breakfast, but that grant application still waited.
She’d just put a foot on the first tread of the stairwell when the front doorbell rang. Again.
Kara wasn’t a swearing woman, but a few choice words came to mind. She snatched the door open. “I have no comment!”
“All right, then. I do. I’m sorry about all of this.”
Her gaze rose and met Marcus Ambrose’s. She hated the way her breath caught.
“This is exactly the point I was making last night before the forum turned into a Marcus Ambrose fete.”
“May I come in? If they swing back and see me here they’ll just keep ringing the bell.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“May I come in?”
Kara nodded. Just as soon as she acquiesced, she wondered why she didn’t send the man packing. He’d disrupted her entire morning.
“Wow. Something smells great.”
“My casserole,” she said.
He followed her to the kitchen. Decorated in blue and white, the room had a country chic look and feel to it. Blue-and-white gingham curtains fluttered at open windows at the sink and behind a table with four chairs. The pattern repeated on the chair pads and place mats. But the appliances and all the kitchen accoutrements were top of the line.
She checked the breakfast casserole in the oven. Five more minutes.
“About last night,” he began. “It was great meeting you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you. The music and film festival.”
Kara shook her head. “No. I mean here.” She pointed to the floor. “In my kitchen.”
He shrugged, and Kara got a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a boy. Ready to charm his way out of anything.
“The inn was overrun with media.”
“And so you led them here? How could you?”
“Mrs. Younger showed me a shortcut.”
Kara nodded. “Through the alleys?”
“Bingo.”
“Well, thanks for getting rid of that reporter. You may leave now.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me to breakfast? Whatever’s in that oven smells too good to miss.”
The look on Marcus Ambrose’s face held such little-boy longing that Kara couldn’t resist.
He had rescued her, after all. Though, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t have been in need of rescuing—and she could take care of herself, thank you very much—if it hadn’t been for him. Still, there was plenty of sausage casserole. Would it kill her to be nice to him?
Yes!
But instead of kicking him out, she heard herself say, “The dishes are over there.”
Marcus set the table with a skill that surprised her.
She brewed two cups of tea. “I’m trying to wean myself off coffee,” she said. “I had a six-cup-a-day habit. But I can make a pot, if you’d like.”
He grinned. “I only drink green tea.”
“It figures,” she muttered.
“Is that a slam against Californians? Another stereotype, maybe?”
“Not at all.” She didn’t want to admit they had something in common. “You’re in luck, then, song man. I happen to have some green tea.” She tried to grab a canister of tea leaves without him seeing her extensive collection of teas, greens in particular.
“Song man?”
Kara blushed. Had she really said that? “I’m sorry. It’s what I always used to call you when my sister rhapsodized about you. She drove me crazy. She thought the sun rose and set for you.”
The telephone rang. Kara sighed. “Who now? The phone has been ringing nonstop all morning. I’ll never get any work done.”
“Would you like me to answer it?”
Horrified, she jumped up. “No.” She snatched up the cordless phone from the base. And a moment later she relaxed and sent a bright smile his way. “Hey, Patrice. I was just talking about you.”
That genuine smile, filled with affection and a hint of teasing, rippled through him the way the notes of a new song did. He relished the feeling, even though the chances of anything developing with the very attractive Kara Spencer were nil. She’d made that abundantly clear.
“Yeah, you left them over here. I put them in your room. Okay.”
She rang off and rejoined him at the table.
“Grace?”
Marcus bowed his head and said grace over their meal.
When was the last time he’d done that? He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal at a kitchen table. Anybody’s table.
This felt so good.
“I’m glad you recommended the inn. It’s great.”
“I told you.”
“But I’m not staying there. I’m looking for a house to rent while I’m here,” he fudged.
Kara nodded as she chewed. After washing her food down with orange juice she said, “There are several mansions over on Cherryville Drive that are available for lease. The paper did an article about them a couple of weeks ago.”
Something told Marcus that the hospitality and truce they were enjoying would end the moment he told her he’d actually found a house, next door, not one of the mansions. So he kept quiet. She’d find out soon enough. And she’d bite his head off then. No need to spoil a good breakfast.
A knock at the back door did that before he had a chance to.
Chapter Four
Before Kara even moved, the door burst open and a whirlwind blew in wearing jeans and a cropped T-shirt, a riot of corkscrew curls cascading down its back.
Kara groaned. “I’m sorry about this,” she told Marcus.
“Sorry about what?”
“Oh, my gosh. It’s really you!”
Marcus put down the forkful of breakfast casserole and stared up at the young woman. Then, remembering his manners, he rose.
“Patrice, Marcus. Marcus, this is Patrice Spencer, my sister. Your number one fan.”
“Well, hello. It’s always nice…”
She grabbed his arm, then let it go as if she’d been burned. “I have every one of your CDs.” To prove it, she plopped a gold tote bag on the table and then upended it. CD cases clacked against the table, and several of them hit the floor.
Marcus reached for them at the same time as Kara. The two bumped heads and then hands. A jolt of electricity ran up Kara’s arm. Her gaze connected with his and she felt again that sense of awareness, an inexplicable bond.
“I…”
“I’ll get them,” he said.
Kara nodded and rose. “Have you eaten?”
Patrice pulled out a chair and sat gazing at Marcus, a dreamy smile filling her face. “I just can’t believe.”
Kara waved a hand in front of her sister. “Hello. Earth to Patrice.”
“Here you go.” Marcus handed the CD cases to her.
“I