Truth be told, it wasn’t an entirely, completely, totally bad feeling.
Startled by that little insight, I had another on its heels. No, he hadn’t risen above. But I could. He was my brother. If feeling better about myself was a goal, I could house him for now.
He must have sensed my softening, because he slid me a teasing smile. “This place is small, Maggie, but it’s sweet. I like your bedroom.”
Ah. Still king of the castle.
Only, this wasn’thiscastle.
“So do I,” I said. “That’s why I sleep there.”
“But I’m the guest.”
My smile was serene. “Guests take the loft.”
***
I don’t know how I managed that smile. It might have been that I was tired. Or that Liam was a distraction from my having had sex with Edward. Visceral familiarity or not, he certainly couldn’t stay here long. The place was too small. It did occur to me, shortly before I fell asleep, that he could have it—couldbuyit from me—if I left town.
When I woke up the next morning to the warmth of two cats on my legs and the most unbelievable smells coming from the kitchen, though, I wouldn’t have been anywhere else. Sliding my feet free of the duvet, I wrapped myself in a thick robe and followed my nose down the stairs.My kitchen counter, not large to begin with, was covered with an assortment of open boxes, tins, and utensils. Liam was bent at the oven, with a cautious Jonah watching nearby.
“What did you make?” I asked, intrigued, pleased, even touched. It had been a long time since anyone had made anything for me, and never in my own home. Granted, he would be wanting breakfast for himself. Still.
“Quiche,” he said and straightened. “I thought I lost your dog this morning. I opened the door to let him pee, and he ran so far I thought he’d never come back. What kind of animals are out there?”
“Nothing lethal unless you’re a cat, in which case your life expectancy is a total of twenty minutes, so do noteverlet either of my cats out of this house,” I said, but distractedly. Liam’s hands held my potholders, which held a pie plate with a circle of golden crust and a dappled top. A fruit compote simmered on the stove. Something green sat on plates. “Wow.” I slid onto a stool. “Did you go out early, or did you actually find all this here?”
“Here. I like the challenge.Kitchen Dregs for the Gourmand.Could be a book.”
“Could be. You should think about that. I’ll bet you have other cookbooks in you, too. Chef cookbooks are all the rage. You could take up residency in a writers’ colony in New Mexico or wherever, and write.”
Having set down the pie plate, he reached for the compote. “Nice try, but no dice. I signed a contract, remember? I got my guarantee, but so did Edward.” Skillfully, he ladled compote on the plates shaping each mound just so with the flick of his wrist. “Restaurants in places like this have a hard time keeping chefs. Spring, summer, and fall are great, but winter they want to be somewhere warm. Me, I just want dry. Does it rain like this a lot?”
“In March? All the time. And it stays cold,” I added, looking him over, “so your clothes are all wrong.” Thin socks. Thin shirt. Jeans were jeans, but even the rain jacket on the back of the chair wasn’t lined. “You need clothes. Start at Stoner’s. It’s the general store in town.”
“Do you have an account there?”
“They take credit cards.” When he frowned, I said, “Liam, you’re thirty-three. You can pay for your own clothes.” When he still seemed annoyed, I reminded him, “I’m not Mom.”
“Are the prices sky high?”
“Some, but a local family owns it, so you’d be doing good for themandhelping yourself if you want them to know who you are. Introduce yourself as the new chef at… at… does the restaurant have a name?”
“La Bisque. I actually wanted to call itChocolat Noir,” he added with a perfect accent, “but two syllables work better than four, and I mean, this town may be upscale, butce n’est pas Paris.And anyway, the name is still a work in progress. So what do I tell the people at Stoner’s?”
“That you’re opening a French bistro here in town.”
“Will they give me a break then?”
“No. If you want lower prices, there’s an L.L. Bean in West Lebanon.”
“Good,” he said and cut into the quiche. “We can go there today.”
“Not me. I’m working.” I had no idea if I was. It seemed like an eternity since I had last left the Spa. Actually, yes. Now that I thought of it, I did have two bookings, though I would be done in plenty of time for a shopping trip with Liam. But I was not getting into that. Give Liam an inch, and he would take a mile, as Mom always said, and if that made me like Mom, so be it.
“You’re working today?” he asked. “But today’s Sunday.”
“And you never work on Sunday? Will your bistro be closed on Sunday? Absolutely not. Devon is a tourist town, and tourists are here seven days a week. Will your restaurant be closedanyday?”
