The Right Twin. Laura Altom Marie
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conversation, she wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the guests. If she admitted that her sister was engaged, then that gave her a noble “out” to keep things on a strictly professional level, instead of pulling him in for a forbidden kiss.
Something her guilty conscience had been contemplating for at least the past fifteen minutes!
“She was getting married,” Helga said, “but that boy turned out to be no good. I say, Sarah—I mean, Sadie—forgive me, I’m all the time getting them confused. I say, that boy, he’s no good for you. You must break up right away. My eye sees all.”
Nodding, Heath said, “Sounds like sage advice.”
“Oh, it was,” Helga said with a firm nod. “Now you two go drink some lemonade—or whatever it is you do these days.”
“Helga!” Sarah’s cheeks flamed.
The cook, who was like a second mom to her sister, waved off Sarah’s concern. “I thought you were loafing, which is why I asked for help. But if you have romance, then I say focus on that.”
“Helga!”
“Thank you for your concern,” Heath said to the woman, who was clearly deranged. His hand clamped Sarah’s shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze. Awareness sparked through her. “And also for the offer of lemonade. But I need to make a few calls and take a shower before dinner. After that—” he cast Helga a wink “—I just might take you up on the offer of romance.”
“For Miss Sadie—not me.”
“Aw…why would I want her now that I’ve met you?”
As Helga shot him a dirty but pleased look, then hustled back to the kitchen, Sarah said, “I’m so sorry about that. Usually she reserves all that seeing-eye mumbo jumbo for family. Who knew she fancied herself a matchmaker?”
“Question is,” he asked, “do you want to be matched?” After a quick kiss to her cheek, he was off, whistling his way back up the stairs, as she stared rapturously at his departing backside.
One hand on her hip, the other cupping a tingling cheek, Sarah pondered the question. Helga barging in on them had been both good and bad. While it was annoying and highly unprofessional of her to have stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, she had, in a sense, cleared the way for Sarah to pursue Shane—if that was what she wanted. So was it?
Greg hadn’t just made a mess of her heart but of her head, too. How many times in recent months had she told herself she’d never, ever trust another guy? And yet here she was, unfathomably intrigued by this man whom she hardly knew yet felt as if she’d always known.
Could Helga’s all-seeing eye be right? Was it fate that had led Shane Peters’s date to turn down this weekend, so that the two of them could meet?
Sarah groaned and headed for the kitchen.
After Helga chewed her out for letting Shane go—even temporarily—she assigned boring cutting, chopping and dicing tasks that required no talent and left plenty of time for thinking.
Sarah had spent her entire career exploring other people’s hopes and dreams, doing the necessary math to estimate how much money it would take to make those dreams reality. She’d heard about everything from retiring to a remote tropical island to refurbishing railway boxcars and turning them into mountain or backyard retreats.
She’d always been fascinated by people’s dreams. The secret, giddy goals that drove a person out of bed each morning and into the rat race of modern life. Everyone had a different pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But what was hers?
In the beginning, she had wanted the usual. Hubby, kids, white picket fence. But then she’d gotten burned and her world had crumbled.
Everything that she’d thought was real had turned out to be a lie.
Until now, when a gorgeous, funny, warm guy named Shane had kissed her. And she wasn’t even sure if that was a good or bad thing.
“C’EST MAGNIFIQUE,” Mr. Standridge said, smiling with a flourish of his fingertips to his lips. If Sarah did say so herself—though she hadn’t had a blessed thing to do with it—Helga’s painstakingly prepared flan au saumon et aux asperges tasted divine. Thank God, on her latest trek around the dining room all guests present seemed to agree. “My wife and I have traveled the whole of France, and never have I experienced anything quite so exquisite.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Standridge said, placing her hand on Sarah’s arm. “Truthfully, honey, after the slow service at lunch, I was a bit concerned. I see now you must have been having an off moment. Everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Sarah said with an airy smile, brimming with confidence—easy enough to do with the kitchen in Helga’s more-than-capable hands. Sarah was especially relieved to have spotted Shane with her peripheral vision, wolfing down his meal. At least Helga hadn’t sent him packing. Lord, the man was gorgeous—in a strictly professional way.
“If it’s no bother,” the widow Young asked in a wavering whisper as she pushed aside her plate, “may I inquire as to what’s for dessert?”
“Of course,” Sarah said, giving the Standridges one last smile before moving to the other woman’s table. Schmoozing was much simpler now that she’d relaxed, trusting Sadie’s planning to make everything work. The slow service Mrs. Standridge had complained about had been the result of nerves, but plainly all Sarah’s fears about running the inn had been a waste of energy. “For dessert, we’ll be having fraises à la maltaise, which is a fancy name for strawberries marinated in orange juice and Cointreau.”
“Wonderful.” The widow actually clapped her hands with glee. Sweet as the woman was, Sarah refrained from rolling her eyes. These foodie types took their dessert seriously.
“Perfection,” Mrs. Standridge tossed into the conversational salad.
Eyeing Shane, Sarah caught him grinning. Their gazes met and the result was exhilarating. That shared sense of consciousness. Even though they were a room apart, she felt as if he were right beside her—sharing her happiness in a job well done.
The meal wound on with the guests oohing and cooing over the gorgeous, meticulously carved orange bowls of marinated strawberries garnished with fresh mint. The honest part of Sarah wanted to drag Helga into the dining room to accept the praise she deserved, but instead the portion of Sarah that had sworn to imitate her sister graciously nodded and smiled, acting as if such wonders were all in a day’s work. Which for Sadie, of course, it would have been.
Had Sarah tried something this fancy on her own, the guests would have ended up with results closer to runny Jell-O!
“Lively yet soothing,” Mr. Helsing announced after his first bite.
His wife, after taking her first taste, closed her eyes and sighed. “Utterly dreamy. I agree that after lunch I thought for a minute about repacking our bags, but now I see how everyone who’s raved about this place has been right. How do you do it?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Sarah said, doing her best to imitate her sister’s modest poise.
“I think what she means,” Heath said, deftly sliding aside his empty plate, then dabbing that gorgeous, sexy grin of his with a white linen napkin, “is how did you manage to turn out a meal like this when you not only look cool and composed but have had so much time to fulfill our every need?”
“That’s my job,” she said, ignoring the way her stomach lurched at the lie. “Over the years, I’ve become a master of prep work. You know, chopping and dicing late every night, to ensure I can present my guests with unrivaled tastes and luxury they won’t soon forget.”
“I’d say you are now fully succeeding in achieving your goals. Well done,” Mrs. Standridge pronounced.
“Here, here,” said Mr. Helsing with a show of applause that his wife joined in on.
“Well,”