One in a Million (2 page)

And he'd noticed.

Nash tried to figure out the last time he'd noticed
a woman—any woman—enough to classify her as pretty, ugly or something in between. Not for two
years, he decided, knowing that figuring out the date hadn't been much of a stretch.

“
Don't bother with eggs," he said. "Coffee and
the scones are fine." He glanced at the tray. "And
the fruit." Stephanie frowned. "The room comes with a full breakfast. Aren't you hungry?"
More than he'd been in a while, but less than he
should have been. "Maybe tomorrow," he said in
stead.

A timer on the stove beeped softly. Stephanie
picked up two mitts and pulled open the oven door.

The scent of baked goods got stronger. Nash inhaled
the fragrance of orange and lemon.

When she'd set 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"
be
fore 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 wel
come. He sipped the coffee next, then tried a straw
berry. Everything tasted delicious. He couldn't re
member 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 dif
ficult 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 din
ing 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 hus
band" 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 ex
pression 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 anon
ymous hotels and motels. He'd never been in a bed
and breakfast before. While this was a place of busi
ness, apparently it was also Stephanie's home.

He looked from the kitchen to the foyer, then de
cided 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 as
sorted 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 car
toon mouse. As he watched, she jabbed the side of
the washer with a large wrench.

“
Rat-fink cheap piece of metal trash," she mut
tered. "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 could take a look at that if
you would like."
Stephanie appeared doubtful. "You don't strike
me as the washer repairman type."

“I'm not, but I'm pretty mechanical."

“
Thanks, but I'm going to get a professional in. I'll go get my car keys. Why don't you meet me in
front?" Stephanie waited until Nash had started down the
hallway before running upstairs to get the keys out
of her purse. When she reached the top floor, she
told herself that her rapidly beating heart had every
thing to do with the effort required to climb two
flights of stairs and nothing to do with her guest's appearance. She figured she was being about sixty percent honest.

The truth was Mr. Elegant-in-a-Suit looked just
as good in jeans as he had all dressed up. Daylight
suited him, as well. Despite the fact that he couldn't
have gotten more than four hours of sleep, he looked
tanned, handsome and rested. She, of course, had
dark circles that had defied her heavy-duty concealer and a bone-deep weariness compounded by a broken washer and an as-ever challenged bank account.

She took the back stairs down to the rear entrance
and climbed into her minivan. After backing out of the driveway, she positioned her car so her bumper
nearly touched his.

Jumper cables proved to be something of a chal
lenge, but after rooting around in the garage for a
few minutes, she found a set behind a box of old
spare parts for some mystery machine. She picked
them up and turned, only to run smack into Nash.

“
You all right?" he asked as he grabbed her up
per arms to steady her.

All right? With her nose practically touching his
chest and her hands thrust into his rock-hard stom
ach?
He smelled good, she thought wistfully as she in
haled the scent of soap and man. Something deep
inside her, that feminine part of her dormant for the past three years, gave a slight hiccup of resurrection
and slowly stirred to life. Awareness rippled through
her. Awareness and sexual interest.

Telling herself that the good news was that this
would be a great story to tell her friends the next
time they managed to sneak away for a girls'-only
dinner, she stepped back and cleared her throat.

“
Okay. While I'm out today I'm definitely getting
you that bell." She handed him the jumper cables. "Hooking them up is going to be your problem. I
know what a car battery looks like, but if I used
those things, I would probably electrocute myself
and set both our vehicles on fire."

“
No problem. I appreciate the help. Are you sure
I can't repay you by looking at the washer?”

“
Thanks, but no. Think of this as part of our ser
vice here at Serenity House."
Nash studied her for a few seconds before turning
and walking toward the parked cars. Stephanie
sighed in relief. While the offer to pay her back was
really nice, she had less than no interest in an am
ateur messing around with her washing machine.
Whenever Marty had decided to "help," he ended
up completely breaking whatever had only been par
tially broken before. Now she hired experts at the
first sign of trouble. Easier and certainly cheaper in
the long run.