His Son, Her Secret. Sarah M. Anderson
sourced ingredients, advanced techniques—the whole nine yards.”
She took notes on her tablet. “Any ideas for the actual menu items?”
“A few.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, she looked up again. “Such as?”
He didn’t look at her. “Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow and I’ll make you a tasting menu? You can tell me what might work and what doesn’t.”
She should say no. She should insist that their interactions be limited to this dank building. “The house?”
“The Beaumont Mansion. I’m staying there until I get my own place.” He pivoted and fixed her with a look that she’d always been powerless to resist. “If you can tolerate being in the lair of the Beaumonts, that is.”
“I tolerate you, don’t I?” she snapped back. She would not allow him to make her the bad guy, and she would not let him paint her as the coward. He was the one who’d run off. She was the one who’d stayed and dealt with the fallout.
She didn’t know how she’d expected him to respond, but that lazy smile? That wasn’t it. “Shall we say six, then?”
Leona mentally ran through her calendar. May had class tonight—but tomorrow night she should be able to stay with Percy.
“Who else will be home?” Because no matter what had happened between Leona and Byron, that didn’t change the larger fact that the Beaumonts and the Harpers got on much worse than oil and water ever had.
He shrugged. “Chadwick and his family live there full-time, but they eat on their own schedule. Frances just moved back in, but she’s rarely home. A couple of my younger half siblings are still there—but again, everyone’s on their own schedule. Should be just us.”
For a brief, insane second, she entertained the notion of bringing Percy with her. But the moment the thought occurred to her, she dismissed it. The Beaumonts were notorious for keeping the children from broken relationships. That’s what her father had always told her—Hardwick Beaumont always got rid of the women and kept the babies, never letting the children see their mothers again. That’s what Byron had said happened to him and his siblings. It wasn’t until later in his life that he’d gotten to know his mother.
At the time, that story had broken her heart for him. He’d been a lost little boy in a cold, unloving house. But now she knew better. He hadn’t been looking for sympathy.
He’d been warning her. And she was more the fool for not realizing it until it was too late.
She was done being the fool. No, she would not bring Percy. Not until she had a better grasp on Byron’s reaction to the idea of having a five-month-old son. Not until she knew if he would decree that the boy would be better off a Beaumont instead of a Harper.
Byron had to know about his child eventually, but she could not lose her son.
“All right,” she finally said. “Dinner tomorrow night at six. I’ll draft a few ideas and you can provide feedback.” Her phone chimed—it was a text from May, reminding Leona about her class tonight. “Anything else?”
The question hung in the air like the cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Byron looked at her with such longing that she almost weakened.
Then the look shifted and anything warm or welcoming was gone and all that was left was an iciness she hadn’t seen before. It chilled her to the bone.
“No,” he said, his voice freezing. “There’s nothing else I need from you.”
That was an answer, all right.
But not the one she wanted to hear.
“Your sauce is going to burn.”
This simple observation from George made Byron jump. “Damn.” He hurried over to reduce the heat under the saucepan, mentally kicking himself for making a rookie mistake.
George Jackson chuckled from his perch on a stool—the same place he’d been sitting for the past thirty-five years. Mothers and stepmothers came and went, more children showed up—being a Beaumont meant living in a constant state of uncertainty. Except for the kitchen. Except for George. Sure, his brown skin was more wrinkled and, yes, more of his hair was white than not. But otherwise, he was the same man—one of the very few, black or white, who didn’t take crap from any Beaumont. Not even Hardwick. Maybe that’s why Hardwick had kept George around and why Chadwick had kept him on after Hardwick’s death. George was constant and honest.
Like right now. “Boy, you’re a wreck.”
“I’m fine,” Byron lied. Which was pointless because George knew him far too well to buy that line.
George shook his head. “Why are you trying so hard to impress this girl? I thought she was the whole reason you left town.”
“I’m not,” Byron said, stirring the scalded sauce. “We’re working together. She’s designing the restaurant. I’m preparing food that might be on the menu in said restaurant. That’s not trying to impress her.”
George chuckled again. “Yeah, sure it’s not. You Beaumont men are all alike,” he added under his breath.
“I am absolutely not like my father and you know it,” Byron shot off, checking the roast in the oven. “I’ve never married anyone, much less a string of people, and I certainly don’t have any kids running around.”
George snorted at this. “Be that as it may, you’re exactly like your old man. Even like Chadwick, sitting up there with his second wife. None of you all could be honest with yourselves when it came to women.” He seemed to reconsider this statement. “Well, maybe not Chadwick this time. Miss Serena is different. Hope your brother doesn’t screw it up. But my point is, you all are fools.”
“Thanks, George,” Byron replied sarcastically. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
From a long way away, the doorbell rang. “Watch the sauce,” Byron said as he hurried out of the kitchen.
The Beaumont Mansion was a huge building that had been built by his grandfather, John Beaumont, after prohibition and after World War II, when beer had been legal and soldiers had come home to drink it. The Beaumont Brewery had barely managed to stay afloat for twenty years, and then suddenly John had been making money faster than he could count it. He’d built several new buildings on the brewery campus as well as the mansion, a 15,000 square-foot pile of brick designed to show up the older mansions of the silver barons. The mansion had turrets and stained glass and gargoyles, for God’s sake. Nothing was ever over-the-top to a Beaumont, apparently.
Byron had always hated this house, the way it made people act. The house was toxic with the ghosts of John and Hardwick. This was not a house that had known happiness. He couldn’t understand why Chadwick insisted on raising his family here.
Byron hadn’t even bothered to unpack the rest of his stuff because he wasn’t going to be here long enough to settle in. He’d get a nice apartment with a good kitchen close to the Percheron Drafts brewery and that’d be fine. In the meantime, he’d spend as much time in the one room that had always been free from drama and grief—the kitchen.
He almost ran into Chadwick, who was coming downstairs to answer the door. “I’ve got it,” Byron said, sidestepping his oldest brother.
Chadwick made no move to go back upstairs. “Expecting company?”
“It’s the interior designer,” Byron replied, happy to have that truth to hide behind. “I’ve prepared a sampling of dishes for her so we can build the theme of the restaurant around them.”
“Ah, good.” Chadwick looked at him, that stern look that always made Byron feel as though he wasn’t