Mac reached over and topped off Louise’s wine. “You two were in Manhattan for a week and you didn’t get around to pasta?”
Louise snorted. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Next time you go, let me know,” Mac said seriously. “There’s this tiny hole-in-the-wall in Little Italy that you’ve got to check out. The spiciest pasta puttanesca—not to mention the best-tasting parmesan cheese I’ve ever had.”
“Cheese.” Chuckling, Harold said with dramatic flair, “City folk think that all us backcountry Wisconsinites get to eat is cheese, so they refuse to take us anywhere that might serve it. Instead, they figure they’ve got to impress us with all those fancy, unpronounceable, unrecognizable foods.” As he said the last word he mimed air quotes.
Olivia held out a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Well, everything you’re going to eat tonight is as easy to pronounce as it is to eat.”
Louise sipped her wine and said, “Thank God.”
Harold took one of Olivia’s famous blue cheese jalapeño poppers wrapped in bacon and practically sighed when he ate it. “Oh, my,” he said to Olivia, his blue eyes so warm she couldn’t help but wonder if he was flirting with her just a little bit. “If these are any indication of your culinary skill, then you might never get me to leave.”
Louise agreed. “These tomato basil tarts are over the top.”
Olivia smiled, pleased that her fun and flavorful finger food was such a hit. “Thank you.”
“Are you self-taught, Olivia?” Louise asked.
“I actually went to culinary school, then I worked for several chefs in town before starting my business.”
Harold’s brows drew together. “And what kind of business is that exactly? Catering? Or are you a personal chef?”
Olivia looked over at Mac, who was sitting in a dark blue wing-back chair by the fire. He didn’t appear concerned by the question, and even winked at her, so she was as honest as she needed to be. “Myself and two other women provide catering, decorating, party planning …those kinds of services to clients.”
“And are your clients mostly clueless men or women?” Louise asked, her eyes dancing with humor until she realized she was including her host in that question. She offered him an apologetic smile. “Of course, I didn’t mean you, Mac.”
Mac laughed. “No apology necessary—I know where my skills lie and they’re not in the kitchen.”
“Mine, either, sadly,” Louise said on a sigh.
“All it takes is a little practice,” Olivia told Louise sympathetically.
Harold shook his head wistfully. “She has tried, Olivia.”
“Hey, there.” Louise gave him a playful swat on the arm.
The doorbell chimed over the laughter in the room, and Mac stood. “I’ll get that. Must be Avery.”
When Mac was gone, Harold turned to Olivia. “My lawyer and her husband are great people, and are usually very punctual.”
Olivia smiled warmly. “We’re in no rush tonight.”
“I like that attitude,” Louise said, snatching up another tomato tart. Male laughter erupted from the front hall, and Louise rolled her eyes. “Boys. We just found out that Mac went to college with Tim, fraternity buddies or something.”
It was as if time slowed after Louise had said the name Tim, and Olivia couldn’t seem to find her breath. Even the room spun slightly. “Tim?” she managed to say. “That’s your attorney’s husband?”
Louise may have answered her, but Olivia’s ears were buzzing. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.
“Sorry we’re late,” came a voice that Olivia recognized at once. She swallowed. What was in her throat? It felt like a rock. She wouldn’t turn around—couldn’t turn around. He was coming and she felt frozen to the couch.
“Avery couldn’t decide on which shoes to wear,” he said dryly.
“Don’t you blame me, Tim Keavy, you know it was your fault.” The woman sniffed and added, “The Vikings game was on.”
“Typical.” Mac chuckled. “Avery, Tim, I’d like to introduce our amazing chef for the evening.”
No.… She didn’t want to.
“Olivia?” Mac said.
She wasn’t ready.…
“Olivia?” Mac said louder, sounding puzzled now.
Her heart slamming against her ribs in a noxious rhythm of fear and dread, Olivia turned around to see the one person in the world who knew her secret—the boy who, nine years ago, had walked in on an affair between a teacher and a student. A boy who had made a young Olivia Winston feel like trash from that day forward.
Ten
For a moment, Mac wondered if Olivia was having an anxiety attack. Her face was as pale as the snow outside the window, and her eyes looked watery, as though she desperately wanted to cry, but wouldn’t allow herself to go there in front of guests.
What the hell was wrong with her? Had the DeBolds said something to upset her while he was gone? The quick, almost fierce anger that rose up inside of him surprised him, as did the protective impulse jumping in his blood.
Protecting Owen Winston’s daughter was hardly the plan.
His gaze shifted, and he saw Tim staring at Olivia, his lip drawn up in a sneer. It was a look Tim usually reserved for people who didn’t perform to his standards, from office staff to the guy who continued to put whipped cream on his espresso at the local coffee shop. Mac didn’t get it.
He watched Tim walk toward her and stick out his hand. “Wow,” he said coolly. “Olivia Winston. Small world.”
“Microscopic.” Olivia rose stiffly and clasped his hand for about half a second. “Hello, Tim.”
“How do you two know each other?” Mac asked, though the tone of his voice sounded slightly demanding.
“We went to the same high school,” Tim stated flatly.
“How funny,” Louise remarked with a dry laugh, clearly not seeing the discomfort between the two. “You knew Olivia in high school and Mac in college?”
“That’s right,” Tim said.
Mac watched as Olivia seemed to get herself under control. With a smile affixed to her face, she walked over to Tim’s wife and held out her hand, “Hi, I’m Olivia. Welcome.”
“Avery Keavy. It’s so nice to meet you.” Avery had the good sense to leave the high school talk alone, and instead gestured to the coffee table and assorted hors d’oeuvres. “These look amazing. I’m sorry we’re late.”
Olivia picked up a tray and offered a stuffed mushroom to Avery. “It’s no problem. Dinner’s almost ready. In fact, I’m going to check on it right now. If you’ll all excuse me…” After she placed the tray on the buffet, she excused herself and headed for the door.
“Need any help?” Mac called after her.
She turned then and glared at him. “No. I’ve got everything under control, Mr. Valentine.”
Mac had never seen anyone look at him with such full-on revulsion, and he had no idea why. And her palely masked anger didn’t end there. It continued all through dinner. Not that the DeBolds or the Keavys really picked up on it, they were way too focused on the food—which was perfection. But Mac saw every little glare she tossed his way as he served himself another helping of her mouthwatering brisket and smashed red potatoes,