Sara leaned close, one little finger edging toward the plate of muffins. “This one is the strawberry one,” she whispered.
“Sara!” Molly called sharply. “Let Mr. Spencer make his own choice.”
A finger stole to the little girl’s mouth and she looked sad. “Yes, Mommy.”
“Did you put the napkins in place?” Molly continued.
Sara moved to do as her mother asked, but she kept her eye on Quinn.
To his amusement, he noted Molly did, too, only she tried to hide her interest. Sara didn’t bother. This test tasting was serious business in the Blake household.
But not to him. He was going along with all this to be polite. That was all.
He took his first bite of muffin.
Hmm. Several distinct flavors lit up his taste buds.
Not bad. Not bad at all. He started to take a second bite of that muffin before he remembered he had three more to taste.
By the time he’d tasted all four muffins, he was ready to start again.
“You already tasted that one,” Sara pointed out, now standing beside his chair in close observation.
Quinn shot Molly a look to see if she’d noticed. She had her back to him at the stove, stirring something. He leaned closer to Sara and whispered, “I need to taste them all again. I’m not sure yet.”
“Oh. I tasted the strawberry one over and over again,” Sara confessed.
Quinn wasn’t slow. He knew a request when he heard one. He slid a bite of the strawberry muffin toward Sara. Quick as a wink, it disappeared.
Molly appeared beside the table, a tray in her hands. “Did you find one you liked?” she asked nonchalantly, as if his decision made no difference to her. But he’d seen her watching him. He knew differently.
He took a sip of coffee. “Well, actually—”
“You didn’t like any of them,” she guessed, disappointment in her voice. “I should’ve—”
“Molly,” he interrupted, using her first name. You couldn’t be formal over a kitchen table, he reasoned. “They’re all terrific. I’m having trouble choosing between them.”
“Really?” she asked, her face anxious.
The ridiculous idea of cupping her cheeks and kissing those luscious lips crossed his mind. He instantly dismissed it. “Uh, yeah, really. I taste one and think it’s my favorite, until I taste the next one. Then it’s my favorite. They’re so moist.”
“Thank you” was her only response. Then she set a big bowl in front of him.
He sniffed the steamy aroma arising from the bowl, but before he could identify it, she said, “Potato.”
She added bowls for her and Sara, and several small bowls of condiments. “Bacon and cheese if you want any for your soup.”
She returned to the cabinet to load three more bowls onto her tray. This time large salad bowls were placed on the table, along with several small pitchers of dressing. “The salad has chicken and cheese in it.”
Then she put a glass of milk in front of Sara. “Would you like something else to drink, in addition to your coffee?” she asked him.
“Some ice water would be nice.” He was beginning to think he was in a four-star restaurant. The soup smelled terrific. If it even came close to the perfection of the muffins, he was in for a treat.
Half an hour later, he wasn’t sure he’d ever need to eat again. Not only had the food been wonderful, but also the company had pleased him. Sara had incredible table manners for a four-year-old. She also had a charm that entranced him. He laughed a couple of times as she entertained him with stories about the preschool she attended at the town’s day care center.
Molly reminded her of her lunch occasionally.
Then Molly told her it was time for her afternoon “rest.” It wasn’t a nap, Sara assured him. She was too old for a nap. But Miss Kaitlin said they needed to rest so they’d grow taller. And she was going to grow this big, she told him, stretching her arm as high as she could reach.
After Molly returned from tucking Sara in for her “rest,” she thanked him again for tasting the muffins.
He knew he could’ve easily excused himself at that point. She was giving him an opening. But he didn’t take it.
“I can assure you, Molly, it was a pleasure. Anytime you need tasting done, I’m your man. You’re an excellent cook.”
She blushed and muttered another thank-you.
“Have you thought any about my suggestion?”
“Yes, I have. I’m planning an open house for a week from Sunday. But instead of having only the neighbors and a few dignitaries, I’m opening it to the entire town.”
“The entire town?” he questioned, frowning. “Isn’t that overdoing it just a little? It’ll cost a lot.”
“Not that much more. Everyone won’t come, of course, and I’m not serving a meal. Some muffins, some cake, snack food. It will give everyone a chance to look at the house. Of course, I’ll only have the first two suites done because all the quilts aren’t finished, but they’ll be able to see what I’m trying to do.”
He couldn’t imagine Molly and little Sara getting ready for such a huge undertaking. “How will you manage?”
“Manage what?” she asked, a frown on her face.
“All the work, the cleaning, the baking. I don’t even know, but it sounds like a massive undertaking.”
“It won’t be so bad. I’ve been talking to Eden about the flowers and—”
“You’re going to have her do flower arrangements?” he asked. The Garden of Eden, Eden Frazier’s flower shop, was the most popular in town. “Won’t that be expensive?”
“No more than anyone else. We’ve worked out an arrangement where she delivers arrangements once a week for each suite, if it’s being used.”
“Couldn’t you use some fake arrangements? It would save money.”
She looked at him as if he’d suggested murder. “Fake arrangements? No, never. Fresh flowers are so much better.”
“But you said money—”
She stiffened. “Mr. Spencer, I told you I had my budget worked out. I’m not bankrupt.”
He caught himself before he could protest the use of his last name. It was a signal to back off. “My apologies.”
But he made no move to leave.
After an awkward silence, she repeated, “Thank you for tasting the muffins.”
“Why do you have to eliminate any of them? They’re all wonderful.”
“I thought I should have a signature muffin. You know, build a reputation for special things.” She almost relaxed with her response until she appeared to remember that she was angry with him.
“I think you’ll build a reputation for good food, whichever kind of muffin you serve. But variety might be fun. You could serve one kind each day of the week. You didn’t have any blueberry muffins. Or surely there are other kinds.” He searched his mind for kinds of muffins. He wasn’t sure why he wanted the conversation to continue, but he did. “Maybe there are zucchini muffins?”
She smiled. “I could make pumpkin muffins.”
“There you go! That would be perfect for Thanksgiving. Or turkey muffins, with the leftovers. Ham muffins for Easter. Rhubarb muffins.”
She laughed at his silliness, and he grinned in return. Seeing Molly laugh was a delight in itself.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but I think any kind of muffin you make would be good, if these are any indication.”
“Sara was disappointed you didn’t pick the strawberry one.”
“I know,” he agreed. “She kept pushing another bite toward me. Which was pretty impressive since she wanted to eat those bites herself.”
“You noticed,” Molly said with a grin. “I have to watch her. She has a definite sweet tooth.”
“She’s a beautiful little girl, both in her appearance and her behavior, Molly. You’ve done a great job raising her. Christopher would be proud.”
Suddenly the friendliness in the air, the warmth, the welcome
, all disappeared. Molly’s face was grim and closed. She stood. “Thank you for your help.”
“Wait!” He hadn’t intended the protest, but he wasn’t going to be shoved out the door until he knew what he’d done wrong. “What did I do?”
She turned away, clearing the table. “Nothing at all. I just don’t want to take up more of your time. I know how busy you are.”
He stubbornly remained in his chair, as if standing would make it easier for her to dislodge him. “It’s Friday afternoon. I’m not so busy.”
“If you don’t have work to do, I’m sure you have social plans. I don’t want to make you run late.” She kept her back to him, rinsing the dishes.
He decided to invade her space. Grabbing more dishes, he carried them to the sink. He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d slapped her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, outrage in her voice.
“Helping you.” It seemed obvious to him, but not to her.
“I don’t need your help!” she assured him. “I can manage.”
“I can see that. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t help, though. I do have manners, you know.”
“So, in a restaurant, you offer to clean the kitchen before you leave?”
“In a restaurant, I pay a bill, which covers cleaning the kitchen,” he returned, keeping his voice level. He wanted to get to the bottom of what had upset her. So he wouldn’t do it again. If she ever opened her door to him. Not that it mattered, of course, but there was no point in making enemies when it wasn’t necessary.
“By the way,” he added, before she could speak, “Amanda is coming back this evening. She’ll be in the office on Monday.”
“Good,” she snapped, telling him without additional words she wouldn’t be consulting him again.
He stood there, his hands on his hips, watching, trying to figure out how to scale the wall she’d built.
She turned and wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll get your coat for you.”
“Wait just a minute,” he protested. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what I said wrong.”
Chapter Six
Molly felt like an idiot.
The man had made a simple remark. If she’d contained her emotions, simply accepted his words for their good intentions, she wouldn’t be in such an awkward position.
“You didn’t say anything wrong, Mr. Spencer,” she assured him quietly, keeping a tight rein on her emotions. “I overreacted.”
“To what?”
“Your comment about Christopher.” She headed toward the coatrack to get his overcoat. Surely her reasonableness would speed him on his way.
“But all I said was Christopher would be proud—”
“I know. As I said, a perfectly lovely sentiment.” She held out the coat to him. He ignored it.
“I didn’t realize your grief would still be so raw,” he said, concern on his face, making her feel even worse.
The weight of the overcoat made it necessary to lower it against her body. “There is no grief.”
She’d shocked him. He stared at her, saying nothing.
“I’m sorry. I know this is Christopher’s hometown, and I’ve tried not to offend anyone. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep my remarks to yourself.”
“But even if you and Christopher didn’t— Sara was his daughter. Wasn’t she?”
Molly stiffened. “Are you asking me if I was faithful to my husband?”
“No! No, I wouldn’t— It’s none of my business!”
“Sara is Christopher’s daughter. But surely you don’t find his attitude difficult to understand. I heard you explaining why you’d never have children.”
Now he appeared as upset as her. Great. She’d turned a molehill into a mountain. Then she’d turned it into the Alps.
“My choices are irrelevant, Mrs. Blake. But surely, once Sara arrived—”
“Christopher ignored both of us. This is a pointless discussion, particularly after you’ve been so helpful.” In a desperate attempt to make nice, she added, “Let me wrap up some of the muffins. You can have them for breakfast tomorrow.”
She hurriedly put two of each type of muffin in a plastic bag and handed it to Quinn. Then she handed him his overcoat and led the way to the front door, praying he’d follow.
The sound of his heavy tread reassured her. She opened the front door and turned to face him. “Thank you again for your assistance.”
“Thank you for a delicious lunch.”
She nodded, anxious to have him on the other side of her closed door. Before she could make any more mistakes.
“Tell Sara goodbye for me.”
That only made her feel even more guilty. He was being very polite. “Of course. Thank you for your patience with her.”
He nodded, but he didn’t move.
She didn’t know what else to say. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she ventured a look at him.
He smiled. “If we get any more polite, I’ll have to bow before I leave.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to behave well around you, Mr. Spencer. But since Amanda is coming back to town, I shouldn’t have to bother you again.” There. That should satisfy him.
“I’ll miss the muffins,” he said with another smile.
She returned his smile, but she didn’t make any offer to keep him supplied. Better to cut all ties.
Once again he told her goodbye and left the house.
She could finally shut him out of her life.
So why did she feel so empty?
QUINN DIDN’T RETURN to the office. He decided everything on his desk could wait until Monday. Instead, he went home.
He frowned. He was living with his father, in the family home. When he’d come back to Tyler, he’d been like a bird with a broken wing. He’d needed to heal. Having finally gotten his courage to risk his heart, he’d found it tossed back into his lap, rejected. Marietta, the woman he’d thought he loved, had had a bigger target. She’d met an Englishman with a title.
While he’d told himself it was his pride, more than anything, that had been hurt, he’d found himself reliving the rejection he’d felt in his childhood, when his mother had disappeared from his life.
And he’d vowed never again to risk his heart.
It took too much energy to care about where he lived, so he’d returned to his old bedroom. But now, after time spent at Molly’s, his choice seemed so…so sterile. The housekeeper his father hired, Eva, kept everything clean. But there was none of the warmth, the pride, the caring, that was obvious in Molly’s house.
None of the smiles.
He thought of Sara’s infectious laughter, her beaming smile. Those big blue eyes that could look so guilty for the smallest infraction.
He’d never realized how much a child could play on one’s emotions. How easily she could worm her way into a man’s heart. How protective he felt.
What kind of idiot had Christopher been? Maybe it would take time to warm up to having a child. But Molly? He had ignored Molly?
Sara’s brightness and warmth came directly from Molly. A man would never be cold in a household with those two. And at night, his mind immediately continued, picturing one of the king-size beds, he’d be in heaven.
He immediately dismissed that thought. She was a mother, damn it. He shouldn’t be thinking of her as a—as a woman. A sexy woman.
But he couldn’t seem to help himself.
That night, his dreams were warm, happy ones, centered around two blondes. When he awoke the next morning, he was reluctant to leave his bed, knowing it would dispel the lingering remnants of his dreams.
Yesterday afternoon he’d placed the muffins in the refrigerator. This morning he hurried to the kitchen and heated them in the microwave, eager to again taste Molly’s handiwork.
“Something smells good,” Elias growled as he came into the kitchen just as the muffins came out of the microwave.
Quinn jerked in a guilty start. “U
h, yeah. Muffins.”
“Ah. You went to the bakery.”
He didn’t lie. But he didn’t correct his father’s guess, either. What difference did it make?
His father selected one of the muffins. Quinn noted that he’d chosen one of the strawberry ones. He grinned. His father had a sweet tooth, too, like Sara.
After pouring two cups of coffee, he carried them to the table and slid one to his father, who’d just taken his first bite.
“Hey, this is good,” Elias intoned. “What kind—”
“Strawberry.”
“Never tasted anything like it before. Are they all strawberry?”
“No.” He named the other kinds, watching his father survey the plate. He could tell he wouldn’t have any muffins left over.
He was sure of that when the back door opened and Brady came in. He almost groaned.
“I brought some doughnuts,” Brady announced before he saw the muffins. “What’s this? Has Quinn become Betty Crocker overnight?”
Quinn didn’t respond and Elias was too interested in what he was eating. “Taste this,” he ordered his second son, pinching off a piece of his muffin.
While Brady and his father discussed the strawberry muffin, Quinn took a knife and cut the remaining muffins in half. He wanted some of each of them and he was going to have to share.
Fortunately, there weren’t any questions. The men were concentrating on the taste, with muttered appreciation when they tasted a new one.
Until there was nothing but crumbs on the plate.
“I think we may have to buy stock in the bakery,” Elias commented as he sipped his coffee.
Brady protested, “But that’s where I bought those doughnuts. I didn’t see anything like these.” He waved at the empty plate. “I don’t think they came from the bakery.”
“But Quinn said—”
“No, I didn’t. You guessed the bakery and I didn’t correct you.”
“So are you telling me you made them? Do I have a son who intends to give up law to be a baker now?”
Quinn shook his head. “A friend made them.” He’d hoped to avoid any more questions, but his father perked up like a retired fire horse put between the traces for one last run.
Patchwork Family Page 6
