much when my mother was alive. My aunt told me he was a fool.”
“I think I’d like your aunt.” He stopped at the door so she could flick the lights off.
“She is a very blunt, very kind person. Everyone loves her.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting her. Has she been to the restaurant?”
“Several times,” she said. “But that was before you came.”
“When she comes again I’ll make her something special.”
Grace didn’t protest as he walked down the hall with her in his arms. Several guests stared and smiled. The woman at the front desk waved. An incoming guest held the front door open for them. In minutes he’d tucked her into the front seat, driven her to his house and carried her into his kitchen.
Nico felt positively heroic. Now all he had to do was figure out how to convince Grace to stay forever.
AL SMILED AT HER.
Nico pampered her.
The wine in her glass warmed her.
Oh, my. The man was dangerous. That kiss, well, she’d yet to put it out of her mind. He’d surprised her, and she’d surprised herself by how much that brief, intimate contact had affected her. She’d had to pretend it was nothing, of course, as he had. And now, with aching foot propped up on a chair, Grace watched the most handsome man she had ever seen—well, apart from Bradley Cooper—fix dinner. It was late, after nine o’clock, but he seemed to have limitless energy. On his television show he’d created a whirlwind of enthusiastic food preparations—chopping, slicing, tossing things into pans and hauling dishes out of immaculate ovens, all while he talked and explained and gave measurements.
Why had he left Hollywood, or wherever it was in California that these things were taped? She’d asked him yesterday, but he hadn’t answered the question. Grace reached down and patted Al’s head. “What are you making?”
“Something light,” he said. “Chicken medallions. With wine and lemon. You won’t have to obsess over calories. And you can skip dessert.”
“Dessert?” Do not think about dessert, she told herself. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since the Santa brunch, deciding it was safer to sip herbal tea at her desk and avoid Marie’s afternoon cookie offering.
“My mother left another platter of sugar cookies. She and the kids decorated them today. They’re for Christmas Eve, but she’ll never know if we eat a few.”
“She sounds like a wonderful grandmother.”
“She is.”
“Why did you come back? Was it to help your family?”
He took a sip of wine, put a lid on the pan of chicken and walked over to the table, where he pulled out a chair and glanced at his watch. “We’ll eat in just a few minutes, I promise.”
“Sorry, it’s none of my business,” Grace said. “Tell me about your nieces and nephew.”
“I came home,” he said, fiddling with the stem of his wineglass, “because I missed them.”
“You were homesick?” She tried to hide her surprise.
He winced. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s the truth.” Then he looked at her, the expression in his dark eyes unreadable. “What’s your definition of success, Grace?”
“A successful life or a successful job?”
“Life.”
She thought about that for a long moment. “To be financially secure, I suppose. And I’d like to have a family.” To love the same man until the day she died. To be a good mother. To surround herself with love.
“Are you happy with your work?”
“I love it. Don’t you love yours?”
He nodded. “I do, sweetheart. But California was not where I wanted to be.” Nico looked embarrassed. He reached over and caressed her hand but didn’t seem to realize he’d done it. “I had it all. A little fame, a lot of money, people catering to my every need. Most people’s definition of success, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And then my show was canceled. That should have devastated me.”
“And it didn’t?”
He grinned. “I was thrilled. I bought a very expensive bottle of champagne and drank it with Al at my feet wagging his tail. I told him we were going home and I swear he knew what I was saying.”
He looked at the dog, who whined and wagged his tail.
“He wants dinner, too,” Grace said.
“He cries and whines like that no matter what I’m cooking. He loves pasta.” Nico shook his head. “He loves anything I put on a plate.”
“So you left Hollywood?” she prompted. She’d always thought he’d come home in disgrace, having lost his shot at the big time.
“I realized I no longer wanted to be in LA. I wanted to be around my family. I wanted to cook in my own restaurant. I wanted to train kids to work in the kitchen. And I missed skiing.” He hopped up and returned to the stove to lift the lid on the pan. “Ah,” he said with satisfaction. “You’re gonna love this. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” She watched entranced as he arranged the food on two plates, then chopped food for Al’s bowl. She waited for him to return to the table before asking the obvious question.
“So,” she said, inhaling the delicious aroma of lemon. He’d sprinkled freshly grated Parmesan on the buttered penne and arranged steamed asparagus to accent the chicken medallions. “This looks fantastic.”
“Thank you. More wine?” He lifted the bottle.
“No, thank you.” She placed the white cloth napkin in her lap, picked up her fork and knife and waited for him to finish topping off his glass. “Are you glad you came back? Do you miss LA?”
“In some ways, yes. I miss the weather. And a few friends. But I’m glad I came back. It was the right thing for me at the time.”
At the time. What did that mean? And why was it suddenly so important for her to hear that he was staying?
“You’re frowning again,” Nico said. “You haven’t tasted anything yet.”
His cell rang, saving her from having to answer. He got up and retrieved it from the counter and, with an apologetic shrug to Grace, turned it on. “Hi. What’s going on?” He listened for a moment while Grace cut a bite of chicken and tasted it. “Of course. No problem.” Pause. “No, not yet, but they look good.” Pause. “Mama,” he said, chuckling. “I will, if possible.” Pause. “Of course. I will ask. And I will call you
