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“Actually, Mama was,” I said meekly. Mama had given Sammie and Elliot the instructions weeks ago. I hadn’t paid any attention, having my hands full with the menu. But it begged the question. Why did Mama put them together?
These two were like a couple of cranky toddlers. They didn’t seem to hear me at all.
Rafferty leaned closer to her, speaking through gritted teeth. “I would never seat myself next to you, even if you were the last woman on earth.”
I glanced over at Thad, begging him for help with my eyes. He nodded, seemingly understanding the problem immediately.
“I think the seating was designed so none of us brothers were sitting right next to each other,” Thad said.
“Yeah, right,” I said, picking up where he was headed with this. “Mama likes to seat a man, then a woman and so forth. You know, old school.”
Neither Rafferty nor Arabella said anything in reply. Fortunately, we were distracted by Elliot coming by to clear our plates. When she leaned down to fetch mine, I caught a whiff of her perfume. Intoxicating. That’s what she was. Her smell. Her wit and humor. Her curvy figure. Good Lord, I was in trouble. What if my attraction to her got in the way of work? If it didn’t work out, I’d lose the best pastry chef I’d ever have or hope to have. The restaurant and family business had to be the most important thing in my life. I didn’t have the luxury of a fun little romp in the hay. Anyway, she wasn’t the type a man just dated to satisfy a primal need. She was a force. A woman who needed a man who could give her the world. I was not that man.
Yet, selfishly, I wanted her.
“Elliot, could I trouble you for a refill?” Rafferty gestured toward his empty wineglass.
“Yes, of course. Won’t be a minute.”
I watched her walk into the kitchen carrying a stack of plates. To my left, I caught a glimpse of Finley attempting to take a photograph of Soren. Instead of smiling, he scowled at the camera. That’s what he usually looked like, so she was capturing his true personality, but it would be nice for Annie to have a few decent photographs for her wedding scrapbook. Or whatever it was called.
Elliot returned with a full bottle of Chablis. She poured some for Rafferty and Arabella before asking me if I’d like some. My glass was still half full, but I nodded.
“The wine was an excellent choice,” Elliot said, topping off my glass.
When she pulled back her hand, it brushed my forearm, leaving behind a pleasant tingling.
“I’m glad you approve,” I said quietly.
“I had only a taste,” she said, eyes twinkling at me. “But Sammie and I set a bottle aside for later.”
I smiled back at her, forgetting everything else except the warmth of her brown eyes. “As it should be. You’re both doing a great job. Can’t thank you enough.”
“My pleasure.”
Such a low, throaty voice. The kind of silky tone the poets wrote about. If only I could write poetry to distract myself.
She moved on to pour wine for Iris and George. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from her, watching her graceful movements. She poured the wine like a trained sommelier, with one hand grasping only the bottom of the bottle. Where had she learned that trick?
I turned away, self-conscious that someone might notice my lovelorn glances in the direction of my pastry chef, only to run right into Thad’s curious stare. He raised one eyebrow. I frowned at him and shook my head just slightly.
Darn him. He was way too observant. Knowing him, we’d have to have a full discussion about it later.
Fortunately, through the pasta course, Rafferty and Arabella ignored each other. During the enjoyment of my pasta, which had turned out well, and the subsequent main course of salt-crusted trout, I kept a conversation going with Arabella, this time steering away from anything potentially emotional. Instead, she told me tales of some of her vet visits around the county.
“You should write a book,” I said. “Like the English guy. What’s his name?”
“James Herriot,” Arabella said. “I used to devour those books.”
Rafferty, who I didn’t think had been listening, whipped his head around to glare at me. Okay, then. He didn’t wanther writing a book. Probably because he wanted to write one instead. Would the man ever be satisfied that he’d accomplished enough? He’d gone to medical school and now ran a successful practice.
Wasn’t that enough?
“Did you ever read those, Raff?” I asked, hoping to get him into a nonconfrontational conversation.
“Of course I did. I read everything,” Rafferty said.
“Everything?” Arabella’s eyes glittered as she turned to address him.
