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She really should get back into a fitness routine. She was pretty pathetic.
Walking into the kitchen, she came to a stop as she saw how clean it was.
Her mouth dropped open as Jack walked out of the butler’s pantry.
He stopped, his gaze running over her. Then he smiled.
She blushed.
Okay, maybe she should have worn something more appropriate.
“I, um . . . did you clean this all up?” Darn it. Now, she also felt guilty. While she’d been hiding and feeling sorry for herself, then taking an extra-long shower, Jack had been cleaning.
“I had help.”
“Right, I just threw the rubbish out. Ian said he’ll order some pizza, so I’m going to go wash my . . . ” Jameson drifted off as he saw her standing there.
Had Jameson helped clean up? There was a smear of something on his shirt that made her feel even guiltier.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out.
“For what, sweetheart?” Jameson asked with a frown.
“For making such a mess, then running off and leaving you both to clean up.” She bit her lip. “You should have left it for me to do.”
“It didn’t take long to clean up,” Jameson told her. Which was a definite lie.
“I can’t believe I burned the potatoes. And dropped the cake. It was going to be such a beautiful cake too.” Okay, now she was mourning a cake.
“You can always make another cake,” Jack told her. He walked over and drew her against his chest in a gentle hug. She sighed. He was such a good guy. “And I think potatoes taste better when they’re a tad burned. Gives them a kick, you know?”
A kick?
Sure it did.
Still, it was kind of him to try and make her feel better.
“Right, I’m going to order pizza. Maggie, what’re your favorite toppings?” Ian asked, walking in.
“Don’t worry about pizza for me.”
All three men went on high alert, watching her strangely.
Um. What was that about?
“I think we’ve already discussed skipping meals,” Jameson said sternly.
“As in, you’re not to do it,” Ian barked. “You’re eating dinner.”
Okay, his sweetness level just dropped to around fifty percent.
“Chill, you guys. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to eat.” Sheesh, if only they were aware of how many meals she’d missed over the last few years. Actually, on second thought, it was better that they didn’t know.
Moving to the fridge, she pulled out the chocolate torte. “This is my sort of dinner. Who wants to join me?”
19
“Istill don’t think that chocolate torte is an acceptable dinner,” Ian grumbled, eyeing the dessert that sat in front of her.
