As Marci returned from showing two guests to their table, a tall man with deep blue eyes, dressed in khaki slacks and a navy blue blazer, stepped into the foyer of The Devon Rose.

      Christopher Morgan.

      He smiled when he saw her, the fine fan of lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re looking a lot better.”

      A disconcerting ripple of warmth spread through her as he drew close, and she wiped her palms down her slim black skirt. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

      “That’s good news.” He held up a familiar piece of paper. “I’m here to redeem my gift certificate.”

      Julie must have taken the reservation, Marci concluded, skimming the names on the day’s seating chart. There it was. Morgan. Table six. For two.

      He’d brought a date.

      Her warm feeling evaporated.

      Steeling herself, she looked up again, expecting to see some gorgeous female lurking behind him.

      Instead, a wiry, wizened old man with thin, neatly combed gray hair popped out and grinned at her. But he directed his question to Christopher.

      “Is this the lady who sent you the certificate?”

      “She’s the one.”

      Henry’s grin broadened as he inspected Marci. “It’s my birthday. Eighty-five years and counting.”

      “Wow! That does deserve a celebration.” Marci smiled back.

      “At my age, every day I wake up is worth celebrating.” His eyes twinkled as he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Henry Calhoun. I’m Christopher’s neighbor. Nice to meet you.”

      She returned his firm shake. “Marci Clay.”

      “Nice place you have here.” He perused the foyer and grand staircase. “My wife came here once, years ago. Had a great time, as I recall.”

      “We’ll do our best to see that you do, too.”

      The front door opened again, admitting more patrons, and Christopher turned to his companion. “We’d better let Ms. Clay show us to our table, Henry.”

      “Maybe she can stop by and chat with us again later.” The older man gave her a hopeful look.

      “I’d be happy to.”

      She led the way to their corner table in one of the twin parlors, offering them a tea menu. “Julie will be back in a few minutes to answer any questions and take your tea order. Enjoy the experience.”

      “We will,” Henry assured her. “I even wore a tie for the occasion.” He flapped the out-of-date accessory at her.

      Marci did her best to stifle a grin. Based on width alone, the tie had to be at least twenty years old. “You look very spiffy.”

      “Spiffy?” Christopher’s mouth tipped up in amusement, distracting her. He had nice lips, she noted.

      Jolted by that observation, she summoned up a frown to counter it. “What’s wrong with spiffy?”

      “Nothing. It’s just a rather old-fashioned term.”

      “Maybe she’s an old-fashioned girl,” Henry chimed in. “And if you ask me, no one’s ever come up with a better compliment than spiffy. Thank you, my dear.”

      “You’re very welcome. I’ll be back a little later to see how you enjoyed the tea.”

      Returning to the foyer, Marci continued to seat the guests, mindful of the pair of men at the corner table every time she entered the sitting room. Once the tea got underway, however, she worked a wedding shower in the dining room while Julie handled the twin sitting rooms on the other side of the foyer.

      But—much to her annoyance—her thoughts kept straying to the blue-eyed doctor. And each time they did, her fingers grew clumsy. She dropped a silver server on the floor. Sloshed some hot water on the white linen as she set down a fresh teapot. Knocked over the sugar bowl, sending cubes tumbling across the starched tablecloth.

      She tried to blame her fumblings on a simple physical awareness of the man’s striking good looks, but she knew it went deeper than that. Since his faux pas in the restaurant, he’d been a total gentleman. It didn’t seem fair to hold a brief lapse against him. He wasn’t the first man to notice her legs. Or her body. Nor would he be the last. But he was the first to apologize for his rude behavior.

      And that made him special.

      Who was he, really? Marci wondered, peeking over her shoulder as she lifted the lid on the tea chest so the bride-to-be could make her selection. She could just catch a glimpse of his strong profile as he spoke with Henry, the fragile bone china teacup looking child-size in his long, lean fingers. Had he been born on Nantucket? Where did he live? What did he do in his free time?

      Did he have a girlfriend?

      But none of those questions mattered, she reminded herself, turning back to the bride-to-be. Least of all the last one. She wasn’t going to be on Nantucket long enough to get to know anyone. She was here to rest and relax after seven grueling years of school and work. Then she’d begin her job search and build a future for herself that didn’t include slinging hash at Ronnie’s. Or relying on others to validate her.

      She’d done that once, and it had been a huge mistake. One she didn’t intend to repeat. Going forward, only the two men she trusted to love her for the right reasons would be granted access to her heart: her brothers, J.C. and Nathan.

      Yet as she closed the tea chest and took one more wistful glance across the room toward the tall, handsome man juggling a teacup, she found herself wishing there could be an exception to that rule.

      Even though she knew such romantic fancies were only the stuff of fairy tales.