Chapter 16
Floorboards groan under Maggie’s boots as she weaves through a dark maze of patio furniture toward a set of French doors. Even with the breeze, it’s warm out, the faint scent of woodsmoke hanging in the air.
“Stay there a sec,” she calls over her shoulder, and I laugh because I can’t see to do anything else.
“What’s burning?”
“High school bonfire,” she says. “Big end-of-year thing.”
She aims her phone’s flashlight at a keypad, tapping in a code that lets her into an equally dark house.
“This place have lights?” My quip earns me an eye roll as the bulbs flare on. I squint against the sudden glare, the white stone walls blinding if you’re not expecting them.
“Believe it or not,” she says, returning to scoop up her flowers. “But it helps if they’re on.”
She sets her bouquet in the foyer and reads the card while I take a look around.
A staircase with a wrought-iron railing frames one side, the other side opening to a great room.
Between them, a massive chandelier, also wrought-iron, hangs from the second-story ceiling.
Ivory walls show off a collection of landscape paintings, and terra-cotta tiles span the floor.
It’s both rustic and elegant, just like she is.
“What about the gate?” I ask as I wander deeper into the house. “Did you forget to turn those lights on too?”
I don’t miss the way her mouth softens as she sets the card on the table.
“No, Mr. Nosy Pants, lightning took them out a few months ago.” She looks up from her flowers. “What’s this? Are you worried about me?”
“I’m worried about your poor, unsuspecting guests,” I say, perusing a small stand of brochures—so far, the only real sign her home doubles as a business. “Assuming they manage to find this place, remote as it is, who knows what they’ll discover lurking in the dark.” I shiver for effect.
Her laugh follows her into the kitchen. She flips a switch, lighting a second chandelier above a pale-blue island topped with soapstone. “Maybe romance isn’t your forte. Have you tried horror? Can you scream on demand?”
I stifle a smirk. I’ve done a couple horror flicks, actually, and I kind of love that she doesn’t know that. “I’m serious.”
“While I appreciate your concern for my guests, the only thing lurking around here is my neighbor’s rooster.”
“See? That sounds horrific.”
She reaches into the cabinet above the sink and pulls out two glasses. “These pancakes of yours—what exactly makes them killer?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll make something else.”
“Why? Afraid they won’t be the best I’ve ever had?”
“You make breakfast for a living,” I say. “A little detail you left out when I made the offer. And besides, it’s your birthday. We should do something special.”
She sets the glasses on the island. “Special? It’s almost ten in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.”
Pretty sure I could work around that.
“Hang on.” She digs through a drawer, then holds up a small box of candles. “How’s this?”
“You just happen to have birthday candles?”
“I run a B&B. I’ve got every kind of candle.” She tosses them to me. They’re neon pink with white stripes—not her signature blue. “Festive enough?”
I muster a smile. “Guess it’ll have to be.”
“Bourbon and pancakes. That was the deal.”
Maggie pushes up on her tiptoes to reach the bottle of booze stashed on top of the fridge, her shirt lifting just enough to expose a sliver of skin.
I find myself staring, wishing she were the tiniest bit shorter, so she’d have to reach higher, expose more.
Christ. This is what happens when I don’t sleep.
“Fine, pancakes,” I say, my stubborn gaze refusing to leave her now covered waist as she returns with the bourbon.
“Neat or do you want ice?” She waves the bottle in front of me. “Holden?”
“Yeah, um, neat’s fine.” I lift my eyes to hers, and God, they’re so blue.
A laugh slips out, and I just stand there, taking stock.
I’m in Maggie’s kitchen at ten o’clock on a Friday night, and I’m not here to fuck her.
Not that I would be. I’m America’s Prince, not America’s Playboy.
But not that I wouldn’t either. I am a hot-blooded male, and Magnolia’s stunning. Even when she’s a pain in my ass.
Especially when she’s a pain in my ass.
Maggie moves past me to set the bourbon on the counter, and my gaze drops to her ass. Damn.
“Have you completely fallen off your rocker?” she asks, hoisting herself onto the island, her long denim-clad legs dangling over the side.
Yes, ma’am, I do believe I have.
She pours us each two fingers, and I take a slow sip, praying the eighty-proof liquor doesn’t make me loopier than I already am.
“Pantry’s over there,” she says, pointing a blue boot at the sliding barn door on the far side of the kitchen. “You still haven’t told me your secret. How do you know I’ll have what you need?”
A quick scan of the fridge produces milk, eggs, and…voila! “Lucky guess,” I say, reaching for the jar that was a staple in our house until my mother died.
Maggie’s voice jumps. “Miracle Whip?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you don’t even like Miracle Whip.”
“I never said that. You just assumed.” I gather the rest from the pantry and set everything on the island.
“Guess I did.”
“My mom grew up eating it, and so did I until…” I swallow. “My dad hates the stuff. After she passed, we never got it again.”
Never got it again because the last jar she bought sailed through our kitchen window at fifty miles per hour, along with a stern warning to our housekeeper that if my father ever saw another one, it would mean her job.
“This is her recipe,” I say quietly. “Her secret ingredient.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.” Maggie tucks her hair behind her ears, the ringlets from earlier relaxed but still holding. “How old were you when she died?”
“Fifteen.” I pause. “You really don’t know anything about her death, do you?”
Color rises in her cheeks, and I squeeze my eyes closed.
“I didn’t mean it that way, Maggie. It’s just…I don’t come across many people who don’t think they already know me. Who don’t think they know every last detail about my life. It’s nice.”
She wrings her hands in her lap. “You had to grieve her publicly. Losing my mom was impossible, but at least I had privacy.” Her voice softens, those damn blue eyes lifting to mine. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. What it must be like.”
“It’s not fun, but it’s all I’ve ever known.” I tear my gaze away and grab a skillet from the rack above the island. “How did we get here, exactly?” I smile. “Ah, yes. Good ol’ Miracle Whip.”
The fork scrapes against the metal bowl as I work the batter. There’s not much to it, and within minutes, I’m dropping scoopfuls into a hot pan. The sizzle cuts the silence, filling the kitchen with the scent of browning butter.
“What happened to her?” Maggie asks, then catches herself. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s everyone’s business, according to TMZ.
” I lower the heat on the pancakes, already bubbling at the edges.
“Whole websites are dedicated to solving the mystery of my mother’s passing—everything from illicit affairs to murder-for-money plots.
But the truth is, my dad’s an ass and my mother drank herself to death.
” I stare at the bourbon swirling in my glass, then take a long pull.
“I don’t think it was intentional, but even if it was… I don’t blame her.”
My mother’s death nearly destroyed me, but at least she’s free of my father. And despite all the conspiracy theories, I have to believe it was an accident. She’d never have left me alone with him on purpose.
I look up to find Maggie’s eyes on me again.
“Ever think about celebrity journalism?” I ask, breaking our gaze to flip the pancakes. “You’ve gotten more out of me in fifteen minutes than People has in twenty-seven years.”
“Guess I’ve just got one of those faces,” she says, and yeah, no shit. She gives me a small smile. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m not the villain.”
That earns a grin. “Wouldn’t that break some cardinal teacher-student rule?”
“I think witnessing my utter humiliation blew that out the window, don’t you?”
She hops off the counter, grabs a couple plates, and sets them beside me.
“You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, Maggie,” I say gently, and before I can stop myself, my hand closes over hers. She startles at the contact, breath catching as the air between us hums. I quickly let go, turning to plate our food.
“Anyway,” I say. “It’s your birthday. Let’s talk about literally anything else.”
Her hand drops to her side, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. “Did your, um…mom teach you how to cook?”
“A few things, yeah.” I pluck a candle from the box. “Pancakes, obviously. Chili, pulled pork… I’m dangerous with a slow cooker.” I stick the candle in Maggie’s short stack and take a seat at the island. “Thanks for letting me do this. There’s no cooking at the lodge.”
“Wait,” she says, picking through a bowl on the counter. “You don’t have a car, and they don’t have a restaurant. What do you eat?”
“A lot of donut sticks.” I shrug. “From the vending machine.”
She hands me a box of matches. “Donut sticks?”
“Hey, don’t judge. They’re good. And between Artie and Gabi’s PA trying to shove food at me, I’m not exactly starving.”
“Where’s your PA?” Maggie asks, sliding onto a barstool.
“Back in LA. I gave him some time off.” I take another swig of bourbon. “Truth is, I don’t like people waiting on me. Growing up, there was always staff around. I couldn’t walk into the kitchen without somebody rushing in to open a cabinet for me.”
“Sounds rough.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “I know. Woe is me.”
Spending summers with my grandparents kept me grounded, but it was a hell of a switch going back home. Now that I have my own place, if I want a sandwich, I make a sandwich. No one’s jumping in front of me with a loaf of ciabatta and a selection of cold cuts.
And no one’s telling me I can’t have Miracle Whip if I want some fucking Miracle Whip.
I light the candle on Maggie’s pancakes, and just as I start to sing, she laughs and blows it out, saving us both.
“Moment of truth,” she says, picking up her fork.
I watch her mouth close around the bite, her lashes lowering as she lets out a sound that nearly undoes me.
“Yeah?” I ask, more invested than feels wise.
“Definitely yeah. I kinda want to hate it, but…” She sighs, stabbing another piece. “Okay, fine. Best I’ve ever had.” Her gaze drops to my plate. “Whoa, there.”
Shit. My stack’s swimming in syrup. I set the bottle down. “Seriously? Best you’ve ever had?”
“Seriously.”
Why does that one word give me Academy Award-level pride?
I try it for myself, and yeah, even drenched, it’s still good. Thanks, Mom.
I smile over the lip of my glass. “Don’t tell me you use a box.”
“I don’t use a box—because I don’t make pancakes.”
“What do you make, then?”
She taps her chin with a blue-painted nail. “Let’s see…cereal? Pop-Tarts? I’m dangerous with a toaster.”
“Is your brother the cook?”
“He’s actually great in the kitchen, but with school, he can’t take that on.” She trades her fork for her glass and takes a sip. “Lucy’s our breakfast chef. From the diner? It comes frozen, but you’d never know.”
“Let me get this straight.” I hold up three fingers, ticking them off one by one. “No exterior lights, a rabid rooster, and reheated frozen breakfast? Damn, Maggie, it’s a wonder you ever have vacancies.”
“Colonel is not rabid,” she says, popping another bite into her mouth.
A laugh hitches in my throat as God, this girl sneaks into my thoughts without permission. I toss back the last of my bourbon and reach for the bottle.
“Some people strive for perfection,” she says, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “I strive for half-ass…ness? Half-assedness. Whatever.”
I snort as she wrestles with her made-up word.
“The B&B,” she goes on, ticking off her fingers now. “My writing.” Her eyes cut to me. “Teaching you how to dance.” She nudges her glass toward me, and I top it off. “Lowering expectations is a life hack I mastered early.”
“Don’t knock your teaching just because I’m hopeless,” I say. “I’ve learned more from you in a few days than I ever did with Helga.” I flash her a grin. “You may be insufferable, but you’ve got a gift. The way you’ve broken it down—”
Maggie lets out a sharp laugh, nearly toppling her drink. “I did learn from the best.”
“Oh yeah? And who’s that?”
“Finish your pancakes,” she says. “I’ll show you.”
Curiosity wins out, and for once, I shut up and eat.