Six Hot Single Dads. Lynne Marshall
Too far off. Part of her longed to be back there, to be plain old Ashley George, no cameras or billboards or publicity photos. It was nice no longer to struggle the way she had back at home, but those struggles had been replaced by new ones, the most profound of which was the nagging sense that she had money and a beautiful, charred apartment, but her life had become empty. She had no one to share this life she had built. And she had to wonder if she was sabotaging herself by still holding on to romantic thoughts of Marcus when so much pointed to the idea that they didn’t quite fit together—different personalities, divergent situations. If she were giving herself love advice, if she’d been the woman crying in a restaurant about a broken heart, she’d say that it might be the smart thing to move on. The problem was, she’d tried, and the only thing she’d learned in the process was that she had no talent for giving up on Marcus.
After carefully slicing the cake layers, she assembled the cake and gave it the finishing touches, pressing coconut to fluffy white cream cheese frosting—her mother’s twist on her grandmother’s traditional seven-minute icing. She stood back and admired her handiwork. The grits were cooking away on the stove, the shrimp and other ingredients prepped and waiting for Marcus to arrive home so she could throw it all together at the last minute.
He walked through the door and for a moment, she felt as self-conscious as could be. Was he going to think all of this was silly? Unnecessary? And why did he have to look so incredible after being at work all day? She usually looked as if she’d been run over by a train.
“What’s all this?” he asked, surveying the kitchen and loosening his tie.
She gave the grits a stir and turned back to him. “I gave Martha the night off. I’m making you dinner.”
“And there’s cake?” He swiped icing from the base of the plate.
“Hey. That’s for later.”
He flashed his green eyes at her. Every time he did that she suffered a bout of amnesia. It was impossible to remember a single bad thing that had ever happened between them. “Do I have a minute to change clothes?” He pointed at her. “From the look of things, I’d say I’m overdressed. Plus, I can’t wait to get out of this suit.”
Out of this suit. That mental image was going to stick with her for a while. “Of course.”
* * *
She’s making me dinner. And how lovely the sight of her in his kitchen was after a hectic day at the office. He knew better than to think that this would be a normal occurrence if he and Ashley were a couple. She’d be busy with work. He’d be similarly occupied. But it was a nice fantasy.
He quickly changed into jeans and a Cambridge Rowing Club T-shirt. Much better. Wearing a suit to the office was one of the worst parts of his day. “It really smells incredible.” He approached Ashley from behind as she worked at the cooktop.
“Almost ready to eat. I just need to finish up the shrimp.”
“Is it okay if I open a bottle of wine? I trust a white will work with the meal?”
She nodded, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “Yes. Perfect.”
He fetched the wine and two glasses, filling them just as she was spooning the meal into shallow bowls.
“Ready?” he asked, nodding toward the dining area.
“I’ll meet you in there.”
The table was set perfectly with placemats and linen napkins, and she’d thankfully had the sense to put them at one end, next to each other. She’d even dimmed the chandelier overhead. He couldn’t escape the romance of it. Was she being kind? Or did she see the opportunity he was so eager to take? He really wanted the chance to redeem himself, or at least to know for certain whether they had any business being together.
“No candles?” he asked.
“Considering what happened yesterday, I thought it best we avoid fire.” She set down his plate before him and took the seat next to his.
“Smart.” He laughed quietly, holding up his wine glass. “A toast to everyone being safe and sound.”
She gently clinked her glass against his. “Thank goodness.”
He took a bite of the meal she’d prepared—succulent sautéed shrimp with bacon and scallions atop a cheesy, creamy substance that closely resembled porridge. “This is delicious. What is this mixture at the bottom of the dish?”
“They’re grits. I’m guessing you’ve never had them.”
He shook his head “Not once. They’re good.”
“It’s dried, ground corn. Put in enough butter and cheese and you’ll think you died and went to heaven. I practically grew up on them. They are, as my mother would say, dirt cheap.”
He studied her, considering what she’d said. “Is she a real bargain shopper?”
“She is, but it was a necessity, too. We never had much money and things got a bit dire after we had a fire.”
Now he was even more confounded. “No. A fire?”
She nodded and looked at him with an expression much like the one he’d seen her wear last night—vulnerable, but strong-willed. “Yes. We lost our house to one when I was ten.”
His heart seized up in his chest as she told him the story. Her family lost everything. It led to years of struggle. He couldn’t fathom that particular loss. She’d had such a potent reminder of it last night. Reaching across the table, he grasped her hand. The gesture was forward and intimate, but it was his only inclination. “I’m so sorry, Ash. I can only imagine what was going through your mind last night.”
“Last night is still a blur, but yes, it brought back a lot of bad memories. I don’t like to think about it too much or it’ll just make me sad. Nobody wants a sad houseguest.”
“You can be sad if you want to. You should allow yourself to process it.”
“I’ll process it a lot better once I meet with my new contractor on Monday.”
“Ready to jump back in already?”
“I have to move forward.” She shrugged. “I called the builder that I couldn’t get the first time around. Turns out their new office manager is a fan of the show. They’ve made room for me in their schedule. I made a bank transfer of ten grand for the deposit this afternoon. I guess that much is good.”
“If they treat you well and do a good job, then yes.” It hit him then—the reason she’d been so stubborn about her renovation. “No wonder you’re so attached to your apartment. You lost your home when you were a girl.”
She pushed the food around on her plate with her fork. “That’s a big part of it. When you grow up with nothing, especially not growing up in one place, you attach a lot of meaning to the idea of home.” She stopped speaking, seeming deep in reflection, then looked at him. “The apartment also means a lot because it’s the only tangible part of my success. Everything else about what I do is like air. It’s not like what you do. You make gin. You can hold on to a bottle of gin. Most of the time what I do doesn’t even seem real to me.”
That’s what she’d been doing all that time he was waging war against her. She hadn’t been wrapped up in material goods. She’d been defending her big-city, eleventh-floor homestead because it was the only thing she had. “I had no idea. You really should have said something. I knew you were from South Carolina, but the way you carry yourself, I had visions of money and a grand Southern home.”
A quiet snicker left her lips. “You watch too many movies. Scarlett O’Hara is a fictional character. And besides, she lived in Georgia.”
“What about your parents now? Has life gotten any better?”
“It has. With my job, I can finally help them financially. My dad had a stroke about five years ago, and my mother takes care of