“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 in and grow my own herbs and the like.”
Leona’s eyes lit up. “Would you? That’d be a great selling feature.”
Byron liked it when she looked at him like that, even though he knew damned well that he shouldn’t. But sitting here with her, talking about a restaurant they were going to open within months...
He’d missed her. He’d never stopped missing her. And as much as he knew he couldn’t let himself fall under her spell again—couldn’t risk getting his heart broken a second time—he just wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulders and hold her to him.
She would burn him. That he knew. That was the nature of the Harpers whenever they were around the Beaumonts.
But watching her savor the meal he’d cooked for her, talking and laughing with George...
He wanted to play in the flames again.
Everything was, unsurprisingly, delicious. Leona especially liked the croquetas—she’d never had them before. Yes, the evening was full of good food and comfortable conversation. It should have been relaxing—fun, even.
The only problem was, she still hadn’t told Byron about Percy. And, as George regaled her with story after story of Byron learning how to cook the hard way, she couldn’t figure out how to break the news to him without running the risk of losing Percy.
Byron served three desserts—an almond cake that was gluten-free, peaches soaked in wine and yogurt, and a flan flavored with vanilla and lavender. She looked at her notes. A vegetarian dish, gluten-free options—with the hamburger, he’d have a menu that met most dietary needs.
“You like peaches, right?” he said as he set half of a peach in front of her.
“I do,” she told him. Seemingly against her will, she looked up at him. Byron stood over her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He remembered that peaches were her favorite. There’d been a time when he’d cooked for her, peach cobblers and grilled peaches and peach ice cream—anything he could come up with. Those had been things he’d made just for her.
“Thank you,” she told him, her voice soft.
“I hope the wine sauce is okay.” He didn’t move back. “I didn’t know...”
“It’s all right.” She used to drink wine, back when he’d make her dinner and pick out a bottle and they’d spend the evening savoring the food and the rest of the night savoring each other. But she hadn’t drunk a thing while pregnant and then she’d been breast-feeding and pumping and who had the money for alcohol anyway?
He stood there for a moment longer. Leona held her breath, unable to break the gaze. All of her self-preservation tactics—clinging to the memory of being cast aside by a Beaumont, just like her father had warned her, and the very real fear that Byron would take her son away from her—they all fell away as she looked up at him. For a clear, beautiful second, there was only Leona and Byron and everything was as it should be.
The second ended when the door to the kitchen flew open with a bang. Byron jumped back. “George!” a bright female voice said. “Have you seen— Oh, there you are.”
Leona looked over her shoulder and her heart sank. There stood Frances Beaumont in a stunning green dress and five-inch heels. “Byron, I have been texting you all...day...” Frances’s voice trailed off as she saw Leona. They’d met a few times before. Frances had liked her then. But that felt like a long time ago.
Byron cleared his throat. “Frances, you remember—”
“Leona.” Frances said the word as if it were something vile. Then she grabbed Byron by the arm and hauled him several feet away. “What is she doing here?” Frances added in a harsh whisper that everyone in the room had no trouble understanding.
Leona turned her gaze back to the luscious desserts. But her stomach felt as if a lead weight had settled into it.
“She’s helping with the restaurant,” Byron whispered back in a quieter voice.
“You’re trusting her? Are you insane?” This time, Frances made no effort to lower her voice.
Leona stood. She did not have to sit here and take this assault on her character. Byron was the one who’d abandoned her, not the other way around. If anything,