Saying Yes to the Boss

With a tortured sigh she realized that was one garment more than what the handsome man tucked between the sheets downstairs had on.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN Ree descended the stairs early the next morning after dressing hastily in the cropped pants and pullover she’d worn the evening before, the scent of frying bacon greeted her. She found Dane in the kitchen standing in front of the stove, his hair wet from an apparent shower and a bath towel hooked low around his waist. A bouquet of bruises bloomed on the middle of his back, but that wasn’t the reason she sucked in a breath. The same outrageous tug of desire she’d felt the night before was still there. It hadn’t moved off with the last of the rain. And she still had no idea how to deal with it.

She cleared her throat. “Good morning.”

Dane turned and offered a smile, revealing that solitary dimple that had haunted her dreams.

“It’s better than a good morning. It’s a great morning. The sun’s shining. Birds are singing. I’m alive.”

Despite the offhanded way in which he said it, she got the feeling he truly meant it. Glancing out the window at Lake Michigan, she remembered the way the waves had heaved and bucked against the shore the evening before. The great lake was calm right now, but it could be brutal and unforgiving under the temper of a storm. He was indeed a lucky man.

“I take it you’re feeling better.”

“Much.” He nodded toward the frying bacon. “I hope you don’t mind, but I rummaged through your fridge and decided to start breakfast.”

She swallowed hard. A gorgeous, half-naked man was standing in her kitchen preparing a meal for her. He’d even made coffee.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured and then was pretty sure she blushed. She couldn’t believe the direction her thoughts were taking. To hide her consternation, she asked, “Finding everything okay?”

He nodded. “You have an amazingly organized kitchen. Everything is right where it should be. Well, except for the coffee.”

“You didn’t find it in the canister marked Coffee?” she asked dryly.

“I found it, but the grounds hold their freshness longer if you keep them in the freezer.”

Regina got down a mug from one of the cupboards and poured herself a cupful of the beverage in question. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said on a chuckle as she stirred in some nondairy creamer.

She leaned against the counter and watched him flip the sizzling strips of bacon with a fork. He looked completely at ease in the kitchen, obviously no stranger to the workings of a stove. Taking a sip of coffee, she nearly sighed. He made a mean cup of joe on top of his other culinary skills. It was scary how the marks in the man’s plus column just kept mounting.

Although she didn’t mean to compare him to Paul Ritter, she found herself doing just that. Her husband didn’t know a coffee pot from a roasting pan. He had always been too distracted by his work and too disinterested in the mechanics of meal preparation to offer to cook her breakfast. He’d never so much as poured her a bowl of cereal. Ree’s gaze strayed to the towel around Dane’s hips. Moistening her lips, she admitted that Paul had never looked quite like that while wearing terry cloth, either.

The toaster popped up and she jumped right along with the delivery of two pieces of evenly browned bread. She wasn’t a woman to let passion overrule dignity and decorum. Nor was she a woman ruled by impulse. That had been her mother, with disastrous results. Ree wasn’t like Angela. She’d made a point of proving that her entire life. As for last night and that kiss, it was but a momentary lapse brought on by stress and the storm.

“Everything okay?” Dane asked.

She smiled to hide her embarrassment. “Barely a sip of coffee and I’m already jumpy.” As he buttered the toast, she added, “I see the electricity came back on.”

“Yep. About six this morning.”

“I wonder if that means phone service has been restored as well.”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I already checked for a dial tone. Nothing.”

As she watched, he cracked an egg one-handed into a skillet of melted butter. The man was a regular Wolfgang Puck. Her grandmother would approve. To Nonna, cooking had been on par with praying.

Although he appeared as at ease as she wielding a spatula, good manners compelled her to ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nah. I’ve got everything under control. And cooking breakfast is the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”

“I really didn’t do that much,” she demurred.

But Dane grinned. That solitary dimple flashed briefly in the stubble on his jaw, and her pulse shot off like a damned emergency flare.

“You did. More than you know.” Before she could ponder what he meant, he asked, “So, how do you like your eggs?”

“That’s an easy one. This morning calls for sunny-side up.”

Just as she had the night before, Ree found herself seated across from Dane at her kitchen table. The conversation flowed surprisingly easily given the way his gaze would sometimes linger on her lips. In the bright morning light Ree realized that his eyes were an interesting cross between gray and blue, and they definitely clashed with the green and purple welt protruding from his temple.

“You’ll need to see a doctor today.”

“I know. When the phone comes back on I’ll make an appointment right after I call my sisters to let them know I’m okay.”

“You’ll probably need stitches.”

He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Possibly.”

“And maybe even a tetanus shot.”

His lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, that’s a possibly, too.”

“Do you think they’ll recover your boat?”

“I don’t know how much of it will be left to recover.” Then he shrugged. “I’ve got insurance. It wasn’t fancy anyway.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Not like this house. I didn’t get a chance to appreciate it last night with the lights out and my head on fire.”

“That’s understandable.”

“The detail work is incredible. I’m guessing it was built in the late 1800s, probably between 1885 and 1890.”

“Eighteen eighty-seven,” she confirmed, surprised by his perception.

Motioning with his fork he asked, “Do you know if those are the original cabinets?”

“Yes. The hardware is vintage, too.” She frowned at the worn finish of the cabinet doors and tarnished brass knobs before her gaze dipped to the scored floorboards that peaked from beneath a faded throw rug in front of the stove. “I’m afraid most of the house could use a fresh coat of paint and other renovations.”

Ree could afford none of that right now. She would be lucky to scrape together enough money to pay the taxes when they came due in the fall. Her grandmother’s long illness and then Nonna’s request that both she and her deceased husband’s bodies be interred in the family plot in their native Italy, had depleted not just her grandmother’s bank account but Regina’s limited savings as well.

Dane lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s cosmetic. The structure appears good.”

“For the most part,” she agreed. But since the house was all she had left of her family, it pained her to see it in such shabby condition. “It needs new shingles, though, and part of the floor on the side porch is a casualty of dry rot.”

“Basic maintenance,” he said with another shrug, unaware that Ree had been racking her brain for months trying to figure out how she could afford those necessities. “Get it fixed up and you could turn it into a world-class bed-and-breakfast. The view alone would have customers lining up at the door.”

“I’ve thought about that,” she admitted.

She had more than thought about it, actually. But opening her home to paying overnight guests still required an initial investment. It would take money—and a lot of it—to whip the Victorian into the kind of condition it needed to be in to attract high-paying clientele and hire the required staff. In the meantime, the bank wasn’t likely to extend that kind of credit to a woman who had no stable source of income or track record for running such a business.

It was breaking her heart to think that despite all her efforts, she might wind up selling the place after all.

Dane’s low whistle pulled her back to the conversation. “Did you know that your banister is made of quarter-sawn oak? They don’t make homes like this grand old lady any longer.”

“No, they don’t, which is why I don’t want to see it destroyed by some developer who isn’t as interested in preserving history and beauty as much as he is in making a quick buck.”

“So don’t sell.”

She wiped her mouth on a napkin as the familiar panic settled in.

“It’s not that easy. I own the place outright now. My grandmother left it to me when she died. But the taxes…” With a sigh, she slumped against the back of the chair.

“Steep, I’m sure, especially for this much frontage on Lake Michigan.”

“And especially for me at the moment.” It galled her to admit, “I’m sort of between jobs.”

Actually she hadn’t had a steady job in years. During the time she’d tagged around after Paul, she had worked as a freelance writer for a travel magazine. The pay was decent when she sold something, and living out of a tent, or at times a small trailer, had kept expenses pretty minimal. But her journalism degree hadn’t seen much of a workout since she’d returned to Peril Pointe. In any case, even with the aid of a nurse, caring for her grandmother had been a full-time job. Ree now had her résumé in with the local newspaper and a northern Michigan magazine. But even if she secured full-time employment, the aging Victorian with its constant upkeep and eye-popping taxes would remain well beyond her budget.

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