orange drifted to him. His stomach still growling, he took a bite.
Delicate flavors melted on his tongue. Hunger roared through him, as unfamiliar as it was welcome. He sipped the coffee next, then tried a strawberry. Everything tasted delicious. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d enjoyed, nor did he care. Instead he plowed through four scones, all the fruit and the entire carafe of coffee. When he was finally full, he pulled the copy of USA TODAY toward him and started to read.
A burst of laughter interrupted his perusal of the business section. He frowned as he realized he’d been hearing more than just Stephanie in the kitchen for some time. The other voices were low and difficult to make out. A husband? Probably.
The thought of a Mr. Wynne caused Nash a twinge of guilt. He didn’t usually go around looking at other men’s wives and admiring their bare skin.
He turned the page on the paper and started to read again, only to be interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the hall. He looked up in time to see three boys running toward the front door.
“Walk! We have a guest.”
The command came from the kitchen. Instantly three pairs of feet slowed and three heads turned in his direction. Nash had a brief impression of towheaded boys ranging in age from ten or twelve to about eight. The two youngest were twins.
Stephanie stepped into view and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s the last week of school and they’re pretty wound up.”
“No problem.”
The boys continued to study him curiously until their mother shooed them out the door. The twins ducked back in for a quick kiss, then waved in his direction and disappeared. Stephanie stood in the foyer with the door open until a bus pulled up in front of the house. Through the window in the dining room Nash could see the boys climb onto the bus. When it pulled away, Stephanie closed the front door and walked into the dining room.
“Did you get enough to eat?” she asked as she began to clear his dishes. “There are more scones.”
“I’m fine,” he told her. “Everything was great.”
“Thank you. The original scone recipe dates back several generations. My late husband and I rented a guest house from an English couple many years ago. Mrs. Frobisher was a great one for baking. She taught me how to make the scones. I also make shortbread cookies that melt in your mouth. I would be happy to leave a few in your room if you’d like.”
Nash told himself that her mention of a “late husband” didn’t mean much more than that he didn’t have to feel guilty for noticing Stephanie’s bare stomach. The entire point of their encounter earlier that morning was that he wasn’t as dead inside as he’d thought. Good news that was not particularly meaningful.
He glanced at her face and saw the expectant expression in her blue eyes. His brain offered a replay of her conversation and he cleared his throat.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he said.
“None at all. The boys prefer chocolate chip cookies. I guess shortbread is an acquired taste that comes with age.”
She offered a polite smile and carried his dishes out of the dining room.
Nash flipped through the sports section, then closed the paper. The news no longer interested him. Maybe he would go for that drive now and explore the area.
He rose, then paused, not sure if he should tell his hostess he was leaving. When he traveled it was usually on business and he always stayed in anonymous hotels and motels. He’d never been in a bed and breakfast before. While this was a place of business, apparently it was also Stephanie’s home.
He looked from the kitchen to the foyer, then decided she wouldn’t care what he had planned for his day. After fishing his car keys out of his pocket, he walked across the gleaming hardwood floor and out to the curb where he’d left his rental car.
Two minutes later he was back in the Victorian house. He walked into the kitchen, but it was empty. He crossed to the stairs and glanced up. Was she cleaning his room, or had she gone up to her private quarters?
A loud bang made him turn toward the back of the house. He followed the rhythmic noise past the kitchen and pantry into a large utility room. Stephanie sat on the floor in front of a washer. An open manual lay on her lap and there were tools and assorted parts all around her.
In the ten or fifteen minutes since she’d cleared his table, she’d changed her clothes. The tailored slacks and attractive sweater had been replaced by worn jeans and a sweatshirt featuring a familiar cartoon mouse. As he watched, she jabbed the side of the washer with a large wrench.
“Rat-fink cheap piece of metal trash,” she muttered. “I hate you. I will always hate you. For the rest of your life, you’re going to have to live with that.”
He cleared his throat.
Stephanie gasped and shifted on the floor so that she faced him. Her eyes widened and her mouth twisted into a half smile that was as much sheepish as amused.
“If you keep sneaking up on me like this, I’m going to be forced to put a bell around your neck.”
Nash leaned against the door frame and nodded at the washer. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s not working. I’m trying to use guilt, but I don’t think it’s helping.” She glanced from him to her jeans and back. “I thought you were heading out.”
“The battery in my rental car is dead.”
“Did you try guilting it into behaving?”
“I thought a jump would be more effective.”
“Sure.”
She tossed down the wrench and rose. Wearing athletic shoes, she barely came to his shoulder. She gave the washer one more kick, then walked toward him.
“Lead the way.”
Nash straightened. “I
