And maybe it was time to get down to the real question at hand: Why was she so fascinated with him? It wasn’t just his pretty face. She’d come across many of those. Perhaps it was the confidence he exuded. Or the way he seemed so at ease—not with his environment necessarily but with himself.
And how could she even know these things from their brief encounter?
Grace scowled at the screen. She was failing monumentally at number three.
She slipped off the stool and wandered into the dining room to see if Miss Della needed help in the kitchen. When the siblings decided to open the inn, Mom’s best friend graciously offered her outstanding cooking skills—and, occasionally, some unsolicited advice. But that was mostly reserved for Grace, the baby of the family.
She found Miss Della rolling out a lump of pie dough, her dark hands working the roller with expert precision. Her short, wash-and-go hair called attention to her wide-set brown eyes and high cheekbones.
“Need help with lunch, Miss Della?”
“You’re just in time, sugar. I need your steady hands. Wash up.”
Grace did as asked and joined her at the floured-up counter where a flat circle of dough awaited.
“Grab the pastry cutter and make me some nice strips for the lattice top.”
Grace took the fluted wheel by the handle and started slow, precise lines through the dough, listening to Miss Della talk about a new roast recipe she was trying out for supper tonight.
The wheel in Grace’s hand swerved out of line, and she winced at the crooked path. She wanted to fix it, but reworking the dough would make the crust tougher. She’d do it anyway, except Miss Della would disapprove.
When Grace finished the job, she carefully wove the strips into latticework while Miss Della buzzed around the kitchen, stirring pots, whisking gravy, and checking the oven. Grace made sure the strips were evenly placed across the cherry pie filling. Four strips in, the dough ripped and Grace gritted her teeth as she gently pinched it back together. But there was no making it perfect again.
When she finished, she surveyed the uncooked pie with a scowl. “All finished.”
“Thank you, honey, that looks splendid.”
“It looks terrible.”
Miss Della surveyed the pie from the stove where she was stirring the green beans. The imperfections were so obvious Grace didn’t bother pointing them out.
“Honey, it’s just the way I wanted it. If it was perfect it’d look like it came from a Sara Lee box.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Miss Della scooped up the pie and placed it in the oven. “And now it’d be a big help if you could fold napkins for me. Jada got held up at her other job.”
When Grace slipped into the dining room, Molly was already setting the tables.
She looked up as Grace began working alongside her. “Oh, good. I could use the help. Did you get a chance to look into listing the inn?”
“I found some promising sites. It’ll probably take hours to do the listings. We should set up a few more professional shots too. We’ve made updates.”
“Good point. I can write something up for the listing. It’s hard to believe we’ve finally reached this point. In one way it seemed like forever, but in retrospect, it went quickly.”
Their parents’ deaths had forced them to make a decision: sell the house and move or finish the remodeling their parents had started and open the inn. It had been a monumental task, and they’d all sacrificed a lot to make it happen.
Grace folded a cloth napkin with military precision. “Now you can spread your wings and fly—all the way to Italy. Is Adam still on board with your plan?” Molly’s dream of running a bed-and-breakfast in Tuscany went back a long way, but there were two of them now.
“He supports my dreams 100 percent. He can write from anywhere, and he can fly back for book tours.”
Adam Bradford was a writer of love stories, perennial bestsellers, with one of his novels made into a movie so far. He was also one of the most down-to-earth people Grace knew. And he really brought out the best in Molly.
“It’s been quiet around here this afternoon,” Molly said. “Anyone check in?”
“Just the guest who arrived as our meeting was winding down.”
“How long are they staying?”
“It’s only one guest—and he wasn’t sure how long. A few days or a few weeks. He’s leaving it open-ended.”
For the dozenth time in the last hour, an image of Wyatt Jennings flittered into her mind. Those dark eyes, so serious and observant. Did he make everyone feel like an ant under a microscope? She tried to tell herself it had been an unpleasant sensation, but that wasn’t entirely true. Otherwise Grace wouldn’t be anticipating their next meeting, now would she?
“That’s interesting,” Molly said. “What brought him to the area?”
“He didn’t really say.” But judging by his well-used duffel, the tennis shoes, and yes, the physique, she guessed his idea of R & R included a lot of exercise.
Molly was staring at her, head tilted in that knowing way.
“What?” Grace asked.
“How old is he? Is he married? Single?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Molly gave a smug grin. “So, young and single.”
Grace gave her a wry look.
“That blush told me everything I needed to know.”
“I’m not blushing.” Grace ignored the heat flaring in her cheeks as she grabbed another starched napkin and started folding. What had gotten into her? And who was this man who’d had such a ridiculous effect on her?
“A blush and a vehement denial.” Molly was studying her face. “Very interesting. I gotta get a load of this guy. I’ve never seen you react like this to someone you’ve barely met.”
“I’ve had boyfriends,” Grace said a titch defensively. She was twenty-one after all.
“I’m not saying you haven’t. I’m just saying no one’s really swept you off your feet yet.”
“My feet are firmly on the ground and will remain so. There’s only room for one romantic in the family, and that spot’s already taken. And now Levi has joined the ranks of the happily-ever-after crowd, and that’s fine. But leave me alone. I’m happily single, and I want to focus on getting my business off the ground.”
“So what’s he look like?”
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
“What’s his name? You have to know that at least.”
“Wyatt Jennings.”
“No wedding band? Or telltale white line around the ring finger?”
Grace spared her a glance.
“What? That’s important information.”
“I don’t think so,” Grace finally said. “Not that it matters.”
“What’s he like?”
“We exchanged all of fifty words, Molly.” And about forty-nine of those had been hers.
“Well, your first impressions then. Come on, dish. We never get to talk boys.” Molly’s intense look told Grace she wasn’t letting this go.
“Fine. I don’t know. He was quiet.”
“Ooh, the strong, silent type. Did he ask any questions about the area? That can tell you a lot about a person.”