steps to the kitchen.
The whole time, they walked silently. Byron didn’t know much about the Harper house—it wasn’t as if Leon Harper would invite him over—but he was sure this level of wealth wasn’t unfamiliar to Leona and he had no desire to rehash old memories of his parents slamming doors after yet another disastrous meal.
Byron opened the door to the kitchen. “Here we are,” he said, holding the door for Leona.
She stepped into the warm room. Early-evening sunlight glinted through the windows set above the countertop. The room had an impressive view of the Rocky Mountains. The light reflected off the rows of copper pots and pans that hung from racks, bathing the room in comfortable warmth.
Leona gasped. “This is beautiful.” She looked at him, her eyes full of understanding, and in that moment, he nearly forgot how she’d lied and broken his heart. This was his Leona, the one he’d shared his deepest thoughts and feelings with. “Oh, Byron...”
“And George,” George said, straightening from where he’d bent over to check the oven.
“Oh!” Leona took a step back in surprise and ran right into Byron. Instinctively, his arm went around her waist, steadying her—and pulling her into his chest. Heat—and maybe something more—flowed between them and he suddenly had to fight the urge to press his lips against the base of her neck, in the spot where she’d always loved to be kissed.
She pulled away from him. “George! I’ve heard so much about you! It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person.”
Then, to Byron’s surprise—and George’s, given his expression—Leona walked right up to the older man and hugged him.
“Yeah,” George said in shock, shooting Byron a look. “I’ve heard—well,” he quickly corrected when Byron shook his head. “It’s good to finally meet you, too.”
Byron exhaled in relief. George was the only person who knew the entire story about Leona—he hadn’t even told Frances the whole thing. God only knew what the older man might have said to Leona.
“George is advising on the menu,” Byron told her when she finally released George from the hug. “He’ll be dining with us tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” For some reason, Leona looked...disappointed?
Had she been thinking this would be an intimate dinner for two? She wasn’t dressed for it—she looked as though she’d come directly from work. There would be no hot dates. Not now, not at any time in the future. If that’s what she was angling for, she was in for a surprise.
A timer went off and Byron pushed that thought from his mind. He had food to prepare, after all. “This is going to be a tapas-style meal—all small plates,” he explained, directing Leona to a stool across from George’s normal perch. “Chadwick has all the current Percheron Drafts in stock so we can pair them up.” He opened up one of the three refrigerators in the room, the one with all the beverages. “Which would you like to start with?”
Leona blinked at him. “I don’t drink.”
He stared at her. This was a new development. They’d always shared wine with a meal. Odd. “All right,” he said slowly, snagging a White Horse Pale Ale for himself. “Then I’ll get you some water.”
Then he got to work. He plated the braised lamb shoulder, the croquetas de jamón serrano, the coq au vin, the ratatouille, the herb-crusted swordfish and the duck confit. He ladled the vichyssoise soup into a small bowl, and did the same with the bowl of Castilian roasted garlic soup and the gazpacho. George sliced the French bread and the homemade root vegetable chips fried in truffle oil.
Leona took a picture of every dish and made notes as Byron explained what the dishes were. “I don’t know if I should have a hamburger and fries on the menu,” he told her as he spooned the hollandaise sauce onto the asparagus spears. “What do you think?”
“It’s a safe dish,” she replied. “If you can handle having it on the menu...”
Byron sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Food for the masses and all that.”
They all sat down. Leona looked at him. Was she blushing? “It’s been a long time since you cooked for me.”
Before Byron could come up with a response, George said, “Yeah, same here.” He took a bite of the duck confit. “I’ll give you this, boy. You’ve gotten better.”
“Oh?” Leona said.
“When he started in my kitchen,” George went on, “he could barely make cereal.”
“Hey! I was what—five?”
“Four,” George corrected him. He turned his attention back to Leona. “He wanted more cookies and I told him he had to work for them—he had to wash dishes.”
Leona beamed at George. Then she shot a reproving glance at Byron. “He never told me that.”
“Oh, he didn’t do it at first. But the boy always had a weak spot for my chocolate chip cookies. He came back a few weeks later, after...” George trailed off thoughtfully.
Byron knew what the older man was thinking about—that Byron’s parents had fought horribly at dinner, screaming obscenities and throwing dishes. A plate had nearly hit Chadwick in the head and Byron and Frances had ducked to avoid flying soup. He and Frances had been crying and their father had yelled at them.
Byron had run away from the noise. Frances had come with him and they’d wound up in the kitchen. It was the safest place he could think of, somewhere his father would never go. Frances had no interest in working for a cookie and a glass of warm milk, but Byron had needed...something. Anything that would take him away from the stress and drama, although that’s not how he’d thought of it at the time. No, at the time, he’d just wanted to feel like everything was going to be okay.
Washing the dishes required enough focus that it had distracted him from what he’d seen at dinner. And then he’d gotten a cookie and a pat on the shoulder and George had told him he’d done a good job and next time George would show him how to bake the cookies himself. And that had made everything okay.
“I washed the dishes,” he told Leona. “The cookies were worth it.”
“You did an absolutely lousy job, I might add,” George said with a chuckle.
Byron groaned. “I got better. Here, try the gazpacho.” He ladled a few spoonfuls into Leona’s bowl. “It’s not quite as good as it was in Spain—the peppers aren’t as fresh.”
George scoffed as Leona tasted the soup. “Boy, don’t tell them what they don’t know. She never had the stuff you were making in Madrid.”
“Mmm,” Leona said, licking her spoon. Byron found himself staring at her mouth as her tongue moved slowly over the surface of the spoon. She caught him looking and dropped her gaze. He swore she was blushing as she cleared her throat and said, “He’s right. As long as we can say ‘locally sourced ingredients’—preferably with the name of the farm where you get your vegetables—that’s what foodies value.”
“We can do that. There’s enough space around the brewery that I could also have some dirt hauled
