by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe
“No, but I am a very appreciative diner.” He grinned, and she laughed. “My mother is an excellent cook.”
“Chocolate pudding cake,” she said.
“Angels in heaven don’t know what they’re missing in my mother’s chocolate pudding cake.”
Natalie smiled. “I’d love to have that recipe.”
“Well, I’d like to taste your version of it. I mean that literally,” he said when Natalie kept on smiling. She was gorgeous when she smiled. “I’ll get the recipe, and we’ll see if you can make it as well as she can.”
Her smile faded a bit. “I doubt it.” A chill seemed to blow across the patio. “You don’t have to get it on my account.”
Archer could have smacked his own forehead. What had he said? Didn’t women love a man who adored his mother’s cooking? Or did that make him look like a mama’s boy who would forever find other women lacking? “No trouble,” he said lightly. “She’ll think I’m wasting away on bad takeout and overnight me a frozen cake. So even if you never bake it, I still win.”
She busied herself with the dishes. “Suit yourself. Thanks again for your help.”
“No prob—whoa!” The big gray cat had jumped into his lap. “Hey there, cat.”
Natalie set down the tray with a clink. “Oliver! Come here!”
Archer scratched the cat’s head as it began purring and kneading his shirt collar. “He’s fine. Just really big.”
“He’s enormous,” said Natalie with a sigh. “I only feed him one scoop of kitty food a day.”
“I bet this garden is free of mice and voles, though.”
“Ew.” She looked askance at the cat. “I let him sleep on my bed.”
Lucky cat, thought Archer. “He’s an outdoorsman, used to hunting for his dinner.” The cat certainly still had claws, which were digging into his chest now. He put Oliver down, giving him a few rough strokes down the back as the cat’s purr grew louder.
“He’s not mine,” she said, as if that explained her revulsion at the cat’s predatory tendencies. “He just belongs to the house, which is also not mine.”
That was interesting. He could tell from her voice she was American, but apparently she was also just visiting. He found himself far too interested in Natalie the baker. “So where’s the restaurant?” he asked, trying to get back to a happier topic that might make her smile again.
It didn’t work. If anything, her expression grew harder. “In Wellesley, outside Boston.”
He perked up, choosing to ignore her frosty answer. Not only was she American, she came from his new home state. “Hey, I just moved to Boston! Which direction is Wellesley from the city?”
“West.” She picked up the tray. “Thanks for tasting.”
“You’re welcome,” he said to her retreating back. She didn’t look at him again, and the door closed behind her with a bang. Archer looked at Oliver, now rolling on his back in a spot of sun. “You could have warned me.” He leaned down and gave the cat a quick rub on the belly. “Any other subjects I should avoid? No? Maybe? Thanks for the advice.” Oliver just purred, flexing his feet in the air. Archer sighed, cast one more glance at the firmly closed kitchen door, and went back to corporate director elections.
Chapter Five
For the next two days, Archer Quinn appeared on her patio. Natalie knew he was there early, because she checked every morning when she came downstairs. He liked the mornings, she thought; he arrived before nine every day with a travel mug of coffee. True to his word he kept out of her way and never knocked on the door. He spent a fair amount of time talking on his phone. The kitchen became unbearably hot with the giant AGA on, so she had to keep the windows open, and that meant she listened to his voice in the background. Even without making out most of his words, she came to like the sound of his voice. More tenor than bass, but with a little rasp to it. After a while she could distinguish between callers. Most of them sounded like business colleagues, from the random bits of conversation she overheard, but there was someone called Elle who made him laugh. Natalie found herself wondering who it was, and in a moment of weakness she looked up the firm on his business card. Elle Williams was another lawyer there. Natalie wondered if he was dating her, or wanted to date her, then she called herself an idiot and walked away from the computer. It was none of her business.
There was one significant benefit to his presence. At least twice, other wedding guests wandered into her garden, and before she could go set them straight, Archer did it for her. Apparently there was still no Internet to be had at the hotel, and more than one guest had followed the same path to her Wi-Fi signal. Without ever giving away that he had the password, Archer pointed them in the direction of town and described the best spots for cell phone reception. Natalie wondered if he also told them the crazy woman in Primrose Cottage was liable to come after them with a meat cleaver, but if he did, she never overheard it.
She could see why he made a good lawyer, though. He was friendly without being smarmy, never rude, and had a logical argument for everything. Everyone seemed to part from him on good terms. Even his phone calls were cordial and good-humored, which didn’t fit with her view of lawyers.
Not that it was any of her business.
She was whipping egg whites when her phone rang. She pushed the heavy stand mixer away from the counter edge and reached for her phone. “Oh, hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”
“Whipping up some meringue today. The weather is perfect for it.”
“That’s my girl,” said Judy Corcoran with approval. “What are you making?”
Natalie turned back to the mixer and caught a glimpse of Archer. There was a thin frown of concentration between his brows as he typed away. The sun fell across his shoulders, making them look very broad, and shone on the top of his head, picking out the bit of wave in his sandy hair. With some effort, she pulled her eyes away.
“Natalie?”
“Um, cake,” she blurted. “I’ve been doing desserts for over a week now. The pies are done, as are the cobblers and the ice creams. I have four kinds of cake on my list, then a few more cookies, and I’ll be done with dessert.”
“Sounds like a good pace.” Her mother’s voice softened. “And how are you?”
She stopped the mixer and checked the egg whites. Almost ready. She turned it back on. “Just fine, Mom. How is Dad?”
“He’s doing very well. The physical therapist has him writing letters now, so he wrote a long list of instructions for Paul.”
She knew her mother had done it on purpose, but the mention of her brother was a bridge too far. “That’s great. I remember the little notes Dad used to put in my school lunches. I miss those notes.”
“And how about your brother?”
“I don’t miss him as much,” she replied evenly. “Can we talk about something else?”
Her mother’s sigh was sad. “When are you going to be ready to talk to Paul?”
Never. She debated ending the call and blaming it on the meringue. “Not now.”
“He was wrong, Nat, but so were you,” her mother admonished. “I know you just want what’s best for the Jude—”
“But we can’t agree on what that is, Mom. He wants to make us a franchise and open eight more locations. He wants to take on millions in debt and put our name on restaurants all the way across the country. I just don’t think that’s a good idea. It will ruin everything I love about the Jude.”
“Not everything, I hope,” said her mother tartly. “I’ll still be there, as will your dad. What do you want to do?”
Natalie hit the switch on the mixer and stared out the window. It was a gorgeous view, one she’d become accustomed to, and one she would miss when she finally had to return to the States. It was even better with Archer sitting off to one side, now leaning back in his chair and holding his phone to his ear. “I don’t know, Mom,” she said softly, right at the same moment Archer said, “Hey, Elle, is this a good time?”
Hi
s voice carried across the stone patio, through the open window. “Is someone there?” asked Judy.
Natalie cringed. “Yeah. Well, no, not really. It’s just someone borrowing the Internet connection.”
“Someone?”
She heard the veiled curiosity in her mother’s question. “There’s a fancy hotel nearby, apparently, and they’re hosting a big wedding. Their Internet went out and one guy walked over and persuaded me to let him use the Wi-Fi here.”
“I hope he’s a nice guy.”
It occurred to her that here was the perfect distraction from Paul. “Seems very nice, so far.”
“Really?” Judy was losing her noncommittal tone, edged out by interest. “Good-looking?”
She watched Archer stretch one arm over his head and grin at something Elle said. Colleagues, or more? Not her business. “Yes,” she murmured absently to her mother.
“And he’s in your house? Every day?”
Natalie snapped out of her momentary trance. “Not in the house, he sits on the patio and works on his laptop. I’m working, too, remember?”
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” said her mother. “Take him something to eat.”
“Mom! I am not trying to—to—”
“What?” asked her unrepentant mother. “You don’t have to shag him—isn’t that what they call it over there? It sounds so British. But it’s how I got your father, and I just think—”
“Oh, Mom, my meringue is ready,” Natalie exclaimed, snapping the mixer on full speed and leaning down so the whir of the motor filled the line. “Gotta go, give Dad a kiss for me, bye!” She ended the call and almost threw the phone across the counter.
Ugh. Was her mother having some kind of midlife crisis? Natalie had friends whose mothers were almost rabid about seeing them married with a few kids. Her mom had never been that way … although she had always been the most open parent about discussing sex, which had mortified Natalie and Paul to no end. She’d once offered to buy condoms for any of their friends, which was just too much to contemplate. Natalie admitted her mother’s openness was wonderful when she actually wanted to talk about something delicate, but other times … ugh.
And if her mother could see Archer… She dared another glance at the patio. He was still on the phone, now using a headset. He moved his hands as he talked, almost like he was sculpting his words in the air. Her gaze lingered on his hands for a moment, on those long expressive fingers. Mom would approve. Mom did approve, without even seeing him.
“Idiot,” she told herself, and went back to her meringue.
Now that he was keeping his head above water with work, Archer began to enjoy being in England. There were events for the wedding guests every day, but he mostly skipped them in favor of walking down to Primrose Cottage. It was quite pleasant working on Natalie’s patio. Every day some new delicious smell would drift out her windows, although she didn’t ask him to taste anything else. Archer spent a shameful amount of time trying to guess what she was making every day. He fantasized about peach cobbler, chocolate cookies, and strawberry pie—and increasingly about Natalie herself. Just the sight of her through the kitchen window stoked his interest.
Even when he didn’t strictly need to work, he walked down to the cottage. There was always something he could do for some client, after all. True to his promise, Jack was handling the work for Brightball, although Archer had stepped in to answer a few questions. Bill, the founder, was excitable, and Archer could tell he was absorbed in something that had him keyed up. Hopefully it was some innovative invention. Distracted by the aromas from the kitchen, as well as the glimpses of Natalie herself, Archer didn’t pay it too much mind. Brightball was Jack’s client, after all.
But he did need to focus on his top client when they met. Duke Austen had been only a fleeting presence as far as Archer knew; he must be occupied with wedding preparations and rehearsals and whatever else went into planning the wedding of the year. So much for talking about new ventures or any other business. The wedding planner, a dark-haired intense woman named Arwen Kilpatrick, seemed to be everywhere at once with a schedule in her hand, often with the hotel owner Mr. Compton at her side. Archer hoped she was giving him hell about the lack of Internet and reliable cell service.
Still, Archer thought he’d better go to the cocktail hour, even though he knew very few of the other guests. Contrary to Denise’s tabloid scouting, there were no movie stars or royals at the event, but Jack Harper’s prediction that he could find some new clients was well-founded. Archer spent a half hour chatting with Piers Prescott, Duke’s college roommate. Prescott came from old money, but had the spirit of philanthropy one didn’t often find in the private equity sector. Unfortunately he also had a good memory for names.
“Quinn, from San Francisco,” said Piers thoughtfully. “Any relation to Ted Quinn, the venture capitalist?”
Archer was used to that question. In San Francisco, he’d heard it all the time. Quinntillion, his father’s venture capital firm, was based there, and it was legendary in financial circles. Archer never used his full name, but any time someone discovered he was really Theodore Archer Quinn II, they would exclaim, “You must be Ted Quinn’s son!” He’d moved to Boston partly to get away from it.
He took a breath and nodded. “He’s my father.”
“Well.” Piers looked mildly impressed. “Quite a history.”
He doubted the man meant Ted’s personal history, the one that mattered to Archer. “He’s a legend,” he said evenly, not adding his personal qualifier: and a legendary jerk.
“I think my family firm did some business with him.” Piers gave him a rueful glance. “If I recall, it was a bit bruising.”
Archer raised his glass in mock salute. “That’s the Quinn way. Sorry; I don’t have anything to do with Quinntillion.”
“No, I’m sure I would have remembered if Ted’s son had been part of his firm,” muttered Piers with a curiously grim expression.
Archer shook his head. “I went the other way. Computer science, then law. Which all worked out brilliantly when I crossed paths with Duke.” He grinned. “We both rocked Master Chief.”
Piers frowned, then groaned. “Don’t say Halo. Duke wore out our Xbox on that game. I can still hear the Gregorian chant soundtrack, and it makes me break out in hives.”
“Yep,” said Archer proudly. “I won the campus tournament.”
Piers eyed him. “How … impressive.”
He laughed. “My crowning achievement!”
“What’s that?” Duke had come up beside them. “Stealing my lawyer, Piers?”
“Another Halo warrior? Hardly.”
Duke grinned. “Whatever. Hey, Archer, come meet Jane.”
Piers moved off as Duke led him through the scattered guests to a pretty blond woman. Archer had seen her before, but he’d never actually met the future Mrs. Austen. She was friendly and pleasant, thanking him for coming to the wedding as if she really meant it, and it triggered something in Archer’s memory.
“I wonder if I could ask a favor,” he said to her. “My secretary Denise is a big fan of your books, and she sent one of them with me in the hopes you would sign it.”
Jane’s mouth opened in surprise, then she beamed. “Of course! Which book?”
“Er.” Archer cleared his throat. “The Wicked Wallflower.”
An evil grin spread across Duke’s face. “Oh, that’s a good one. My favorite, in fact. That’s the one where a man finds himself engaged without having to propose.”
Jane gave him a look. “I would be thrilled to sign your book,” she told Archer.
“It’s for my secretary,” Archer said again.
“Have you read the others?” Duke was enjoying this. “You don’t want to miss any. Wallflower Gone Wild … whoa. I had to take a cold shower.”
“Duke!” said Jane in exasperation.
“My secretary says you’re her favorite author.” Archer decided to ignore his client for a min
ute.
“She should be.” Duke gave his future wife a scorching look. “Those books are badass.”
Jane widened her eyes at him, but her smile ruined any reproof she might have meant. “You just made my night, Archer! Do you have the book?”
“Up in my room.”
“Shall we go up? I don’t want to forget and the next few days will be frantic.”
They all walked up to his room. Archer pretended not to notice the whispered conversation between Duke and Jane, but he did catch a few heated glances between them. Duke had his arm around her waist and must have been whispering something dirty in her ear, from the way Jane was blushing.
While Jane sat down to autograph Denise’s book, Duke prowled the room, glancing out each window. “Where do you run off to every day?”
“To get some work done. I can leave the office, but it won’t leave me.”
“Right.” Duke squinted into the sunset lighting up the west-facing windows. “Someone told me you found an Internet connection.”
“Maybe.”
His host’s electric blue eyes flashed at him. “Where? I had to separate two programmers from each other’s throats yesterday. They can’t survive offline.”
Archer shook his head with an air of regret. “I was sworn to secrecy. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Duke snorted. “Fine. Jane will be disappointed; she thought you were sneaking out to meet women, since you didn’t bring a date.”
For some completely unaccountable reason Archer found his throat needed clearing. Twice. “No. Just me and my laptop.” Hidden away in Natalie’s garden paradise, living for the little plates of sweets she brought out. He had a sudden memory of her rubbing one foot along the back of her other ankle, scribbling in her little notebook the whole while, and felt an unhealthy flush of heat suffuse his body.
“Your laptop makes you blush like a girl?” Duke grinned wickedly. “Don’t forget I’m marrying a romance novelist. I know the signs, dude. I hope the woman you, ah, aren’t sneaking out to see is a babe.”
