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She went blank. His eyes were tiger eyes, tawny, focused, a little fierce. For an instant that’s all she saw. Then the rest pushed through.
The sharply defined planes and angles, the take-a-punch line of the jaw. Add forty-five, fifty years, change the eyes to blue, he’d be his grandfather.
“Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”
“Miles. That’s how we run here.”
He glanced down the bar at the trio while she got his ice water. “I let Security know. They’ll make sure they get back upstairs safely.”
“They’re harmless. He’s just sad.”
“Is he?”
“Divorce, even when you want it, even when you need it, is bound to make you sad.”
“He’ll wake up with a banger of a hangover tomorrow and be sadder.”
His phone signaled—the first notes of “Bad to the Bone.”
“Hell.” When he picked it up off the bar, she left him alone.
When the trio stumbled out of the bar, Miles got up, left a twenty behind, and followed them out.
She ended her first solo week with a slammed Saturday night—her idea of perfection. On Sunday—a day and night off—she watched her mother bake bread and her grandmother roast a chicken.
Her assignment? Scrub and quarter potatoes, peel carrots.
It felt homey, relaxing, and happy with her mother rhapsodizing about seeing crocuses blooming in the snow.
“It’s going to go up to the fifties tomorrow and Tuesday.”
“Snow showers on Wednesday.”
Audrey sighed at her mother. “I know, but I’m telling you we’re out of it. Snowshowers. Spring in Vermont’s only prettier because it takes so damn long to get here. You’re going to do those lavender drinks this week, aren’t you, Morgan?”
“I am, so let’s stick with showers and focus on the crocus.”
Out the window, the snow still blanketed, but she could see thinning patches, even some ground here and there. Shrubs and bushes shook off the white. Icicles dripped and sparkled.
She thought of the pansies she and Nina had planted just about a year ago. She’d buy some, plant some in memory, and to make her ladies smile.
She stepped back from the cutting board. “Did I do these right?”
“They’ll do. Now you’re going to toss them together in that bowl with olive oil.”
“How much?”
“Use your eyes.”
“God.”
“After that, you’re going to add a little honey, zest some lemon. Salt, pepper, oregano. You know how to mix a drink. Figure it out.”
She figured it out—she hoped—then spread them on a baking sheet and stuck them in the oven.
“Mom measured when she made the bread dough.”
“Baking’s different.”
