Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (14 page)

"That's them." She grinned, and her false teeth gleamed
whiter than pearls beneath the dozens of hundred-watt bulbs
in the spotlights recessed in the ceiling. "Bought and paid for
by the quaint, dumb local yokels."

He had to admire their marketing savvy. "Very clever."

Turning, she opened an overhead cabinet. When she faced him again, she held a pair of stoneware dishes and matching
bowls. "Gerta will be in at five tomorrow, so be sure to clean
up when you're through here."

"And Gerta is ... ?"

"A terror about her kitchen." She strode to a walk-in pantry
and returned a minute later, pushing a two-tiered silver tea cart.
"If she finds so much as a crumb on her counter, she'll fillet you
and serve you to the guests."

He swallowed hard. "Guests?"

Right. This was an inn. Which meant there had to be guests.
Another variable he hadn't taken into consideration when he'd
dreamed up this plan. How in the world could he charm Brooklyn Raine into talking if strangers kept popping into their dinner conversation?

Hand stuffed inside the bag, he leaned toward the doorway.
"How many guests are staying here?"

Once again, Eleanor's cackles raked his flesh as she slipped
a beige lace tablecloth over the cart's surface. "Relax. The
only ones staying here this week are Lyn's sister, April, and
her family. And they spent the day at Lake Champlain, sightseeing. Which should buy you"-she craned her neck to peer
at the green numbers glowing on the industrial microwave"roughly two hours of quality time with our Lyn before the
troops return. Give or take half an hour."

He pulled out the plastic quart of bisque. To his surprise,
the contents were still hot. "How can you be sure?"

"Because April called a few hours ago to say they were staying for dinner before taking the ride back here." She looked up
from the tray top she'd set with flatware, napkins, and seasonings, and winked. "That means you have until eleven or so, depending on where they stop, what kind of traffic they hit on the
road, and of course, provided Lyn stays awake that long."

"Do you help out all of Lyn's dates this way?"

She took the soup from him and pulled off the lid. "I don't
know. You're the first one."

One eyebrow arched, he placed the aluminum dish with the
panini onto the counter. "Like what? The first one this week?"

Eleanor's lips tightened into a thin line.

Strike one. "This month?"

Silence met him. Strike two.

The only sound in the kitchen was the tink of the ladle hitting the Moroccan red bowls as she poured the pink soup inside. Lumps of lobster meat crowded the creamy broth. The
scent of nutmeg enticed his stomach to growl.

"This year?" he tried again.

She flipped the cardboard off the aluminum container almost violently. "Try 'ever,'" she retorted.

Ouch. His conscience stabbed him right between the eyes.
"Oh, come on. You're telling me it's been years since anyone's
asked her out?"

"No. I'm telling you it's been years since she said yes. In
fact, I'd go so far as to say it's been decades."

The stabbing increased to jackhammer intensity.

"So, lover boy," she added, "you didn't just win a race. You
won the lottery."

In the silence of the parlor, Lyn indulged her body's demand for
a little shut-eye. The hum of Mr. Sawyer's low voice infiltrated
her haze in lullaby fashion. But Mrs. Bascomb's raucous laughter pierced the room's harmony like a speed drill. So much for
rest. Maybe if she feigned sleep, both her guests would take the
hint and leave.

"Sit up, Lyn," Mrs. Bascomb ordered with the cadence of a
drill sergeant. "Your young man's brought you dinner. And it's
impolite to fall asleep in your soup."

Opening her eyes, Lyn flashed a withering glance at her tormentor in the vile red coat. The effect was probably tempered
by her sleepiness, but the intent apparently registered.

Instead of aiming another zinger her way, Mrs. Bascomb
focused her fussy side on the tea cart's contents. She straightened the ecru lace tablecloth, smoothed the napkins, then directed her next comment to Mr. Sawyer. "Doug, you sit over
there, and I'll set the cart between you."

She pointed to the wingback chair on the other side of the
hearth. When he didn't immediately jump to do her bidding,
Mrs. Bascomb clapped in a staccato rhythm. "Come on, boy! Get a move on." Her sharp, owlish eyes focused on Lyn. "You too.
The sooner you're both set up, the sooner I'll be out of your hair."

Lyn rolled from her side to her back, then pushed herself
upright in the armchair. Pain sizzled, and she sucked in a sharp
breath.

Mr. Sawyer's gaze snapped to her face. His forehead etched
in deep lines, he rose from the chair. "Maybe this was a bad
idea."

"Oh no, you don't." With one forceful shove, Mrs. Bascomb
pushed him down again. "Something tells me you both need
this. I'm not leaving until I know this date is in the best possible
shape for you to enjoy your evening."

"Has it occurred to you that I'm in too much pain to `enjoy'
my evening?" Lyn retorted.

"Pffft!" Mrs. Bascomb practically spat in disbelief. "It's not
like you've never pulled a muscle before. Aren't you the same
woman who won the local spring downhill with a fractured
wrist?"

"I was younger then."

"Oh, right. That was a whole four years ago. Before you became decrepit."

Lyn stared at the flames and pictured Mrs. Bascomb's voice
box burning to a crisp in the fireplace. Honestly, she loved the
old woman, but too much familiarity had blurred the lines of
privacy between them. And the wrong comment to the wrong
person could prove disastrous for her.

Luckily, Mr. Sawyer seemed to sense the tension and immediately jumped into the fray. "Thanks so much, Eleanor."
He grasped the live grenade by her liver-spotted hand. "I'll take
it from here. Why don't you head home now?"

"Ooh, anxious to be alone, eh?" She winked. "Can't say I
blame you."

While Lyn simmered, he shrugged. "Well, we are on borrowed time."

"Okay, okay." She picked up the embroidered throw pillow
from the floor and propped it behind Lyn's shoulders.

Lyn shot her a questioning look. Since when had the old
lady become maternal?

"I'm leaving." Mrs. Bascomb plodded toward the front
door.

"Umm..." Lyn pointed a shaky finger toward the kitchen.
"Use the back door, please."

Mrs. Bascomb stepped back with a very audible harrumph.
"I'm going to assume your rudeness is due to pain."

Pain and utter exhaustion. But also because it was less likely
Mrs. Bascomb would walk around the house to sit on the porch
and spy through the front windows. Tomorrow, Lyn would owe
her neighbor a very big, very heartfelt apology. But for now, the
sooner she left, the better for Lyn's peace of mind.

"Assume whatever you like," Lyn said on a sigh. "Just go."

Thankfully, she did. Not, however, without a lot of inaudible
grumbles and the clop-clop of those ridiculous snow boots.

Only after she heard the back door shut did Lyn relax into
the cushions of the chair. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer," she whispered. "But I'm going to ask you to leave as well. I'm really
not up for a date tonight."

"Okay. First off, I thought we'd agreed you'd call me Doug.
And second, no pressure here, but you do have to eat. And so do
1. So what do you say we table the `date' idea and just make this
about two hungry people sharing a meal? Doable?"

No ready argument sprang to her lips. The man had a point.
And he'd gone through a tremendous amount of inconvenience
on her behalf. How could she repay his generosity by turning
him out into the cold night without a meal? A meal he'd already
paid for? And honestly? He had won their bet, fair and square.

"Doable," she said at last.

The visible tension on his face vanished, and he pointed to
the soup. "Shall we? I don't imagine this will stay hot much
longer."

"Absolutely." She inhaled the sweet-salty aroma of the bisque,
and her stomach growled its approval.

As she lifted the first spoonful of bisque toward her lips, she
struggled to keep her wrist straight and not splash the delicate
lace tablecloth. Once she'd succeeded, she looked up at her companion. And froze.

The intensity on his face chilled her already cold blood. He gripped the spoon so tightly, his knuckles bleached. When his
hand sat level with his chest, he leaned forward, craned his
neck at a flamingo's angle, and practically inhaled the soup.

Her stomach pitched. Had the man never eaten around other
humans before? Baboons had better table manners.

But...

Wait...

Awareness came slowly. His left hand. He was eating with
his left hand. Of course he was. Because since his accident, his
left hand had become dominant. Or, at least, he tried to force
it to be dominant.

He caught her stare and cleared his throat.

She couldn't help the pity that pierced her fuzziness. Soup.
Probably the hardest food for a recent upper-arm amputee to
master. But he'd known she wouldn't be able to stomach anything heartier. In spite of his discomfort, he'd placed her
condition first.

Mrs. Bascomb's comment echoed in her head. Be careful,
Lyn. This one could romance your heart out of you in no
time. Turned out no time was the understatement of the decade. He'd already opened the locked cage where she kept her
heart. A few more such gestures on his part and her heart
would leap out to meet him halfway.

In an attempt to put him at ease, she smiled. "I guess I'll have
to thank Mrs. Bascomb for using the old tablecloth," she lied.
"She must have known my hands are too shaky to worry about
spills."

Gratitude gleamed in his eyes as he returned his spoon to
the bowl. "Why don't I put the bisque into mugs instead? We
could sip instead of slurp."

"You'd do that for me?"

"No." He took her hand in his and squeezed gently. "But
you're willing to appease me. So thank you."

For the first time since she'd left the emergency room wrapped
in ice, warmth infused her. From a simple touch. "You're welcome."

Askilled reporter, Doug knew how to lead Lyn into revealing herself slowly. Once he'd poured the soup into more manageable handled mugs, he relaxed enough to engage her in
idle chitchat. At least, for her, it was idle chitchat. But not for
Doug.

He began with a casual glance at the floral curtains, Victorianera furniture, and the glow of the fire. Next, a small, thoughtful
sip from his soup mug, and then he tossed out a simple but
complimentary remark. "These rooms have such a comfortable
feeling."

She looked around the parlor and smiled. "They're supposed
to. Most of my guests travel a long distance to get here, and
when they're here, they need a cozy place to return to after a
grueling day on the slopes or slamming around the white water.
It's my job to make sure they look forward to returning to this
inn day after day, year after year."

"Hence the hot cider on the sideboard, the classical music
in the hidden wall speakers, the hurricane lamps, the quilts and
throw pillows, and all the other cozy shenanigans you have going on here."

She laughed and shrugged. "All part of my evil plan."

"I'd believe that if you didn't look so angelic." Which she
did. The dimming firelight, combined with the soft glow from
the hurricane lamps, created a golden halo around her slightly
tousled hair. The hot soup had restored some color to her cheeks
and reanimated her features, negating the effects of the painkillers.

The color in her cheeks deepened. "Believe me, I'm no angel. What I did to you yesterday afternoon should have clued you
in to that fact."

"I told you, that little push woke me up, knocked some sense
into me." Got my mojo back and put me on the course for the
story of the year. Maybe even the prestigious Metro Journalism Award.

She shook her head. "I acted like a bully, and you're being
gracious about it. I don't know if I could be so generous if the
situation was reversed."

"The situation wouldn't ever reverse," he assured her. "At
least not with me. I learned not to push girls when I was five."

"Oh?" She leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "Do
tell."

"Jenny Hendrix jumped off the low end of the seesaw while
I was on the high side."

She sucked in a sharp breath. "Yowza. Even for a little boy,
that must have hurt."

No need for him to elaborate, although he still saw stars
when he thought about the pain that day.

"Yeah. Exactly. Anyway, she tried to run away, I chased her,
she tripped over her own two feet, told the teacher I pushed
her, and my mother was called to the school."

She sipped her soup, looking at him over the rim of the mug.
"And that innocent event stayed with you all these years?"

"You've never met my mom. She was a schoolteacher herself,
but she taught high school English. The word formidable was
created to describe her."