I’d been hot all morning. Usually when I cleaned a room, it was right after the guest had showered, and it made the rooms muggy.
I scanned the wine labels, some I recognized. My fingers drifted along the sleek neck of a cabernet from a winery I’d visited in Napa years ago. It was a bottle I could no longer afford.
One day.
I moved to the shelves of white wine, loading up on a variety, then hauled them out of the cellar, locking up behind me. In the short time I’d been gone, the number of restaurant patrons seemed to have doubled. Without Knox snagging attention, fewer noticed me as I rushed back to the kitchen, depositing the wine bottles on the prep table.
“Thanks.” Knox nodded to my plate. “Lunch.”
A steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese sat beside the plate Skip had brought over. On it was the same salad Knox had made for an order.
I took my chair, knowing I would never eat it all, but picked up my fork and dove into the mac ’n’ cheese first.
Rich, creamy flavors exploded on my tongue. A moan escaped my throat. The chili peppers gave the sauce a kick. The cheese was gooey and tangy and complex.
Knox stood on the opposite side of the table, and when I met his gaze, there was nothing but utter satisfaction on his face.
“This is really good.”
“I know.” He arched an eyebrow. “No more blue box.”
“I bought a ten-pack.”
“Ditch it. I always keep the ingredients on hand if you want some.”
“Thank you.” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I dove for another bite. I wouldn’t bother him to cook for me.
I’d just save my cheap pasta and powdered cheese for dinners alone at home.
By the time he came home most nights, he’d never know otherwise.
I’d paid too much attention to his schedule this week, mostly in hopes of staying out of his way. But also for a rare glimpse. The thrill that came with Knox was addicting. Only a foolish woman wouldn’t appreciate such a good-looking man, and I was trying very hard not to be a foolish woman.
Knox went back to cooking as I ate with abandon. He tore off an order slip from the printer, and it joined the lineup of others. While Skip manned the flat top, Knox arranged plates, then dropped a basket of shoe-string-cut potatoes in a fryer.
“Why Quincy?” His question was spoken as he sliced a ciabatta roll. He was so intent on the bread that it took me a moment to realize his question was for me.
“I wanted a small town. A safe place to raise Drake. I was thinking California. An influencer I follow on Instagram was raving about these small towns up and down the coast. But they were too expensive.” As much as I would have loved to live beside the ocean, there was no way I’d be able to afford it.
“You’re from New York?”
“I am. I was tired of the city.”
He pulled the fries, then smeared the ciabatta with an aioli, balancing what seemed like ten orders at once.
When I was in the kitchen, I had to concentrate only on the food, cooking one thing at a time. He’d probably grimace if he
knew that preparing my blue-box macaroni had taken me just as long as it had taken him to make it from scratch.
“So how’d you land on Montana?” he asked.
“That same blogger did an interview with this baker in LA.
She, the baker, said her favorite place to vacation was Quincy.
That she and her husband spent a Christmas here and fell in love with the town. So I looked it up.”
The pictures of downtown had charmed me instantly.
School ratings and the cost of living had sealed the deal.
Knox gave a dry laugh as he shook his head. “Cleo.”
“Cleo. Yes, that was the baker’s name. You know her?”
“She invaded my kitchen on her vacation here that Christmas. I’ve never seen anyone make so much food in a few hours. We’ve kept in touch. I actually just sent her some recipes a few weeks ago. Including that one.” He pointed toward my plate. “Small world.”
“That it is.”
Though I hoped, for my sake and Drake’s, there was a bit that remained big. That over the miles between Montana and New York, I’d be able to put some distance between the future and the past.
Montana had an appeal for many reasons. This intimate, friendly community was one. Another was the lack of Ward Hotels in the entire state.
My grandfather had started the first Ward Hotel in his twenties. Over his lifetime, he’d grown his enterprise into a chain of boutique hotels before passing the business to my father. Under Dad’s rule, the company had quadrupled in the past thirty years. Nearly every major metropolitan area in the