His Son, Her Secret. Sarah M. Anderson
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groaned. “I got better. Here, try the gazpacho.” He ladled a few spoonfuls into Leona’s bowl. “It’s not quite as good as it was in Spain—the peppers aren’t as fresh.”
George scoffed as Leona tasted the soup. “Boy, don’t tell them what they don’t know. She never had the stuff you were making in Madrid.”
“Mmm,” Leona said, licking her spoon. Byron found himself staring at her mouth as her tongue moved slowly over the surface of the spoon. She caught him looking and dropped her gaze. He swore she was blushing as she cleared her throat and said, “He’s right. As long as we can say ‘locally sourced ingredients’—preferably with the name of the farm where you get your vegetables—that’s what foodies value.”
“We can do that. There’s enough space around the brewery that I could also have some dirt hauled in and grow my own herbs and the like.”
Leona’s eyes lit up. “Would you? That’d be a great selling feature.”
Byron liked it when she looked at him like that, even though he knew damned well that he shouldn’t. But sitting here with her, talking about a restaurant they were going to open within months...
He’d missed her. He’d never stopped missing her. And as much as he knew he couldn’t let himself fall under her spell again—couldn’t risk getting his heart broken a second time—he just wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulders and hold her to him.
She would burn him. That he knew. That was the nature of the Harpers whenever they were around the Beaumonts.
But watching her savor the meal he’d cooked for her, talking and laughing with George...
He wanted to play in the flames again.
Everything was, unsurprisingly, delicious. Leona especially liked the croquetas—she’d never had them before. Yes, the evening was full of good food and comfortable conversation. It should have been relaxing—fun, even.
The only problem was, she still hadn’t told Byron about Percy. And, as George regaled her with story after story of Byron learning how to cook the hard way, she couldn’t figure out how to break the news to him without running the risk of losing Percy.
Byron served three desserts—an almond cake that was gluten-free, peaches soaked in wine and yogurt, and a flan flavored with vanilla and lavender. She looked at her notes. A vegetarian dish, gluten-free options—with the hamburger, he’d have a menu that met most dietary needs.
“You like peaches, right?” he said as he set half of a peach in front of her.
“I do,” she told him. Seemingly against her will, she looked up at him. Byron stood over her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He remembered that peaches were her favorite. There’d been a time when he’d cooked for her, peach cobblers and grilled peaches and peach ice cream—anything he could come up with. Those had been things he’d made just for her.
“Thank you,” she told him, her voice soft.
“I hope the wine sauce is okay.” He didn’t move back. “I didn’t know...”
“It’s all right.” She used to drink wine, back when he’d make her dinner and pick out a bottle and they’d spend the evening savoring the food and the rest of the night savoring each other. But she hadn’t drunk a thing while pregnant and then she’d been breast-feeding and pumping and who had the money for alcohol anyway?
He stood there for a moment longer. Leona held her breath, unable to break the gaze. All of her self-preservation tactics—clinging to the memory of being cast aside by a Beaumont, just like her father had warned her, and the very real fear that Byron would take her son away from her—they all fell away as she looked up at him. For a clear, beautiful second, there was only Leona and Byron and everything was as it should be.
The second ended when the door to the kitchen flew open with a bang. Byron jumped back. “George!” a bright female voice said. “Have you seen— Oh, there you are.”
Leona looked over her shoulder and her heart sank. There stood Frances Beaumont in a stunning green dress and five-inch heels. “Byron, I have been texting you all...day...” Frances’s voice trailed off as she saw Leona. They’d met a few times before. Frances had liked her then. But that felt like a long time ago.
Byron cleared his throat. “Frances, you remember—”
“Leona.” Frances said the word as if it were something vile. Then she grabbed Byron by the arm and hauled him several feet away. “What is she doing here?” Frances added in a harsh whisper that everyone in the room had no trouble understanding.
Leona turned her gaze back to the luscious desserts. But her stomach felt as if a lead weight had settled into it.
“She’s helping with the restaurant,” Byron whispered back in a quieter voice.
“You’re trusting her? Are you insane?” This time, Frances made no effort to lower her voice.
Leona stood. She did not have to sit here and take this assault on her character. Byron was the one who’d abandoned her, not the other way around. If anything, she shouldn’t trust him. She didn’t.
“I’ll show myself out. George, it was a pleasure meeting you. Byron, I’ll look over my notes and come up with some suggestions.” She met Frances’s glare as she gathered her things. “Frances.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Byron offered, which made Frances hiss at him. But he ignored his twin and held the door for Leona.
“Good meeting you, too,” George called out after her. “Come back anytime.”
Which was followed by Frances gasping, “George! You’re not helping...”
And then Leona and Byron were down the hall, the sounds of the kitchen fading behind them. They walked in silence through the massive entry hall. The evening had been, up to this point, an unmitigated disaster. Byron’s cooking was amazing and, yes, George was just as sweet as she’d always pictured him.
But Byron had this habit of looking at her as if he wanted her, which didn’t mesh with the otherwise icy shoulder he’d given her. He confused her and after everything he’d put her through, that seemed like the final insult.
She could not let him get to her, just like she couldn’t let Frances’s undisguised hatred get to her. Byron had left. He’d done exactly what his father had done and simply walked away. He didn’t care for her—certainly not enough to fight for what they’d had.
She simply could not allow herself to care for him. It was not only dangerous to her heart, but also to Percy’s well-being. She had to protect her son.
Thus resolved, she expected to say goodbye to Byron at the front door and call it a day. But Byron opened the door and stepped outside with her, pulling it shut behind her.
She walked past him, shivering in the chilly autumn air. She would not lean into him and let his warmth surround her. She did not need him. She did not want him. She could not let him ruin everything she’d worked so hard for and that was that.
Once the door was shut, he took a step into her. He wasn’t touching her, not yet. “I’m sorry about Frances,” he said in a quiet voice. “She can be a little...protective.”
A part of Leona—the old part that cowered before her father—wanted to tell Byron it was all right and she’d smooth things over. But that part wasn’t going to save her son. So she didn’t. “Obviously.” He looked confused, as if he couldn’t guess that his sister would have been less than helpful in tracking Byron down. “I have no interest in reliving the past. That’s not why I’m here.”
She didn’t know what she expected him to do—but lifting his hand