Книга - Recipe For Redemption

Recipe For Redemption
Anna J. Stewart


From the frying pan…Abby Manning has to take home first prize in an amateur cooking competition to save her town’s landmark inn—and longtime home for her ailing grandmother. Too bad the Butterfly Harbor innkeeper is a complete disaster in the kitchen. Undeterred, Abby asks her latest guest to teach her the basics.A family tragedy and ensuing scandal derailed Jason Corwin’s high-profile career. But is the gifted celebrity chef going to let one mistake define the rest of his life? Add in a generous helping of mutual attraction and another burgeoning scandal, and it could be a recipe for star-crossed romance…or disaster, especially if a win for Abby costs Jason his professional future.







From the frying pan...

Abby Manning has to take home first prize in an amateur cooking competition to save her town’s landmark inn—and longtime home for her ailing grandmother. Too bad the Butterfly Harbor innkeeper is a complete disaster in the kitchen. Undeterred, Abby asks her latest guest to teach her the basics.

A family tragedy and ensuing scandal derailed Jason Corwin’s high-profile career. But is the gifted celebrity chef going to let one mistake define the rest of his life? Add in a generous helping of mutual attraction and another burgeoning scandal, and it could be a recipe for star-crossed romance...or disaster, especially if a win for Abby costs Jason his professional future.


“I’ll make you a deal.”

He paused before continuing. “If you come up with the application fee, I’ll do what I can to teach you, Abby. But again, I can’t guarantee—”

“I know, I know.” She flew across the room, grabbed his shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth. A quick kiss. One of gratitude and happiness with a touch of that electric excitement he was fast becoming familiar with. In that moment Jason also tasted fire and determination.

She must have surprised herself because she rocked back on her heels and lifted her stunned face to him. He clenched his fists to stop himself from touching her cheek, from finding out if her skin was as soft as he imagined it would be. “You heard me, right? This is going to be hard work, Abby.”

“Sure. I hadn’t considered it anything but.”




Dear Reader (#ulink_8390ec6a-3c3a-5ca7-a288-b36db8b9045d),


I’m a believer in the butterfly effect—those ripples that occur with the simple beating of wings. Sometimes it’s a person who gives us a gift we didn’t know we needed.

My cousins Ron and Colleen lived a short drive away from my family. They had three children, all older than me and their house was always filled with the enthusiasm of living each day to its fullest. It was there that I first heard the words of Shakespeare. To listen to Ron utter the beautiful intricacies of language (he was an actor and Shakespeare professor) with clarity and affection touched my heart. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders and, in recent years, as his heath declined due to Parkinson’s, he carried one of my books with him in his walker, showing it off at his care facility. I’ve joked it was the best book tour I could have ever gone on. But it’s the truth.

With Recipe for Redemption, I knew Abby Manning would be struggling: her historic inn on the brink of ruin, the town’s survival, finding where she belonged in the world and coming face-to-face with a hero who would push her emotional buttons. But then Abby’s grandmother Alice (named for Ron’s mother) arrived on the page fighting a battle of her own: the same battle Ron fought and, unfortunately, lost this past summer. Another butterfly effect? I think so.

Family connections, whether by blood or choice, are at the heart of Butterfly Harbor. How different my own life would have been without Ron quoting Shakespeare to me, or lending an encouraging ear when I needed it most. Just as Abby’s grandmother and her friends do for Abby. Community, connections. Is there anything more important?

Anna J.




Recipe for Redemption

Anna J. Stewart







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ANNA J. STEWART says the greatest gift her mother ever gave her was never saying no to a book. A lifelong bookworm, Anna discovered romances early in high school and soon began writing her own. Hundreds of notebooks and reams of paper later, she writes “refreshingly unique, quietly humorous and profoundly moving romance” (RT Book Reviews). New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak says, “The talented Anna J. Stewart never disappoints.” Anna lives in Northern California with an overly attentive cat named Snickers.


For Ronald Trouse

Cousin, teacher, father figure and kind, kind man.

Your brave battle will never be forgotten, and neither will you.


Contents

COVER (#u68e2602d-1c08-59dd-9205-17af99241881)

BACK COVER TEXT (#u69d5362b-d8f7-5b49-9e95-4e1b6862938f)

INTRODUCTION (#u372115b3-2055-5e8b-8b48-838e87e421ab)

Dear Reader (#ulink_4d901baa-bd3b-5a8c-8b3d-dd924440b889)

TITLE PAGE (#ua1d1bacc-3c7f-5392-9f06-8f26cf0dccc2)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#uc4b4abbd-7e3e-5b75-a08c-62853770cb3c)

DEDICATION (#ueb568162-0e01-588c-83d2-c993ecb29e19)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_259229e5-b8b5-5c95-b45f-7188d723be31)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_491066db-b086-5bf6-94eb-3ca9d06db8ff)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d58f3bd2-ea8a-5932-860f-eb01a33bd887)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d486fcc2-ecde-5b8d-8ea4-fb34b231243c)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_3626011e-8061-5dae-955e-2b38a4e50dd5)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)

COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_786c60c8-fc4c-5b82-9440-63de1960cfb4)

JASON CORWIN’S HAND stilled over the hotel registration form as he sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

A middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray hair passed through the reception area of the Flutterby Inn, Butterfly Harbor’s main hotel, a stack of freshly laundered towels in her arms. The lack of concern on her face might have made Jason wonder if he were imagining things, but as a former professional chef, he was more than familiar with this particular smell.

“I have you down for three weeks, Mr. Corwin,” Lori, the plump young woman who had introduced herself minutes ago, said. She leaned her hands on the whitewashed batten-board counter, lively green eyes devoid of concern as the air thickened. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.” He scribbled his name, his eyes beginning to water as a thread of white smoke snaked out from under the double doors to his left. “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t someone check—”

The deafening screech of a smoke alarm rent the air. Hints of gray puffed through the plumes of white smoke.

“It’s nothing!” Lori waved her hand before turning to focus on the old-fashioned mailbox portals behind her. “That’s just Abby in the kitchen. It’ll clear in a few minutes.”

The lobby became hazy. Jason’s pulse kicked into overdrive as he wrenched open the sliding doors and got a face full. Coughing, eyes tearing, he hurried through the dining room, dodging the mishmash of tables and chairs. He tried to inhale but there wasn’t any fresh air to be found, nothing to calm his nerves or stop the dread pounding through his body. Did it have to be the kitchen?

He’d kept his vow and hadn’t stepped foot in a professional kitchen in over three months, but given the choice between burning to death in a hotel fire and breaking a promise to himself, he’d take choice number two.

He pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the kitchen, waving his hands in front of him to disperse the smoke. A stockpot of what he hoped was water boiled over and splashed into the too-high flame beneath it, causing bright orange flickers of fire to arch toward the ceiling.

“Come on, you stupid, plastic piece of crap!” A woman stood on the stainless steel worktable and banged the end of a broom against the smoke detector. “It’s not like this is our first go-around.” Bang. Bang, bang. “Stop. Making.” She grunted and he could see her arms start to weaken. “So. Much. Noise! Ah!”

The kitchen went silent and she sagged forward, bracing a hand on her knee as she heaved out a sigh. “Got ya. Oh, sugar pots.”

Before Jason could move, before he could utter a word, she jumped down and grabbed a thick orange towel, dragged out two trays of cremated somethings and tossed them onto the counter with a squealing “Ow!” The bang of metal hitting metal echoed in the room and in his head.

She shook her left hand as if she’d burned herself—how could she not—before reaching for the pot. The orange towel slipped dangerously toward the flames.

“Stop!” Jason yelled and dived forward.

She shrieked and leaped aside as the towel skimmed the still-flaming burners and ignited. “Who are you?” She flipped the towel onto the yellowed linoleum floor and did a little dance over it to stomp out the flames. “What are you doing in here?”

“Right now I’m wondering where the fire department is.” He strode over and closed the oven door, flipped off all the burners and then shoved open the closest transom windows. “Hasn’t anyone told you the kitchen’s a dangerous place? It’s not a playroom.”

“I wasn’t playing.” She pushed the windows on the other side of the kitchen open and, as the smoke thinned, glared at him. “I was trying to make scones.”

Jason looked at what seemed to be tiny shriveled briquettes. “You failed.” He glanced up at the ceiling and saw the cover of the smoke detector hanging by a duo of thin battery wires. “Your detectors are not to code.” No wonder he didn’t hear sirens. It wasn’t hooked up to anything but noise.

Now that he could see clearly, the entire kitchen looked stuck in the past. Only the refrigerator appeared to have been manufactured in the last decade, the stainless steel scarred and leaning toward tarnish. He could see rust forming in the tile grout around the cracked farmer’s sink.

He bent down to grab the towel, but she snatched the smoking fabric out from under his hand and tossed it into the sink overloaded with used bowls, spoons and...was that a tortilla press?

“I’ve got it, thanks.” She shooed him away from the mess she’d made and toward the door. “All in a day’s work. Nothing to worry about.”

Must be the hotel motto. Was it too late to rethink his stay? Probably, considering he hadn’t been the one to make his reservations in the first place. Fresh air collided with the smoke and thinned it out. He’d never been so grateful to fill his lungs before as he coughed out the remnants of her scone attempt.

Her mouth twisted as she peered at the charcoal briquettes scattered on the trays, counter and floor. “I don’t know what happened. Our cook told me they were foolproof.”

“You mean full proof.”

“She said what she meant.” She swiped a hand over her damp forehead and let out a long breath as she seemed to collect herself. “Not the way I like to greet new guests.” She was choking as she tried not to cough and as she blinked, cleansing tears streamed down her face. “I’m Abby Manning. I run the Flutterby Inn. And you are—?”

“Jay Corwin.” After three months, the lie came easily.

“Next floor show starts at five.” Her laugh sounded strained as she planted a hand on her hip and studied the mess. Her doll-like face with a too-small nose and too-wide turquoise eyes eased into a smile that almost broke through his personal bank of storm clouds. How, with all those thick blond curls of hers tumbling around her shoulders, had she managed not to set herself on fire? He needed to keep moving, keep thinking, otherwise the walls were going to start closing in on him. Walls. Memories.

So many memories...

“You’ll want to put some ice on your hand.” Jason dropped his gaze to her reddening fingers. He headed toward the stainless steel refrigerator only to have her wave him off again as she dragged open the freezer door and sank her hand wrist deep into the ice tray with a relieved sigh.

“If you’d like to return to the lobby, Lori can—”

“Abby? Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine!” Wincing, Abby pulled her hand free and shoved it into her jeans pocket, pressed a finger against her lips in a silent plea for his cooperation. “Just a little, um—”

The kitchen door swung open and an elderly woman entered. It was like watching night turn into day right before him as Abby’s eyes brightened despite her fingers flexing in her pocket. “Good morning, Gran. How did you sleep?”

“As fine as anyone my age does these days. Hello. I’m Alice Manning.” Alice bypassed Abby and headed straight for him, her steps short and slow. “This one here’s my granddaughter. I’m the former manager of the Flutterby Inn.”

“Jay Corwin, Mrs. Manning.” He could see the family resemblance, the familiar soft feminine features right down to the same color eyes. He shook Alice’s outstretched hand before he bent down to retrieve a stray over-cooked scone off the floor and tossed it into the sink. The door beckoned him, offering freedom, offering relief, but he didn’t see a way past Alice without being rude. Stuck. In a kitchen. Great. “A friend of mine recommended your hotel as the perfect getaway.”

“Well, I hope you’ll feel at home during your stay. That’s what we always aim for, right, my girl?” Alice glanced at Abby before she wagged a finger at him. “You’d be from the East Coast. New York, I’m guessing? Always could tell. Used to make a game of it when I checked customers in. I worked that desk out there for more than fifty years, long before this one was born. I know my accents.” Gran angled her chin in Abby’s direction. Something akin to pride shone in Abby’s face as she watched her grandmother. “Nothing I like more than meeting people from all over this wonderful world, not that we get many visitors these days. Tell me, how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Corwin?”

“A few weeks.” He couldn’t remember exactly at the moment, because all he could think about was escaping the Flutterby Inn’s kitchen. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the cacophonous symphony of the nightly dinner rush at JD’s in New York.

“Good, good.” Alice nodded and lifted a slightly trembling hand to smooth a curl above her ear. “Then you’ll be here for the anniversary celebration. It’s going to be quite the to-do, from what I hear. And what kind of work do you do?”

The truth froze in his throat and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite clear it. “I’m between jobs,” he managed and avoided Abby’s suddenly curious stare.

“Finding yourself, then?” Alice said with a solemn nod. “No place better than Butterfly Harbor to help you figure out life’s big questions. Now, as for you.”

Alice spun to face her granddaughter so fast, Jason held out his hands for fear the older woman would topple over. Abby reached out at the same time, shooting him a grateful look over her grandmother’s stooped frame.

“Abby, tell me you haven’t been cooking again.” Alice shook her head and scanned the room, her rust-colored hair reflecting against the ceiling lights.

“You always told me practice makes perfect,” Abby said in a tone that spoke of lifelong affection and commitment.

“I also taught you to accept your limitations. You should have learned your lesson when you were six and blew up your Easy-Bake Oven.” She made a face at Jason, who kept his expression neutral. “Bet you didn’t know one of those could fly, did you? Up and tried to launch itself out of the house on Christmas morning, I’m telling you.”

“I thought we agreed it was a faulty lightbulb,” Abby said without a hint of embarrassment.

“Your grandfather, bless him, and I thought it best to keep the truth from you. Now that you’re almost thirty, I think you can handle it.”

“You know me...” Abby stepped in and wrapped her arms around Alice and hugged her close. “I can handle everything as long as I have you. And I’m not going to stop trying to make Matilda’s cranberry-orange scones you like so much.”

“No scone is worth burning down our home.” Alice clicked her tongue and patted Abby’s back. “You always were an overachiever, Abby girl, but it’s time you wave a white flag and accept when you’re beat. I’d like to go at least a week before hearing that blasted alarm again.”

“I’ll do my best,” Abby chuckled. “Would you like me to drop you off at Eloise’s this morning on my way to the hospital? I’m going to be leaving in a little bit.”

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Alice announced. “I’ll go put my lipstick on and we’ll zoom, zoom, zoom. A lady just isn’t ready to go out in public without her red lipstick,” she told Jason as she held out her hand again. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Corwin.”

“Jay, please. You, too, Mrs. Manning.”

“Alice.” She smiled, charming character wrinkles around her eyes appearing. “Welcome to Butterfly Harbor. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Abby’s amused gaze faded as he caught her eye. “So do I.”

* * *

“MR. CORWIN, THERE you are.” Lori Fletcher, Abby’s assistant manager and invaluable right hand, met them in the dining room as Abby led their new guest to the lobby.

She could feel the cool morning air brushing in through the front door Lori had opened to clear out the smoke. All the better to see Jay Corwin. Abby’s gaze skimmed from his short-cropped, almost military-style brown hair to a neatly trimmed beard down to a myriad of muscles peeking from under a snug black T-shirt.

He seemed a bit more relaxed now that the smoke had dissipated. Or maybe it was a trick of the light. He’d stopped staring daggers at her and she was glad to see that frown on his face wasn’t permanent. Not that he would win any points for a cheery disposition.

“Bonnie’s doing a quick once-over on your room,” Lori told him as she handed him the room key dangling from one of their trademark monarch butterfly key chains. “We have fresh coffee and pastries on the buffet in the lobby if you’d like to wait there.”

“Thank you, Lori. Miss Manning.” He bowed his head as if he were dismissing her. Abby gnashed her teeth. Storming into her kitchen to lecture her? As if she didn’t know how inept she was when it came to cooking? Or that she didn’t know how to silence a smoke alarm? Arrogant know-it-all.

“Abby, Matilda’s going to have a coronary when she hears about this,” Lori whispered once Jay Corwin was out of earshot. “She almost went on strike the last time you tried to cook spaghetti and over-boiled the sauce so it erupted like a volcano.”

“If you don’t tell her,” Abby singsonged with a sweet smile as her face went hotter than the oven she’d been battling. She’d never understood how things got away from her so fast. “Then we don’t have to worry, do we?”

“Uh-huh.” Lori grinned, an expression that lit up her face as they returned to the desk. “I’d ask if this is the last time you plan to burn down the Flutterby, but now that you’re attracting men who look as if they’ve modeled for a firefighters’ calendar, I might start giving you my old matchbook collection.”

“Not funny,” Abby said. “I didn’t think breakfast and dinner were going to be a problem.”

“You had a good plan. Matilda’s replacement didn’t have any way of knowing his brother was going to die, and it’s not like Butterfly Harbor is brimming with competent cooks.”

Butterfly Harbor wasn’t brimming with much of anything these days. “We’ll make do,” Abby tried to sound more confident than she felt. She was just going to have to make it work. “Meanwhile, we’ll have to explain the situation to our guests and get by with them eating at the diner. Unless...”

“Unless what?” Lori’s tone was hesitant.

“I could call Matilda and ask for some of her best recipes.”

“Gee, Five-Alarm Manning, I can’t understand why she didn’t do that to start with.”

“Are you guys really still calling me that?” Abby sighed as she headed to the über-organized registration desk and pushed aside all thoughts of sending out an SOS to Matilda. “Oh, no. What’s this?” She picked up the large metal showerhead.

“That,” Lori said, “is a showerhead.”

“Lori—”

“Room 206. It fell off when I was cleaning the bathtub.”

“My own fault,” Abby muttered. “I got sidetracked last week and forgot to check the rest of them.” If it wasn’t the showerheads taking suicide drops, it was leaky pipes under sinks or loose floorboards...everywhere. The Flutterby was falling apart, but she was determined to stay ahead of the collapse. She had to. She didn’t have a choice. “Start me a list of any repairs we need to do. I’ll get going on them after I visit Mr. Vartebetium.” The Flutterby’s owner had been in the hospital for several days now. Her fingers throbbed. It was all she could do not to run back to the kitchen and stick her hand in the freezer. “How are we coming on the reservations?”

“Working on them now,” Lori told her. “It’s been a while since we’ve had all twelve rooms filled, but we should have everyone’s needs accounted for. That’ll also leave two extra rooms for last-minute arrivals. That producer from the National Cooking Network is a picky one.”

“New Yorkers,” Abby muttered, casting a glance to her newest arrival, who had taken a seat near the dormant fireplace. “I’m going to check with Matt about helping us get the last rooms in shape so we can have them as well.” The recent Army vet had been doing odd jobs for her around the inn for a while, but his time was more limited now that he’d been hired as one of Sheriff Saxon’s deputies. “It’s going to be a crazy couple of weeks around here,” she said to Lori. “We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

“We’re ready.”

Between the organizers of the By the Bay Food Festival and the production crew from the National Cooking Network, not to mention the out-of-town attendees, the Flutterby Inn was poised to be sold out for the first time in over two years. As much work as it was going to be for Abby and her three employees, it was their opportunity to make the Flutterby Inn shine in all its aging glory. And hopefully make a profit for their bedridden boss. “Nothing like going from a drought to a flood when it comes to guests.” Abby inclined her head toward where their new guest sipped his coffee.

“We’re in good shape. Besides, he paid for his reservation up front, so we can’t exactly kick him out. I gave him the tower room, if that’s okay? Kind of suits his knight-on-a-white-horse persona, don’t you think?” Lori leaned her chin on her hand.

“The tower’s fine.” Abby ignored the question from the ever-romantic Lori along with the implication. Knight or not, she did not have the time or energy to invest in romance, no matter what her struggling online dating persona or her well-intentioned employee thought. Not that Jay Corwin was remotely her type. She liked her potential romantic partners to have fewer sharp edges to them. This guy was more prickly than a spiny jellyfish. “That leaves us with, what? Four guest rooms occupied through this weekend?” Lori nodded. Good. Not too much upkeep then, and at least two rooms would be vacated by the following week. “I’m going to drop Gran off at Eloise’s for the day and then head over to see Mr. Vartebetium. I’ll stop at the diner and pick up lunch. What do you want?”

“One of Holly’s strawberry shakes would be heaven.” Lori sighed, then looked down at her significant waistline hidden behind a full flowing skirt and oversize sweater. “But better make it a turkey on whole wheat. No fries.”

What Abby wanted to do was remind the younger woman that depriving herself wouldn’t help, but she didn’t want to force Lori off the healthier bandwagon. Her friend’s confidence had begun to climb and she’d even treated herself to a cut and color at the Bee Hive to tame her once brown, now nutmeg-highlighted brown curls. “You’re doing great, Lori. Losing thirty pounds is nothing to sneeze at.”

“It’s the next thirty that has me worried. I’ll hold down the fort, don’t worry.”

“Paige said to keep her on speed dial if we need extra help.” But with her friend doing extra shifts at the diner, Abby didn’t think it right to ask her to man the kitchen at the Flutterby as well. Not that Abby could afford to anyway, not with the way the business’s finances were stretched these days. Not having an in-house cook was proving to be more of an issue than she’d anticipated. And it was only going to get worse with the influx of guests they were expecting.

She’d find a solution. She always did. She’d do anything to keep the Flutterby Inn running. It was the only home Gran had ever really known, and Abby wasn’t about to have Alice spend her twilight years anywhere else. Especially now.

Abby rifled through one of her drawers for the stack of meal vouchers for the Butterfly Diner. “I’m going to make sure our resident fireman is all set before I go.”

“I’d say I saw him first,” Lori said, “but you one-upped me with that fire of yours.”

“It wasn’t a full-blown fire.” But it could have been. Gran was right. When was she going to learn her lesson? She and kitchens did not mix. Abby took a steeling breath and carried the vouchers over to their new guest, who was flipping through one of the anemic local tour books. “Mr. Cor—er, Jay?”

“Should I stay on alert for the duration of my stay, Five-Alarm Manning?” He didn’t bother to look up from the booklet.

My, what big ears you have. She would not let him bait her. She couldn’t afford to alienate paying—and from what she could tell, incredibly flush—guests. Some people, like this man, exuded money. “I’m afraid you’ve discovered my one weakness.”

“Kitchens are dangerous for those not properly trained.” The superiority in his voice obliterated the last of Abby’s goodwill.

“Yes, I heard you the first time.” Why did he make her sound as if she was a rambunctious five-year-old who’d dumped a container of flour all over her head? She bit her cheek. She could tell her guest she’d been trying to save some money, that scones couldn’t possibly be that difficult, that she hadn’t wanted her guests to have to trudge to the diner. Or she could do as she’d done for the last seven years and keep her tongue in check to make sure her customers—even Mr. Jay Corwin—were happy.

“Since the kitchen is closed for the next couple of weeks—” she offered up a silent prayer that Matilda would return sooner than planned “—and your rate includes breakfast and either lunch or dinner, we’re offering free meals to our customers down at the Butterfly Diner. I think you’ll agree that’s best while my cook is on vacation.”

“You don’t have a backup cook?” He frowned at her over the top of his coffee cup.

“We did. Matilda walked him through the paces before she left, but then his brother passed away. He had to fly back to Michigan.”

“There’s no one else available?”

“It took us weeks to find him. Besides, Matilda would throw a fit if someone she didn’t know came in to work her kitchen.” It was a joke. Kind of.

“You allow her to take time off and leave you high and dry during what could be a busy couple of months for you? Doesn’t seem very responsible to me.”

He couldn’t have sounded any more judgmental if he’d banged a gavel on the sink. Life happened. And sometimes it had a cruel sense of timing. “Tell you what. If you’re here when Matilda returns, feel free to let her know her annual long-distance breast cancer awareness fund-raising walk isn’t smart business sense.” So much for holding her tongue. “In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your stay. The diner opens every morning at six and what stores there are on Monarch Lane will open between nine and ten. If you have any questions or need assistance, let Lori know. She’s more than up to the task, I’m sure.”

Either he missed her sarcasm or he didn’t care.

“Are the grounds around the inn open to guests?”

“Yes. There’s a path down to the beach off the front parking lot. And if you give the Butterfly Diner a call ahead of time, Holly can make a nice lunch for you to pick up. Thank you again,” she added before she pushed open the door. “I’m sorry your first few minutes at the Flutterby were distressing.”

“Interesting, though.” Jay gave her what could have been interpreted as a smile. Such a shift from his earlier manner confounded Abby. “Have a good day, Miss Manning.”

“Abby,” she responded automatically, then, before she started to think better of him, headed off to collect Gran.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_1273a4a9-441b-5be2-8198-547f39e60b50)

“WELL?” GARY CUNNINGHAM’S aged New York voice echoed through the Bluetooth as Jason hefted his suitcase and garment bag out of the trunk of the rented sports car. “Do I know how to find you the perfect hideaway or what?”

“It’s definitely something.” He’d spend some time later appreciating the lush landscaping that included thick, healthy red geraniums interspersed with critter-repelling oleander. He could hear the surf crashing against the shore and cliff line on the far edge of the property and smell that telltale Pacific Ocean combination of brine and open air. Nothing like an old three-story Victorian with beacon-bright yellow paint and peeling white trim to cut through the intricate groves of redwoods, cypress and eucalyptus trees. If the rest of the world ran out of oxygen, he knew where they could find some. “Hang on a second?”

The porch stairs creaked in welcome as he pushed through the etched glass front doors and gave Lori a quick wave of acknowledgment. He walked across hardwood floors in need of a polish, passing crisp white batten-board walls that displayed photographs of the inn throughout its extensive history. They provided a welcome distraction from the faded, out-of-date wallpaper.

At least he hadn’t been inundated with the town’s fluttering namesake. Not that he had anything against butterflies, but they did lend themselves toward a feminine aspect he didn’t relate to. The creatures were so dainty, so delicate, like those lacy pastry swans he’d never mastered in culinary school, but at the same time butterflies were known to weather the most violent of hurricanes.

Reminded him of his current hostess, Abby Manning. He certainly wouldn’t want to be a smoke detector in her presence. He tried to remember the last time anyone had surprised him. He unlocked his door.

Speaking of surprises...

The room was larger than he’d anticipated. He set his bags down on the feather duvet–covered California king situated amid a dresser, nightstands and a sizable flat-screen TV. The decor wasn’t fancy but lent itself to practicality while skirting the far edge of stylish. The ceiling angled up from the walls into a point that he identified as the side tower that had poked into the horizon as he’d crossed into town.

“Okay,” he said and heard the familiar rustle of papers and files as he spoke to his family’s longtime lawyer and his personal confidant. Part mentor, part father figure, it was Gary he’d turned to over the years when it became clear his own father would remain emotionally unavailable. “So why did you pick this place?”

“Figured you had to be tired of four-star hotels and room service,” Gary chuckled. “And the fresh air is a bonus.”

“It seems Butterfly Harbor has plenty of that.” Definitely not four star. He fingered the clean yet old-fashioned curtains draping the French doors to a small terrace. Three stars, maybe.

Pushing open the French doors, he stared out into the vastness of the Pacific crashing against the shoreline below. Even in mid-July, a chill coated the morning air, but that was the California coast for you: unpredictable yet peacefully welcoming.

The deep ocean breath he took eroded some of the tension in his body. He should have come here straight from New York. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost forget...

“Do you think you were followed this time?” Gary asked in that borderline boisterous tone a 1920s gangster might have used.

“No.” He’d left Los Angeles in the dead of night. He’d have noticed if he’d been tailed. Besides, there hadn’t been a car in sight for the mile and a half after he’d taken the Butterfly Harbor turnoff. “No sign of any reporters or cameras. I might finally be in the clear now that I stopped using my credit cards. Thanks for getting me in here so quickly.” Not that booking a reservation would have been a problem.

“You call, I answer. Keeping you off the radar until you’re ready to come back is what’s important,” Gary said. “So are you going to ask?”

“About Corwin Brothers?” Jason’s stomach tightened into familiar knots as they fell into the months-old conversation about his family business. His former family business. “I don’t know how many ways I can say it. I’m done with all of it. The board of directors made that perfectly clear when they ousted me as chairman.” And that was after the National Cooking Network pulled his show off the air, the restaurant chain deal went into the toilet and his publisher decided to “wait awhile” on a new cookbook offer. The fact he’d lost all passion for the business, for the kitchen, for anything, really, since his brother, David, had died only added to his surrender.

“They ousted you because your father took advantage of your grief. He sold the board on the idea of a discount frozen food line when they couldn’t think straight, and now it’s tanking the company. This can’t sit right with you, Jason. Your father’s lack of understanding for what your grandfather wanted to build is the reason he left the company to you in the first place, and now what? You’re going to let Edward swoop in and kill what’s left?”

“You’re forgetting that it was my mistake that started this slide to begin with.” No, he didn’t like the idea his father was in charge. Edward Corwin was a cold, calculating and profit-driven man—he always had been. And he’d never forgiven the fact he’d been ignored in his father’s will. Jason leaned his arms on the railing and ducked his head. Frozen food. Discounted frozen food. Made with the cheapest ingredients from who knew what sources. Gary was right. It was a slap in the face to everything he and David had stood for, everything their grandfather had begun.

But Jason had sabotaged any hope of fighting his father and his arrogance and lack of sense. He didn’t have any fight left in him. His brother’s death had left him struggling. Depressed. Empty.

These days, Jason wasn’t even sure if he was trying to escape the mess he’d made of his life...or himself.

“Sometimes I can’t breathe, I miss David so much.”

Like now, when there was more air than he knew what to do with and he still couldn’t manage. It had been six months, and still, not an hour, not a minute passed when Jason didn’t feel as if a part of him had died with his twin brother. His best friend. His anchor.

Jason wasn’t supposed to be here without him.

He didn’t know how to be here without him.

Jason scrubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck. If only he’d gotten on that plane with David like he was supposed to. If only he hadn’t insisted on working late at the restaurant. Instead, he’d begged off the business trip that was meant to get the ball rolling on a deal that would have put JD’s restaurants in dozens of Lansing hotels around the country. David could handle it, Jason had told him hours before the crash. He didn’t need Jason and his acerbic attitude getting in the way of a potentially life-changing deal that would take them to the next level. The world had been opening up. Finally.

If only. If only...

Now everything they’d planned, everything they wanted was gone, and not only because David was. Because Jason had made mistake after mistake after mistake ever since.

Even now, six months later, his father wasn’t letting anyone forget about David’s death or Jason’s fall from the pinnacle of culinary success. The added Edward Corwin spin on the truth had kept the media far more interested than they should have been, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Whenever attention or headlines began to wane, his father gave yet another interview, another turn on the tragic loss of his son and the disgrace his surviving son had become. Somehow Edward had become the family martyr while Jason had done what he could to disappear.

Driving cross-country had helped, a little. Chopping off his trademark long hair and growing a beard, a little more. But Jason had never learned how to blend into a crowd. He hadn’t had to, because David had always been by his side, guiding him, supporting him.

Jason had lost the only person he’d ever been able to trust, aside from Gary, and that, Jason was only now coming to realize, made living a whole lot more difficult.

“Grief takes time, son,” Gary said in that fatherly tone Jason had spent most of his life wishing he’d hear from his own father. A tone reserved only for David, the son who could do no wrong. “People make mistakes,” Gary continued. “You Corwins have the nasty habit of forgetting you’re human. Crap happens. You’ll find a way out of this, Jason. I have faith in you. We’ll ride this out and you’ll be back on top where you belong.”

“On top or not, nothing’s going to be the same.” How could it be, without his brother? “You and I both know I never should have let Dad talk me into taking David’s place in that cooking competition.” And he never should have let himself get talked into using his sous chef’s dish. “I’ve never liked those contests. They bring out the worst in people. But it was the only thing he’s ever asked me to do.”

Despite his anguish, Jason had felt so proud, as if his father had finally seen Jason after a lifetime of living in David’s shadow. And what had Jason done? Surrendered to the pressure and screwed everything up royally by taking the easy way out. He’d wanted to win. Needed to win. By any means necessary.

And he’d destroyed his reputation in the process.

“Edward never should have asked you to do it. He knew you weren’t up to it. David hadn’t been gone two months...”

“But I did do it. Now I have to live with the consequences.” Which meant he was left on his own, hip deep in the worm-ridden compost pile that was, at one time, a very lucrative career. Now his grandfather’s dreams, his brother’s dreams, were on the verge of disappearing altogether and he didn’t have a leg to stand on. “I need to go, Gary.”

“Before you hang up.” Gary cleared his throat, an indication he’d been rehearsing whatever he was about to say next. “I thought you should know there’s a food festival coming your way in a few weeks. You should stick around long enough to check it out.”

His stomach rolled as if he’d eaten spoiled seafood. “There’s a what?” Jason considered chucking his phone into the ocean as his hands went clammy.

“It’s a new event they’re using to drum up business in the area. They’re calling it the By the Bay Food Festival. Coastal cuisines and wines, niche food companies looking to help small towns build up their presence in the tourist industry. Lots of local sponsorships. The National Cooking Network’s covering it for a series of specials later this year about small-town celebrations.”

“Suddenly Butterfly Harbor feels more like a setup than a hideaway.” Of course. Now the three-week booking made sense. “When are they due to show up?”

“Not sure, but so you know, Roger Evans is heading up the production crew. He’s, ah, been promoted. To assistant vice president of programming.”

“Great.” His former producer coming to town was the icing on the cake. Only the Best had been yanked from the airwaves days after word of Jason’s cheating hit the internet and sent the crew into unemployment overdrive. Leave it to Roger to come out ahead of the game. No doubt elevating Jason’s former sous chef to star status had assisted the producer up the ladder. “You do remember Roger and I didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Maybe it’s time to rebuild that bridge now that he’s in a position to help you.”

Even Gary had to get tired of tilting at windmills sometime. “No one with NCN is going to want anything to do with a scandalized ex-chef.”

“You’re not an ex-chef yet, Jason. Not as long as you’re still answering your phone. We can salvage the book deal, and it’s not as if they canceled your contract with the network. Suspended, sure, but there’s always hope. Especially if you change your mind. If nothing else, let’s get you back in the kitchen at JD’s. Fight for what’s yours. Fight for that future you and David wanted for yourselves.”

“You still don’t get it, Gary.” Jason had to open his eyes to stop the ghostly image of David from appearing. “That future went down in the plane with David. Please don’t ask again. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Jason disconnected before he said something he’d regret. He was already down a father and brother—he didn’t need to alienate the last person still on his side.

He didn’t have answers to much right now, but he knew one thing for certain: he was done with the cooking world.

And nothing Gary or his father said would ever change that.

* * *

“DOUBLE MOCHA SHAKE, extra whipped cream, cheeseburger and fries, Holly. Stat.” Abby slunk into a booth at the Butterfly Diner and dropped her head into her folded arms. Not even the comforting confines of her best friend’s throwback diner decked out in hues of orange and black in honor of its monarch namesake were enough to lift her normally sparkly mood.

She gave a weak wave to Matt Knight and Fletcher Bradley as the two deputies dived elbow deep into drippy cheeseburgers of their own in the corner booth. It was nice to see the diner flush with customers, most of whom were longtime residents and business owners. Too bad none of them needed a room for the...year.

“Uh-oh.” Holly Campbell set a coffeepot on the table and crossed her arms. “The last time you ordered like this you had just gotten dumped on prom night. All that’s missing is the onion rings. What’s up? Did you have another online dating disaster? You couldn’t have found someone worse than rented-bowling-shoe guy.” Holly tightened her ponytail and aimed a sympathetic gaze Abby’s way.

“The newly engaged are not allowed to mock the emotionally unattached.” Nonetheless, her best friend’s teasing eased her mind. She honestly couldn’t remember a worse day. “And for the record, I wasn’t dumped. It was a mutual parting of the ways.”

“Rewriting history, check.” Holly grinned, but the concern in her eyes brushed lightly against Abby’s bruised heart. “What’s going on, Abs? You haven’t been your usual shiny self for a few weeks.”

“Oh, nothing much.” Abby took a deep breath as she realized Holly, and not lunch, was the real reason she’d come to the diner. There wasn’t anyone else she could confide in who would keep things quiet. “Aside from all the time-suck repairs the inn needs, I started the day by almost burning the kitchen to the ground—”

“Again?” Holly groaned. “You should come with a warning sign.”

“Not you, too.” It was bad enough to have Mr. Cranky Pants Corwin denounce her negligible cooking skills—she didn’t need to hear it from her best friend. “Believe it or not, that was the highlight of my morning. I just came from seeing Mr. Vartebetium at the hospital.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Pretty good for an eighty-two-year-old man who’s had his third heart attack.” At least he was getting the break he needed. “They’re still debating whether to send him to a transition facility before allowing him to go home. Remember all those months ago when I told you I thought maybe the Flutterby was in trouble? Yeah, well, I was wrong. It’s in huge trouble with a great big F for financial. He finally confided in me how bad things are. His words? The Flutterby would be better off if we launched it off the cliffs.”

“Oh, no.” Holly sagged onto the bench across from her. “That can’t be true. The Flutterby has been here forever. Maybe he’s exaggerating. Do you think?” The hope in her friend’s eyes didn’t do much to bolster her own.

“He wouldn’t come out with the details, but he gave me the keys to his filing cabinet,” Abby said. “It must be pretty bad considering he stopped letting me oversee the books months ago.” She’d assumed Mr. Vartebetium had wanted to keep as much control of his lifelong business as he could. Now Abby had to wonder if it was his way of keeping the truth about the finances secret. “How early is too early to crack open a bottle of pinot?”

She blinked back tears, which only made her mad. Abby Manning didn’t cry. Abby Manning was the town optimist—she got things done, and if she didn’t know how, she found a solution. Abby Manning never saw a gray cloud in the sky even when it was storming outside.

“The inn can’t close, Holl,” Abby whispered. “It’s the only home Gran’s ever known. It’s her last connection to Gramps, and now with her Parkinson’s diagnosis, ripping her out of that place will only make her decline faster.” And it would kill Abby. The Flutterby was the first home she’d ever known. “I’ve got to save it somehow. I won’t let it go without a fight.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Holly said. “I wish I could help, but between this place and Simon’s school tuition, not to mention Luke’s and my wedding—”

“Do not make these stupid tears spill over, do you hear me?” Abby ordered, appreciating more than words could say how much she loved Holly for the thought. Holly had her back, just as Abby had had hers a few weeks ago when Holly hit a rough patch with her son, Simon. That was before Holly went and fell tail over teakettle in love with the onetime bad boy of Butterfly Harbor turned sheriff, Luke Saxon.

Looking at Holly’s engagement ring glinting in the early afternoon sun made Abby’s heart ache and sing at the same time. Her friend deserved to be happy, especially after all she’d been through.

“I don’t suppose Simon is around?” Holly glanced at the half-filled diner. Whatever boost she needed, she’d bet her overly precocious eight-year-old godson could provide.

“He’s at the community center with my dad and Charlie. I swear my son and Paige’s daughter are tethered constantly, but at least they’re staying out of trouble these days. Good thing, too, since Paige has been putting in extra hours here at the diner.”

“As far as you know they’re staying out of trouble,” Abby mused, the idea of those two juvenile partners in crime roaming Butterfly Harbor on their bikes giving her heart a lift. “Tell him I’m up for a movie night anytime he’s ready.” But Abby figured her godson might already be aging out of sleepovers with his boring godmother. Well, boring when compared to seven-year-old Charlie Cooper with her crooked smile, equally crooked pigtails and mischievous personality.

“Is there anything Luke and I can do?” Holly asked, giving a nod of acknowledgment to one of her customers.

“I’ll let you know. But I should probably get back to the Flutterby and dive into those books. Can I get my order to go? Along with a turkey sandwich for Lori?”

“Of course. You know Paige, though. Chances are she’ll throw something unexpected on your burger.” Holly patted her hand and headed for the kitchen.

Considering Abby’s luck today, it would be a handful of jalapeños. Abby shuddered. She hated jalapeños. She took a calming breath and inhaled the familiar aroma—frying onions accompanied by hot sugar from Holly’s homemade pies.

How could some people make food sing while others, like her, made it scream?

Abby plucked the pamphlet advertising the By the Bay Food Festival from in front of the laminated menu of Holly’s desserts and grasped a final hope. Her full reservation book should bring in a good chunk of change for the coffers. If Matilda came home in time to get the kitchen up and running. If. If, if, if.

“Abby, what brings you by so early today?” Mayor Gil Hamilton, or Gil the Thrill, as he’d been known in high school, sidled up to her booth and leaned a hand on the table. With his longish blond hair and overbright blue eyes, Gil would forever be Butterfly Harbor’s charmer in residence. He might have spent a good portion of his thirty-two years trying to distance himself from his father’s financially irresponsible actions during his own term as mayor, but even benefit-of-the-doubt Abby had to admit Gil slipped too easily into the political swamp his father had polluted. Then again, she did believe his concern for the town’s survival was genuine. So long as some of his ideas didn’t strip the uniqueness out of Butterfly Harbor in the meantime. That was one of the reasons she was in support of the butterfly sanctuary he was trying to get off the ground.

“Errands,” she said and painted on her trademark smile. She’d keep smiling even as the ship began to sink. “How are the plans coming for the festival?”

“Amazingly well, actually. Tents and banners should start going up around town and in Skipper Park sometime tomorrow, and Calliope has offered her empty property at Duskywing Farm for the open house on Thursday night. We lucked out with the timing. Being able to celebrate Butterfly Harbor’s anniversary when we’ve got a town full of people gives us a chance to show off. One hundred twenty-five years is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, we’ll get that national exposure thanks to all the media coverage.”

“The Cocoon Club is anxious to expand on their success from the Pig in a Poke BBQ cook-off.” The group of Butterfly Harbor seniors had their fingers in a lot of events these days. She only wished she could convince Gran to get involved with them again. Abby flipped open the pamphlet for the upcoming festival and immediately locked on the bolded wording on the second page. “Wait. This is an amateur cooking competition? As in no talent required?” With a hefty fifty-thousand-dollar first prize. Was this the universe’s way of bashing her over the head with a skillet? “Who’s sponsoring this? ShopMax Foods?”

“Hardly,” Gil chuckled. “I told you, sponsorships have been rolling in. And NCN is footing most of it. They’re hoping to find some new on-air talent. Since Butterfly Harbor pitched in a good chunk from our discretionary fund, we get to host the two-day competition while Pacific Grove and Monterey will pick up the other events. You know, now that I think about it—” Gil angled a look at her that told Abby his thought wasn’t new at all “—it would be nice to have someone from Butterfly Harbor representing us to really get the community involved. I wonder if Matilda has any suggestions.”

Why did he insist on asking questions he already knew the answers to?

“Last I heard she and Ursula were somewhere around Ohio.” That motor home of theirs had more miles on it than the space shuttle, but the sisters’ charity trek had become an annual event, one Abby wasn’t about to get in the way of, not when both Matilda and Ursula were breast cancer survivors.

“What about you?” Gil asked.

“What about me?”

“You should enter, Abby. There’s no one more amateur than you. Think about it. They’re only allowing three competitors, so your chances of winning might be better than we think.”

Was he serious? “Sarcasm aside, I doubt that’s a good idea.” Even if she had the inclination, by the time word got around town of her scone BBQ this morning, they’d probably start a petition to ban her from even owning a kitchen.

Still... She bit her lip. Fifty thousand dollars.

“Including one of our oldest businesses would look great in the advertising. Besides, you have the personality for it,” Gil said. “Then there’s the added advertising the inn wouldn’t have to pay for. All you’d need to do is come up with the entry fee. Don’t say no. Not until you check it out, but FYI, the deadline to enter is tomorrow.” He rapped his knuckles on her table and headed out.

Temptation and opportunity knocked. That money could be the answer to her problems. Assuming she won, of course. And Gil was right about one thing: no one was more amateur than her. Oh, this was crazy, wasn’t it? Even crazy for Abby, who wasn’t known for always making the most reasoned decisions. The smoke detector was evidence of that.

She was getting ahead of herself. She couldn’t make any decision until she got a look at the books. It could be she was worried over something a good couple of months could fix, in which case she had time to come up with a gangbusters promotion plan.

No reason to put all her expectations on a competition she didn’t have any hope of winning. Not until she knew what she was dealing with. But...she supposed it could be an option. A nuclear option, but still an option.

“Your order will be ready in about ten.” Holly returned after filling her customers’ coffee cups and clearing some tables. “What was that about?” She aimed a suspicious glance at Gil’s retreating back.

“Possibilities.” Abby shoved the brochure into her purse and smiled. “Do me a favor—add a small strawberry shake to that order? Lori deserves to remember life is all about enjoyment and taking chances.”

Now all Abby had to do was remember the same thing.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_04f3da90-7a68-5560-ab86-b53607c71b0a)

ABBY MADE IT until five that afternoon before she uncorked that bottle of wine. The nuclear option was looking better by the second.

For the first time in memory, keeping a good thought had failed her. Not only had Mr. Vartebetium’s fiscal warnings been shy of the mark, but they’d be lucky to keep the doors of the Flutterby Inn open through the summer.

Her employees and friends’ jobs aside, she couldn’t, wouldn’t let Gran lose her home. Abby would go down swinging if she had to in order to make sure Alice lived out the rest of her life feeling safe and secure.

Meanwhile, Abby would start a list of words she didn’t ever want to see in print again, beginning with back taxes and ending with pipe replacement. Even worse, the money she’d been assured had been set aside for a booth at one of the food festival’s events didn’t exist. There wasn’t seventy dollars to spare, let alone seven hundred. She still had employees and bills to pay.

Not even the normally comforting waves of the Pacific worked their magic this evening. Nor did sitting on the bench in one of the more picturesque areas of Butterfly Harbor, on the hill outside the Flutterby. The cypress trees arched their branches in framed perfection while the frothy foam bubbled up and draped over the rocks below in the lazy tide. Every time Abby tried to find the bright spot, any bright spot, she floundered like a beached dolphin who had taken a wrong and very unfortunate turn.

What she did have, aside from a half-filled glass of wine and a too-thin sweater to keep the coastal chill off her skin, was a circling dread.

“I’ve learned one thing about your Butterfly Harbor today.” Jay Corwin’s voice scraped over her raw nerves as he approached from behind, his footfalls crunching in the gravel and sand. “You have a beautiful secret here.”

Abby couldn’t help it. She smiled, then hid the expression behind her wineglass as she sipped. “It won’t be secret much longer. The new butterfly sanctuary they’re hoping to build should put us on the map. So to speak,” she added. Albeit probably too late for the Flutterby to benefit.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She looked at him, trying to find a diplomatic way to say no, but she couldn’t, especially not when she recognized the same tinge of tension and sadness she’d seen in her own reflection recently. Abby scooted over on the bench. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring another glass.”

“It’s fine, I’m not a big pinot fan.” Jay glanced at the brass plaque on the back of the bench before he sat—a little closer than she’d expected, a lot farther than she wanted—and shoved his hands into the lightweight navy parka he wore. “Bob Manning. Your father?”

“Grandfather.” Abby took in Jay’s acclimated attire of jeans and flannel shirt. He struck her as a man who fit in wherever he went, especially with that assessing gaze of his. She’d never seen a color like his, with shimmering silver depths beneath the ocean blue. She didn’t need to note his strong jaw to be reminded of his stubbornness or the permanent crease in his brow to make her wonder if he ever smiled. She hadn’t really noticed before—probably hadn’t been paying attention. He seemed incredibly sad. Now she wished she hadn’t been quite so snippy with him.

“Grandpa Bob died five years ago,” she said. “Right here, as a matter of fact. Came out to watch the sunset one night and went peacefully. Broke Gran’s heart, but I can’t think of a better way for him to go. The sunsets here are worth waiting for.”

“It seems a nice place to grow up. What about your parents?” Perhaps if this friendlier, inquisitive Jay had appeared in her kitchen this morning, she might not have spent part of the day dreaming of putting itching powder in his bed.

“They died in a car accident when I was four.” She pulled out a pair of gold rings and a diamond solitaire on a thin gold chain and held them between her fingers. “I’ve seen pictures of them, but I can’t be sure if I remember them. Gran gave me these when I turned thirteen.” She kissed the rings and tucked them away again. “Makes me feel as if I have a couple of guardian angels. Friendly ghosts, you know? It’s why I never take it off.” And wow, wasn’t she chatty with someone she wasn’t sure she liked. “Butterfly Harbor’s been my home ever since.”

He looked as if he wanted to apologize or offer sympathy, but couldn’t quite find the words. When he did respond, he said, “I’ve never really understood the appeal of small towns. I’ve always lived in big cities. Even spent some time in London and Paris. They’re all busy. Loud. I didn’t realize silence could be just as loud.”

“So Gran was right?” Abby said, grateful for the distraction he provided. She didn’t want to dwell on the red marks in the inn’s accounting ledger. “New York?”

“Born and raised, then I traveled some.” He leaned back and stretched his long legs out, crossed his ankles and sank into the late afternoon. “I like the peacefulness. Not sure for how long, though.”

“I know a couple of kids who could shatter that silence in a second. Say the word. My godson and his best friend have been known to violate the town’s noise ordinance.”

Jay’s brow furrowed. “Noise ordinance?”

“I’m joking.” And not doing a very good job of it, for a change. Maybe she needed a nap. “We’d have to have a lot more residents to need an ordinance, and I don’t think Luke would want that on his shoulders, anyway.”

“Would that be Sheriff Saxon? I met him while I was walking around town earlier. Nice guy. Nice dog, too.”

Cash. How many times had she thought about ways to snatch that lovable mutt from the sheriff? “He’d better be, since he’s marrying my best friend.” As far as Abby was concerned, Luke was one of the most decent men she’d ever known, even though he’d be the first to shy from the compliment. “We’re hoping he’ll be done using the cane before the wedding.”

The wedding. Abby closed her eyes, bit her lip. Darn it. Holly’s early August wedding was scheduled to take place at the Flutterby. Add that to the list of things to worry about.

“What’s that look for?” Jay shifted to face her more fully, something Abby appreciated as she went back to focusing on him. She’d never found beards particularly attractive, but on Jay it worked. Gave him a bit of a sophisticated air she’d bet would only be accentuated should he drop into a crisp white shirt and dark suit— “Abby?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Yeah, her thoughts really were getting away from her. “Just checking things off on my to-do list. That reminds me. I brought back more vouchers for the diner if you need them.”

“Yeah. About that.” He flinched as if she’d struck him. “I drove up to Monterey for lunch. Diners aren’t really my thing.”

There was that tone again, that authoritative I’m better than you are tone that proved she hadn’t imagined his arrogance this morning. “Not your thing?”

“You know.” He shifted his gaze out over the water. “Pedestrian. Boring.”

Pedestrian? There wasn’t anything pedestrian about Holly’s diner. Or her food. “In other words, diners are beneath you and your New York sensibilities.” So what had all the small-towns-are-charming comments been? Polite chitchat? Disarming her before he plunged the dagger in her heart?

“I didn’t say that.” But as he spoke, she heard the doubt in his voice.

“There’s a reason why diners last through the ages. They’re steadfast, sturdy.” Holly’s diner could be considered the spine of a shriveling town. A town she’d do anything to make successful again.

“Diners are also predictable and ordinary.”

She shifted on the bench. “They’re comfortable and homey.”

“They’re cheap and greasy.”

“Wow.” Abby shook her head, unable to fathom his disconnect from reality. “I knew it. You’re a snob. And fair warning, I wouldn’t throw any of those adjectives around when Holly’s nearby. She’s likely to smack you with her grandmother’s rolling pin.” And if Holly didn’t, Abby might. Who did this guy think he was, coming into town and passing judgment on everything she loved? Everything she’d fight until her last breath to protect?

“I’m not a snob.”

Given the offense in his voice, you’d have thought she called him a serial killer. “Tilt your nose down once in a while, Mr. Corwin. Otherwise you can’t see where you’re going. Or where you are.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Well, you did. Maybe you weren’t listening earlier, but this is my home. It’s the only place on earth where I belong. The people, the businesses, the cracks in the pavement I used to ride my tricycle over. You don’t get to come here to hide and judge anything you’re not willing to experience for yourself.”

“I don’t need to experience something to know it isn’t for me. And who says I’m hiding?”

“I run an inn, remember? I know hiding. And boy, Gran was right. You are New York through and through. Oh, wait. I’m sorry, am I judging you on someplace I haven’t been? Shame on me.” She swallowed the rest of her wine and got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take Gran to dinner at the diner before her bunco game. And FYI, you might want to get some earplugs, because believe it or not, we take silly things like bunco very seriously around here. Good night, Mr. Corwin.”

* * *

HOW DID “DINERS AREN’T my thing” lead to offending his hostess?

He really shouldn’t talk to people. It never went well. He wasn’t a snob. His father—now, he was a snob, and he didn’t make any apologies for it. Jason gnashed his teeth at the thought of being painted with the same brush as his father.

He didn’t get the impression Abby disliked many people—not after having witnessed her interact with her grandmother and those she worked with. He must have really pushed her buttons, which fascinated him. He wanted to think his interest in her was merely a result of having more time on his hands. He didn’t have the pressure of the restaurant or contracts or budgets or...anything. He couldn’t recall encountering anyone like her before, someone with more layers than an onion and the more he peeled away, the deeper he wanted to go.

Butterfly Harbor might not have the bustling activity of his native New York, but it had its own charm. He’d wandered around a good portion of it today, noticing the intricate puzzling of homes dotting the edges of Monarch Lane, what he assumed passed as Main Street, USA. He’d explored a couple of antique shops and the hardware store, even the throwback gift stores that reminded him of the old-fashioned five-and-dimes his mother had once told him about. He found their offerings eclectic, including all types of...yep, butterflies. The post office, reminiscent of a different era, sat wedged into one corner of a neighborhood grocery that had one of the best selections of organic meat and fish he’d ever come across. Truth be told, the selection of produce and food could have put the Chelsea Market to shame given a little extra push. Butterfly Harbor impressed him, but not nearly as much as the wide offering of locally farmed fresh produce.

David would have loved it here—the selection, the tight-knit community. If Vegas hadn’t already been knocking on their restaurant door, they’d have explored the idea of opening smaller, more specialized restaurants in places like Butterfly Harbor.

Inspiration knocked featherlight against his mind. It might have caught hold if he hadn’t been reminded every five steps of that blasted food festival. A weather-resistant banner proclaiming its start had been stretched across the entrance to Monarch Lane.

He’d watched trucks and trailers roll down the street and disappear around the hill. The rumble of engines and smell of gasoline took a bit of the small-town polish off the town, but he imagined an event like this would help keep businesses open and people employed.

Had he any inclination to dip his toe back in the water that was his former career, seeing Technicolor posters pop into windows as he passed was enough to make him want to scuttle back to the hotel and hole up in his room.

Even if he didn’t plan on attending the festival, seeing the town explode into celebration over its one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary would take the sting off.

A sting that had settled ever since he’d entered the kitchen at the Flutterby Inn. As exhausted as he was, he wasn’t anxious to call it a night. Maybe it was the aftereffects of his conversation with Gary and reliving the last six months yet again. It didn’t matter what his father was doing with the company, not when Jason couldn’t do anything about it.

He’d destroyed his credibility with one wrong decision. No one was going to take him seriously in that world anymore. David could have, though. David could have survived anything.

Except a plane crash.

But Butterfly Harbor, despite its pending participation with his former colleagues, held his interest. He might not understand small-town appeal, but he didn’t like the idea of places like this disappearing. Especially if it meant people like Abby and her grandmother, and maybe even the cutesy diner down on Monarch Lane, would vanish into the past.

The diner. Jason sighed. He supposed he owed it to Abby to try the Butterfly Diner before passing judgment. He relished saying I told you so about as much as she’d probably enjoy telling him you were right.

Jason shook his head, got to his feet and followed the sandy, rocky path to the Flutterby. Maybe he’d keep his revelations, whatever they turned out to be, to himself. Unless it did turn out he was wrong.

In which case he’d have to find a way to choke down his least favorite dish: crow.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_eafb944f-3242-5f85-a60f-56fa7f54b395)

“BUNCO!”

Abby couldn’t help but smile as celebratory cheers exploded from the dining room that overlooked the wave-heavy shoreline. The tides were rolling high tonight, crashing and cresting and echoing peacefully in her ears as she sat behind the registration counter, windows open, her fingers flicking the corner of the festival brochure.

“That’s five buncos since they started,” Lori said as she tugged on her coat. “That might be a new record.”

“Let’s hope Gran’s one of them, otherwise she’s going to be in a grumpy mood when the game’s done. Hey, Lori.” Abby had been putting this off all afternoon. “Are you good going full-time the next few weeks? Maybe even bunking in one of the smaller rooms until after the festival?”

“With my active social life?” Lori blinked wide eyes at her. “Whatever you need, I’m here. Something going on? Does it have something to do with that hot Mr. Corwin?”

“What?” Even the mention of his name was enough to set her blood to boiling. “No, of course not, and stop ogling our guests. I was thinking about entering that amateur cooking competition they’re holding here in Butterfly Harbor.”

“I’m sorry?” Lori’s arms dropped to her side as she stared. “You’re thinking about what?” That her friend was trying not to laugh should be confirmation enough Abby had gone and lost her mind, but she needed that money. She needed to do something to stop the Flutterby from failing. She needed to keep Gran in her home.

Not that entering was enough. She’d have to win.

But she’d worry about that later.

“For the advertisement?” Lori squeaked and fanned her face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing.”

“I know it sounds crazy.” Abby went along with Lori’s misconception. “The publicity could bring in a good chunk of business. And I figured Paige could give me cooking lessons.”

“Um.” The humor vanished from Lori’s face. “Then you might want to decide now if you’d like to remain friends. That’s not a great position to put someone in. It might make her an accessory when you torch the entire town.”

“I’m not that bad.” Maybe she needed that disclaimer tattooed on her forehead. “I get distracted. I can follow directions. They just get stuck somewhere between my brain and my hands.”

“You do know you set the oven to five hundred fifty degrees this morning, right?” Lori bit her lip. “I checked when I cleaned up the kitchen. I wanted to make sure everything still worked,” she added. “For when Matilda gets back.”

“I was running out of time.” But she kind of guessed that had been the cause. “I thought the scones would bake faster at a higher temperature.”

“That wouldn’t give the baking powder and soda time to activate. You took them from raw dough to rock hard almost instantly.”

“So you do know how to cook?” Hope sprung like a fountain inside her. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all.

“I know how to watch the National Cooking Network,” Lori corrected. “They do a lot of shows about the science behind food. Those competition things are scary. Like watching people’s worst features being broadcast in front of your eyes.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested in being a contestant in the cook-off.” There went that backup plan.

“I know things are stretched pretty tight around here.” Lori frowned. “But this seems a little extreme, even for you. You sure you want to take this on with everything else that’s happening?”

Abby bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone other than Holly that the inn was in trouble. Not until she’d exhausted every opportunity to put a cork in the financial hole. “I thought it would be fun and a good way to promote the inn. Each contestant gets a ten-minute profile on NCN when they air their coverage.” In a couple of months. Hopefully not too late.

“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” Lori said. “Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be right behind you. Behind you, Abby. I love you, but not enough to get in front of a camera on national television. I’m going to go grab dinner before I drive the Bunco Babes home.”

Abby smiled. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Let’s hope we never find out. Night.”

An end-of-round bell chimed loud enough to make Abby’s ears ring.

The Bunco Babes—most of whom were significantly on the other side of Social Security—had been holding their monthly die games at the Flutterby long before Abby began working here. The group’s themed get-togethers were both a pleasure and a pain, as inevitably something would get changed at the last minute, from the menu requests—tonight they’d ordered pizza from Zane’s—to the decorations, but that was where Gran came in. Letting her focus on the group, both as a member and an organizer, gave her something to concentrate on other than the fact that she was growing older. Their continued patronage also brought in some extra cash, and right now, every penny counted.

And about those pennies...

Abby returned her attention to the online application Gil had steered her toward. Everything seemed straightforward enough.

No, she wasn’t a professional chef. No, she hadn’t had any professional training. Yes, she agreed not to use any employees of the Flutterby Inn during the competition. No, none of her employees or family were associated in any way with the National Cooking Network.

Her eyes blurred as she clicked the boxes. No wonder people didn’t read the fine print in these migraine-inducing contracts.

“Okay, here we go.” She hovered the mouse over Submit and caught the bold print below the button: “Application not processed until full payment of fifteen hundred dollars is received.”

Abby sagged in her chair.

Fifteen hundred dollars?

Her heart lurched. She couldn’t afford the seven hundred dollars for the miniscule promo tent the network would provide—how did she expect to come up with more than double that? Sell her car? Hardly. The ten-year-old clunker probably needed more than that in repairs, not to mention she needed a vehicle to get Gran to and from her doctors’ and physical therapy appointments.

Asking friends was out of the question. Money and family—and to Abby her friends were family—did not mix. She didn’t own anything of much value. Well, except...

Her stomach twisted as she pulled her parents’ wedding rings free from her shirt. She bit her lip.

She couldn’t be that desperate. Could she? Would it be worth it? Selling the only thing she had of her parents when there was no guarantee she’d win? If she did, she needed to rethink her strategy. She’d have to have help. Not financial. She needed someone to guide her, encourage her. She needed...

She needed a teacher.

Her thoughts spiraled around each other as she minimized the application screen and opened a new window, this time checking out the benefits of the upcoming festival on the NCN site. All those chefs, all those people who made creating meals look as easy as opening a door. How hard could it be if she really focused? Maybe it was as simple as reading as many cookbooks as she could get her hands on, and there was a library full of them in the kitchen. Matilda collected cookbooks like Mr. Vartebetium collected bills.

She clicked through the various chef bios, wishing she had their confidence, their talent. Their...

Abby squinted, leaned forward until her nose was practically pressing against the screen. That face. Her heart pounded. She knew that face. She recognized those eyes.

She gasped and looked toward the staircase. It couldn’t be. Energy she thought she’d lost buzzed inside her like a frenzy of bees trapped for too long. He didn’t have a beard and his hair was a lot longer, but there was no mistaking the attitude that exuded off the screen or those blue eyes.

She bolted through the dining room, lifting a hand in greeting as her Babes called out to her. She flicked on the kitchen light and headed for Matilda’s overflowing shelves filled with her collection of signed cookbooks. Meticulously organized as Matilda was, Abby skimmed her fingers across the top shelf and yanked out the copy of All the Best by Jason and David Corwin.

One glance at the back cover was all she needed, except she almost didn’t recognize him. So he could smile. He could even laugh. She could almost hear the brothers as the affection reached off the page and brushed against her heart.

David Corwin. He’d been killed, she remembered, trying to recall the details. Earlier this year in a plane crash. Ursula and Paige had talked about the tragedy at the diner, seen on the news how the entire food community had gone into mourning.

Along with his brother.

Jason. Now the sadness made sense, but she couldn’t dwell on that.

Jay Corwin was a cook. No. She knew him well enough by now to lay odds he’d take exception to that term. Jason Corwin was a chef.

And he was right here. In Butterfly Harbor. At the Flutterby. Before a food festival.

Hugging the book against her chest, she wandered to the desk, dropping into the chair as her thoughts coalesced. She reopened the application, hovered the mouse over the final submission button.

Did she dare?

Her hand shook. No. Not quite yet.

She clicked off the screen, grabbed the brochure and hurried upstairs, turning the book face-out as she knocked on Jay’s door. The TV inside his room went quiet a few seconds before he answered the door, a hesitant look of welcome on his face.

“Good evening, Abby.”

Did he have to sound like Dracula welcoming her to his lair? Abby shook herself out of distracted mode and thrust the cookbook at him.

“I need you to teach me to cook.”

* * *

OF ALL THE things Jason expected to find on the other side of his door—room service he hadn’t ordered, an offer for turn-down service, a poisoned mint for his pillow—it certainly wasn’t Five-Alarm Manning asking for cooking lessons.

He forced himself to resist the urge to glance at his and David’s first bestselling cookbook. The book that had started them on the path to their dreams. “I’m not a chef anymore.”

“Are, were, whatever. You can still cook.” Abby pushed past him and took a seat in the wing-back chair next to the terrace doors. “I know, I’m being pushy and I’m sure you’re still irritated with me over how I spoke to you before. Sorry about that.”

“I really don’t think you are.” Clearly, she wasn’t leaving any time soon. He closed the door.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right.” Her sneaky grin wrinkled the top of her nose and triggered an odd flutter in his chest. “But what are you going to do? Leave? You’ve paid for three weeks.” Why was she looking at him as if she knew some big secret he remained clueless about? “I don’t care about your employment status. What I need is someone to teach me. I thought about asking Paige since Matilda is out of town, but as Lori said, I’d rather stay friends with her, and, well, you and me? Not friends. Problem solved.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow. Another one of those layers, he supposed. “You got this spiel out of a self-help book, didn’t you?”

“No, no.” She waved a hand in the air. Her energy and enthusiasm flitted about the room like a rogue butterfly. “I just meant we don’t have anything to protect. I already irritate you, and, well, the feeling’s definitely mutual, but I need to know how to cook.”

“And you want to hire me?” What grand epiphany could she have possibly had since her scone disaster this morning that would have her asking him for help?

“Not hire, exactly.” Her face turned bright red but her expression remained determined. “I’m not exactly flush at the moment, so I was hoping you’d be willing to lend your expertise in exchange for my undying gratitude?”

“Your—what?” Had he missed the spaceship that had dropped her off? She wanted him to teach her and she was broke? “Okay, rewind. How about you start by telling me why you want to learn to cook.”

“Oh.” She held out a skinny pamphlet. “I want to enter this.”

“The By the Bay Food Festival.” Again. Everywhere he turned, he was reminded of that blasted festival. “Wait. A televised cooking competition?” How had he missed that little detail? He reviewed the dates. “You do realize this starts in two weeks.” He’d been right. Gary’s booking him at the Flutterby was on purpose. Tricky son of a—

“Yeah, I know,” Abby said. “But you’re good at this stuff. You said so yourself. It’s in your back cover bio.” She waggled his book in front of him like a red flag in front of a very irritated bull.

His mouth twisted. “Not funny. And not interested.” Even if the idea of stepping foot in a kitchen again didn’t make him twitchy, some people were beyond hope.

“Oh, come on! You’re already bored out of your mind and you’ve been here less than a day. You need something to do. What else is there besides biding your time between sunsets?”

“Someone told me the sunsets are worth the wait.” Clearly his refusal needed an explanation in order to wipe that puppy glimmer out of her all-too-tempting gaze. “Learning to cook in the best of circumstances takes time and patience.” Something he was willing to bet she didn’t have much of. “It’s stressful and demanding.” And required human interaction.

“I don’t have to be able to cook for the president.” Abby rolled her eyes. “I need to learn enough to compete and not set anything on fire. And maybe not poison anyone. Oh, and win, of course.”

Yeah. Nothing to it. “After what I saw this morning? In two weeks? No, I’m sorry. It can’t be done.”

A bit of the fight drained out of her, but in its place, a spark lit her face. That same spark he’d seen when she’d battered that smoke detector. “Is that why you’re hiding out in Butterfly Harbor? Did the stress of running a restaurant get to you after your brother died?”

“No.” His lungs tightened. “No, it wasn’t the stress.” Exactly.

“Then what?”

“Leave it to me to find the one person in the hemisphere who hasn’t heard.” He plucked his tablet from beside the bed to search for himself, a humbling experience for sure, then skimmed past the links detailing David’s crash. “Why don’t you read this and then we’ll see if you want to continue this conversation.” He held out the pad and ignored the unease circling in his stomach. At least Abby’s dislike of him from the start had been genuine and not based on gossip rags and internet features.

She exchanged the pad for his cookbook that he set, cover down, on his bed. Needing some air, he pushed open the terrace doors and leaned his arms on the railing, waiting for the inevitable shocked and disgusted reaction he’d come to expect. Maybe paying for the room in advance hadn’t been such a smart move.

Normally it took a couple of minutes for the facts to hit, but, as he’d begun to learn about Abby, she was ahead of the curve.

“I am sorry about your brother.”

He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars. He hated the sympathy, the concern, the apology that accompanied the comment that was cursory at best. He’d heard hundreds if not thousands of them in the last six months. But none had been spoken in Abby’s soft voice, with a gentleness that brushed over his ears as gently as if she’d touched his hair with the tips of her fingers.

“Thank you.”

“Is this true? Did you really cheat in the last round of that competition?”

He didn’t hear shock in her voice, or condemnation, but genuine curiosity. As if she didn’t quite believe he was capable of sinking so low.

“It says you brought in a ringer to help you win this reality show thing.”

Jason leaned over and stared into the bottomless surf. “I tried to pass off a dish my sous chef cooked instead of the one I attempted myself. I needed to win.” Because losing hadn’t been an option. Not with his brother’s memory and his family’s reputation on the line. Not with his father’s expectations set so high he’d have to use a jet pack to reach them. “And then I lied about it.” Which was, when all was said and done, his real crime. “On live TV. You can watch it on YouTube if you want. It’s been viewed over two million times. How do you not know about this?”

“Do I strike you as an avid NCN viewer?”

Her sarcasm pulled a deeply buried smile out of him. “It also made national news. I was every media outlet’s disgrace story for over a week.” While Marcus Aiken, his sous chef, had been given his own show and a font of new endorsement deals.

“Big deal. So was the governor, and her approval ratings went up. So you made a mistake. People, humans, make them all the time.”

She sounded so much like Gary she gave him a headache. “People are allowed to make mistakes. Celebrities, Corwins are held to a higher standard, especially in the food industry. Scandals like mine kill careers, Abby. Especially after you’ve been built up as some kind of icon. I’m proof of that. My own shareholders ousted me from the company my bro—” The word stalled in his throat. “The company we built.”

“Icon. Wow.” She sighed and shook her head. “Ego check on aisle seven. So, what? You ran? You’re hiding out here because a bunch of people know you cheated and you were a jerk about it? You’ve been a jerk about a lot of things with me. What’s the big deal?”

When had this conversation veered off the verbal cliff? He hadn’t run away from New York, he’d walked away after it had been made abundantly clear he was too much of a liability for Corwin Brothers. “When you’re one of the faces of a million-dollar brand, people—shareholders, specifically—shift into damage-control mode.”

David had been the negotiator, the peacemaker. David had been the diplomat while Jason had been the moody artist few people wanted to deal with. Without David as a buffer, he’d had no patience or charisma to keep anyone on his side. He’d lost count of how many so-called friends had made the suggestion in less than understanding terms.

“Corwin Brothers is beyond my help,” Jason continued. “And don’t get me started on how my father plans to fix the company.” By going against every principle their grandfather had held dear. But not even that was enough to push Jason back into the kitchen.

“Pfffh.” Abby waved her hand again and shrugged. “What do network executives and shareholders know? On the bright side, if you tell me your girlfriend dumped you and then your truck broke down, I bet you could start a new career as a country music singer.”

Jason marveled. She had the oddest view of the world.

“There was no girlfriend.” That’s all he would have needed to complete the equation. He faced her, part of him worried about what he’d see on her face, but all he saw was the same Abby he’d met in a billowing fog of smoke. Part energetic bunny, part warrior woman who would fight smoke and burned scones to the death. “I’m toxic to anyone and everyone in the industry. Nobody wants me.”

“I want you.” Abby jumped to her feet, then, as her words sank in, her cheeks went that brilliant—and all too familiar—shade of pink. “I mean, oh, buttered biscuits!” She spun in a circle as if she could go back in time. “You know what I mean. I don’t care about some scandal from your past or the fact you tried to cheat your way out of something or even that it sounds as if you ran away instead of fighting for your career. And I’m sorry, but what kind of father lets a bunch of shareholders oust his son so he can slither into his position? That’s disgusting.”

He stared. Wh-what?

“Okay.” She plunged ahead. “So, yeah, maybe cheating was a dirty move, but are you sorry you did it? I don’t mean are you sorry you got caught,” she added when he started to respond. “If you had it to do all over again, would you?”

“No.” That pressure valve he’d been waiting months to release finally did. Her question stunned him. No one had ever asked him that before. No one had seemed to care enough to, not even when he’d been so mired in grief he couldn’t think straight. “Cheating was the worst mistake I’ve ever made and lying about it made it worse. It cheapened everything I worked for, everything my brother stood for. I’ll never take a shortcut again, no matter what it might cost me.”

“So help me.” She seemed bolstered rather than deterred by his admission. “I need to do this. The inn needs it. And maybe you can find a little redemption for yourself in the meantime.”

The desperation in her voice wasn’t something he wanted to hear, but he had the feeling she’d let something unintentional slip. “What do you mean, the inn needs it?”

She bit her lip, eyes darting around the room. He recognized that expression. He’d seen it on enough faces in the last few months to know it was someone’s way of coming up with a story or plausible explanation.

“Finances are tight. If I do this, the inn will be featured in the network special,” she said. “Butterfly Harbor needs all the word of mouth it can get, and we need guests. I’m sure you noticed we don’t have many. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up. Even if I am a hopeless cook.”

“Not the best attitude or selling point when looking for a teacher.” Jason stepped into the room and glanced over the rest of the pamphlet. “Hang on. You just said finances were tight and that you can’t pay me. How are you coming up with the entry fee?”

She dragged her parents’ rings across their chain, her smile tight. “I’ll find a way.”

As little as he knew about her, he didn’t doubt it for a second. “I’m not saying yes.” How could he, when it meant returning to the life that held nothing but dark memories and disappointment? “But if I were to agree to this, you should know up front you’ll need to take time off work and it’ll be long hours. I can probably keep you in the running long enough for you to get those ads, but fair warning, two weeks isn’t enough to get you ready to win. Plus, you could hate me even more by the time we’re done.”

“You mean I’ll get an even closer look at arrogant, egotistical, judgmental Jason Corwin?” She fluttered her lashes at him as if he were a teenage heartthrob. “Yay. He’s so dreamy.”

“He’s also a class-A jerk with antisocial tendencies.” He couldn’t help it. Her teasing and calling things as she saw them amused him. How could anyone take himself seriously when she was around? “But since you know that going in...” She was right. He was bored and he didn’t have anything else on his agenda for the foreseeable future. Besides, teaching someone to cook wasn’t the same as cooking. “I’ll make you a deal. If you come up with the application fee, I’ll do what I can to teach you. But again, I can’t guarantee—”

“I know, I know.” She flew across the room, grabbed his shoulders and kissed him full on the mouth. A quick kiss. One of gratitude and happiness with a touch of that electric excitement he was fast becoming familiar with. He also, in that moment, tasted fire and determination.

She must have surprised herself, because she rocked back on her heels and lifted her stunned face to him as his lips curved. He clenched his fists to stop himself from touching her cheek, from finding out if her skin was as soft as he imagined it would be. “You heard me, right? This is going to be hard work, Abby.”

“Anything worthwhile always is.” She grabbed his book. “I’m going to start reading this tonight, but first, I’m clicking Submit on that application! How about you meet me at the Butterfly Diner for an early lunch tomorrow, say, eleven o’clock, and we’ll go from there?” She set her jaw and grinned at him, challenge issued.

“The diner, huh?” His stomach rolled at the thought of it. What was it she’d said earlier? Holy hamburgers? “Has anyone ever tried to say no to you?”

“Once or twice. Didn’t work. Good night, Jay. And thank you.”

He caught her arm as she passed, looked into her eyes for a second longer—not long enough. “My name is Jason.”

She nodded as if she was coming out of some sort of trance. “Jason, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hugged his book like she was an anxious freshman headed off to her first day.

He opened the door for her, waited until she disappeared down the stairs before he closed it again. The doubt crept in, slow and slithering, working its way into his overwhelmed brain.

Whatever desire, whatever passion he’d once held for his profession was gone. He’d lost his appetite for all of it. The idea of diving back into that world that haunted him was enough to freeze his feet to the floor. Which left him with one question.

What had he just gotten himself into?


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_debdc7f7-d40e-5d09-baf0-1f3063496c97)

“ABIGAIL MANNING!” HOLLY glared at Abby as if she wanted to crawl over the counter and strangle her. “Things cannot be so bad at the inn you had to sell your parents’ wedding rings.”

“I know.” Except they were. Abby forced a smile. The ache in her chest remained and she could still feel her hand burning from when she’d handed over the rings, but she refused to look behind her. Sometimes it took sacrificing the past to try to save the future. At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

If anything, spending three hours early this morning replacing another two showerheads, tightening valves under sinks and touching up chair-rail paint in the soon-to-be-occupied rooms was all the reminder she needed of how much there was to do. “I don’t think my parents would want me to have to put Gran in a home, which is what’s going to happen if the Flutterby closes. This is the only way out I can see.”

Holly moved aside for the ever skinny, fashion boundary–pushing server Twyla, who grabbed a fresh pot of coffee and warmed up the late-morning customers’ cups. “And for what?” Holly lowered her voice. “To enter a cooking competition. A cooking competition? You know that means you’ll have to cook, right?”

Abby inclined her head and pressed her lips into a hard line. Sometimes Holly’s sarcasm rankled her nerves.

“Oh, wow.” Holly crossed her arms. “I thought maybe you were exaggerating yesterday.”

“That was before I looked at the accounting records. Mr. Vartebetium has been using his personal savings to balance the books for over a year. He’s also neglected to pay the property taxes for the last four, which that prize money would cover. The inn is hemorrhaging, Holly, and Gran needs stability, especially since her diagnosis.” Abby needed stability.

“And what’s Gran going to say when she hears you sold those rings?”

“Gran won’t say anything, because no one is going to tell her,” Abby warned Holly. “I did what I had to, Holly, and I sent in the entry fee forty minutes ago.” No turning back now. All those rules. No wonder she’d woken up with a headache. “It’s a done deal.” She was locked in tighter than plastic wrap over a steaming bowl.

Hey. She jolted in her chair. She’d learned something from Jason’s cookbook last night after all.

“On the bright side.” Holly shifted her gaze out the glass door. “You found yourself one handsome cooking teacher. Nicely done.”

“Yeah, we’ll...” Abby spun on her stool as she saw Jason bending down to give Cash, Luke’s beautiful golden retriever, a hearty pet of greeting. “We’ll see,” she croaked. He’d certainly never smiled at her like that, and was that a chuckle she heard as he stood up and followed Luke into the diner? If anything she seemed to put his face in a permanent state of disapproval.

“Ladies.” Sheriff Luke Saxon in all his uniformed finery led the parade of his overactive soon-to-be stepson, with Jason bringing up the rear. Cash remained outside the front door, peering inside with a look of resignation.

“Am I too early?” Jason slipped his hands into the pockets of his oh-so-nicely fitted jeans. Abby nearly toppled off her stool but then covered by grabbing hold of Simon and yanking him in for a hug.

Holly straightened to her full height, an amused gleam in her eyes as she glanced between her best friend and Butterfly Harbor’s recent arrival. “Abby’s always early. A good thing for any instructor to know about his student.” Holly strode around the counter and held out her hand. “You must be Jay. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks. It’s Jason, actually.” He cleared his throat, inching his chin up as if accepting a challenge. “Jason Corwin.”

“Welcome to Butterfly Harbor, Jason. Tell me something.” Holly leaned in as Luke slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Will you be videotaping your cooking lessons with her? I’m thinking they’d make great holiday entertainment—ow!” She glared at Abby, who had yanked hard on her ponytail. “Seriously?”

“Very seriously,” Abby said as she hugged the stuffing out of her godson until he squealed. “You, sir, have been MIA for too long. I miss my movie and pizza buddy.”

“Sorry.” Simon grinned up at her, those big brown eyes of his even bigger behind thick black-rimmed glasses. “Charlie and I have been busy.”

“I knew it.” Abby sighed and spun him around so she could lean her chin on the top of his head. “I’ve been replaced by another woman. You two aren’t trying to take over the world again, are you?” She peered over his shoulder at the haggard notebook clutched against his chest. Simon and his notebook. A dangerous combination.

“Not the world,” Simon said with a little too much seriousness, that jolted Abby’s nerves and was reflected in Holly’s suddenly attentive expression. “Just Butterfly Harbor.”

“Don’t worry. The sheriff is on full alert.” Luke shifted on his feet, barely leaning on the cane in his hand. “His school starts soon, so we stopped in for a quick snack before heading out to find the perfect backpack. Jason, good to see you again. Remember that poker game I told you about.”

“Sure. Yeah. Sounds great.”

Abby wasn’t entirely convinced Jason thought so.

“Give Paige your order.” Holly patted a hand against the front of Luke’s khaki shirt before she lifted up on her toes to kiss him. “But I’ll make your mocha shake.”

“You realize that’s why I’m marrying you, right? No one makes a mocha shake like you.”

Holly eyed him with suspicion. “Hmm. And here I thought it was my homemade pies. Simon, let’s leave Aunt Abby and Jason to their lunch, shall we?”

Abby would not blush. She would not... Too late!

“Back corner booth is free.” Abby hopped off her stool by the register and hurried off, hearing the muted rumblings of manly farewells and fellow customers’ conversations.

“Tell me something.” Jason slid into the booth across from her. “Is Butterfly Harbor a news dead zone, or does no one care about my past?”

Abby eyed him as she sipped the water she’d set on the table when she’d first arrived. “As far as scandal rankings, I would put cheating on a national TV show somewhere between Mrs. Greely’s penchant for pilfering neighbors’ flatware and whoever’s been snipping buds off Mr. Rondale’s prized roses. Someone will probably say something at some point, but if you’re looking to have that past held against you, the last person you want to talk to is Luke. He’s a big believer in second chances.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“If you ask, he’ll give you the abbreviated version. Growing up we called him the bad boy of Butterfly Harbor.” Abby’s heart still ached for the life Luke led growing up. Between his abusive alcoholic father and an accident that had nearly cost Holly’s father his life, Luke had worked hard to overcome his past. She still admired the courage it had taken for him to come home after all those years away. “It was rough going when he first showed up, but then he stopped letting his past define him. Now look at him.” She nodded to where Simon had all but superglued himself to the sheriff and Holly stroked a finger down the center of her fiancé’s chin. “Happily ever after.”

“Nice to know things work out for some people.”

“Things work out for a lot of people.” How sad he didn’t realize that.

“But not you.” Jason glanced uneasily at the laminated menu behind the ketchup bottle. “You’re not married.”

“Blunt and charming as ever.” Yet somehow she was getting used to it. “Maybe I’m waiting for some tall, handsome, scandal-ridden ex-chef to sweep me off my feet.” She grabbed the menu to push into his reluctant hands. “Meanwhile I divide my time between a genius eight-year-old and, most recently, a bowling alley tech with a penchant for shoe rentals.”

“I never know whether you’re joking or not.”

“I wish I was joking. Read the menu already, Super Chef. It’s not going to bite, and look.” She swiped her fingers over the top of the black-and-orange Formica table and showed them to him. “No pedestrian grease.”

“Darn straight there’s no grease, pedestrian or otherwise.” Holly frowned at her as she set a glass of water down for Jason and tapped her fingers against the rolling pin sticking out of her apron. “This diner might be old, but it’s my second baby. It was my grandmother’s for almost forty years.”

“I’m beginning to think I should have worn protective gear.” Jason glared at Abby, who grinned in response.

“That remains to be seen.” Holly placed a firm hand on her hip. “It’s not often we get celebrities in here, let alone chefs with bestselling books and award-winning restaurants. I’m hoping we’ll surprise you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jason said. Abby was certain he was trying to find the means to inch out of arm’s reach of Holly’s weapon of mass destruction. “Can I have a minute with the menu?”

“Absolutely. Twyla will take your order when you’re ready. And you.” Holly pointed a stern finger at Abby. “We’re not done with our conversation. I’m not happy with you.”

“Love you, too,” Abby sang as Holly waltzed away.

“What isn’t she happy about?”

“Nothing important.” Abby pinched her lips shut and tried not to dwell on the rings she’d sold. Good thoughts. Positive thoughts. They weren’t gone forever. Yet.

“Did you have to tell Holly what I said about diners?”

“I tell Holly everything.” Abby shrugged. “Have ever since the sandbox.”

He set the menu down. “You’ve been friends that long?”

“You sound surprised. You were friends with your brother, weren’t you? What?” She couldn’t decipher the odd expression on his face.

“We were. But we were also competitive. I figured that’s all people saw.”

“Then people weren’t looking very closely.” All anyone had to do was look at the photos from David Corwin’s funeral to see his twin brother had been devastated by his death. She’d bet that arrogant and rude demeanor Jason wielded like a weapon was his shield against the grief. One thing about grief: the more you struggled against it, the tighter its grip became. “You look like him, you know. Since you cut your hair and grew the beard. Was that on purpose?”





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