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“Doesn’t matter.” Dax led the way to the back of the house with Gavin dragging his feet behind. By the time they returned to the dining room, the long oak table had been transformed.
The new housekeeper, or chef as she liked to say, apparently had discovered the fancy dishes Reba had purchased and never used—dishes he’d never bothered to use, either. Two places were set with matching plates and silverware, along with dark green cloth napkins and gleaming stemware. A candlestick graced each end of the table—who knew where she’d found those?—and in the center was a slender vase poked full of backyard weeds arranged in artsy beauty.
“What’s all this? A party?”
Jenna blinked in surprise. “No, sir. Dinner.”
“Never seen such a fancy table for a mere meal.” For a bachelor and his child who often ate in front of the television or at the bar, this was like dining at the Ritz.
“Shall I serve now?” she asked, hovering as if worried about pleasing him. The notion made him mad. All he expected was a meal, not subservience.
“Just put the food on the table.” He scraped out a chair for Gavin and then for himself. “We aren’t helpless.”
Face flushed, she did as he said, sliding a steaming casserole in front of him. “You were right about the cupboards being bare. I’ll have to rectify that tomorrow.”
He eyed the dish with suspicion. “What is this?”
“A macaroni-and-cheese quiche.”
“I like macaroni,” Gavin said. A doubtful Dax scooped a helping onto both of their plates. Wasn’t there some kind of rule that men didn’t eat quiche? What was quiche anyway?
“And,” Jenna went on, standing so close he could still smell perfume, “baked potato soup with herbed toast points.”
Toast points? He eyed the toasted triangles arranged in a tidy circle on a serving plate. Some kind of green leaf adorned the center.
He had to hand it to the new cook, the food was pretty. Might as well find out if it was edible.
“Dig in, Gavin.” He could have saved his breath because the boy had already shoveled macaroni into his mouth until he resembled a chipmunk. “Slow down, boy.”
“It’s good, Daddy.” Though muffled, the words matched the pleasure on Gavin’s face.
Dax took a bite. His taste buds shouted for joy. Whatever quiche was, it included bacon and to his way of thinking, anything with bacon was good.
“Could I get anything else for you?” Jenna asked.
She looked tired. Dax wanted to kick himself. She was a new mama, not much more than a week away from having a baby. She shouldn’t be slaving over a stove.
“Sit down,” he said.
“Is everything all right with the food?” She drew her pouty bottom lip between her teeth.
Dax frowned. He needed no reminders that she had a mouth made for kissing. “Sit down. Eat.”
“I’m the chef, not a guest.”
“I’m the boss. Sit. Eat.”
Gavin’s head volleyed back and forth between the adults, expression worried.
Jenna hovered between the kitchen island and the dining table, looking as anxious as Gavin did. The notion that both of them were getting nervous made Dax feel like a jerk.
“Sit,” he bellowed.
Jenna dropped an apple-red pot holder and slithered into the farthest chair from him.
“There is no need to shout,” she said with a dignity that turned his annoyance to amusement. Posture stiff and nostrils flared, Jenna Garwood had gone from scared chick to mad hen faster than a mosquito bite.
Dax scooted back from the table and rose. “You need a plate.”
She started up. “I’ll get it.”
“Sit,” he said again, this time in a gentler voice. “You’ve done enough.”
He retrieved the plate and utensils and put them in front of her. She looked flustered and pink and tired.
He kicked himself again.
“You’ve overdone it,” he said, taking up his fork. “I shouldn’t have let you start tonight.”
She flashed him a puzzled look.
“I’m perfectly well, thank you.” With graceful fingers she filled her plate and began to eat.
“How’s the baby?” He shoved a bite of something cheesy into his mouth and chewed.
Jenna delicately patted her lips with a green napkin. “She sleeps most of the time.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t last. How often does she wake in the night?” He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.
“Twice so far. Nights are the hardest.” She dipped a spoon into the steaming soup and stirred. “I’m having difficulty forcing myself to think clearly when I’m half-asleep.”
