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Whatever the case, Hank is opening my door before I’ve even unbuckled my seat belt.
“C’mon, Daph.” He holds out his hand. “Let me give you a tour of my ancestral home I secretly despise for mysterious reasons.”
“A damaged duke with a dark secret? Don’t mind if I do.”
I don’t realize I’ve slipped my hand into Hank’s until I’m on my feet in the sunshine.
I don’t realize I’m warning him about his untied shoelace until the words are out of my mouth.
He grins, squinting against the sun. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, bewildered.
Since when did looking out for him and him looking out for me become so second nature we don’t even realize we’re doing it?
It’s sweet.
And scary. Because even though I promised myself I’d never be responsible for a man’s well-being ever again, here I am, being responsible. Taking care of someone.
But.
A voice in my head wants to argue the point, but I don’t let it. I shove my hands in my pockets and wait for Hank to tie his shoe. A middle-aged woman appears at my elbow, smiling warmly as she shakes our hands and introduces herself as our private liaison.
I cut Hank a glance. He just shrugs, this adorably mischievous smile on his lips, and the flutter in my torso becomes a full-on rush.
The liaison leads us right past the line stretching out the front door. We’re greeted by another woman in Biltmore’s soaring entrance hall, and she begins our private “upstairs/downstairs” tour, inspired by Downton Abbey.
It’s amazing. We see the rooms where the one percent of the one percent lived—library, indoor pool, solarium—and then we see the rooms inhabited by the people who worked for them. The laundry, where a small army of Black women would come in from the village every day to do the back-breaking work that was laundry before washing machines and dryers. A simple dining room.
My favorite part, though, is the massive kitchen in the house’s basement. It has high ceilings and windows that overlook the rear gardens. A huge trestle table dominates the center of the space, and copper pots shimmer from the rack above it.
“Can you imagine what it must’ve been like to make food for upward of thirty guests, plus an enormous staff, several times a day?” our guide asks. “Back then, meals for the likes of the Vanderbilts were elaborate, multi-course affairs. Cook and his staff were kept exceptionally busy.”
Hank slips his hand inside my jacket, his fingers giving the small of my back a quick scratch. “Speaking of meals. Since Sunday supper happened on Friday, tonight is all ours.”
My breath catches as my skin comes alive. Our guide politely pretends to be engrossed in a cabinet of salt cellars.
I not-so-politely slip my hand in Hank’s back pocket. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I was thinking about your beer, actually. What if we make something that goes well with Hop Girl Summer? Some Sunday night comfort food. Chili, maybe? Samuel’s got a recipe we can borrow.”
The fact he’s thought about incorporating my beer into a meal we’ll make together has me weak in the knees.
Validation is sexy as hell.
“Love it. Hop Girl would make some great chili. What do I need to do to help?”
“Honey, you said you wanted to cook the bacon together, so that’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll stop at the grocery store on the way back. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
I try very hard to focus on the night ahead instead of the next morning for the rest of our tour. Because thinking about tomorrow bums me out. It shouldn’t. I should be excited to get back to Nashville. So many great things are happening at work, and I’ve got a tennis lesson lined up with my favorite pro and my favorite girls on Thursday evening. I really do love my life there.
But I like spending time with Hank too. And in good conscience, I can’t spend more with him after this weekend.
This is it.
Our last night together.
I wasn’t expecting it to be so bittersweet.
Making our way up the servants’ stairs back to Biltmore’s first floor, I giggle when Hank gives my ass a pinch. He insisted on going behind me “in case you take a spill.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” our guide says before leaving us at the exit, “but y’all are really, really cute together. It’s so heartening to see guests like you enjoying yourselves at Biltmore. It’s what George and Edith, our original owners, would’ve wanted.”
Hank reaches for my hand at the same time I reach for his.
Tomorrow’s gonna hurt.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hank
Samuel’s chili calls for five pounds of meat, two days of prep, and a special kind of red chili flake Chef Katie has to order months in advance from another continent.
“Yeah,” I say, scrolling through the recipe on my phone. “We should probably think about plan B. How about some beer cheese soup?”
