huge walnut pieces tumbled onto her plate from the spoon in his hand. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Nobody noticed.”
“Of course they did,” she hissed. “The entire dining room saw me make an utter idiot of myself.”
“They saw you being human.”
She snorted, but didn’t speak. When the baked chicken and wild rice came Mason’s way, he served Nola, then himself. “You’ll get more attention if you don’t eat something,” he told her.
She picked up her fork, searching for a diversion of some kind. “Where is Garrett having dinner?”
“In the kitchen with the staff. They’re all practically family.”
Her first bite of the chicken awakened a cascade of food memories. “Mrs. Werner is still the cook?” Forgetting to be wary, she stared at Mason in surprise. “I always thought she would retire any minute. She must be in her seventies now.”
He nodded, smiling. “She brought in her daughter to help. And her granddaughter lends a hand for big occasions.”
The bread basket arrived. Nola unfolded the cloth and inhaled deeply. “Oh, they make the same rolls as when I was here. How wonderful!” She placed one roll on her plate, hesitated, then took another.
Beside her, Mason chuckled. “That’s the first enthusiasm I’ve seen you exhibit since you arrived.”
She tore off a piece and closed her eyes to savor the yeasty, buttery flavor. “I used to steal them,” she confessed. “I’d gather as many as I could get away with and put them in my shirt, under my sweater. After lights-out, I’d have this orgy of roll eating. They were so warm, so sweet—”
“Is that your best memory of Hawkridge School, then? The dinner rolls?”
The question seemed casual enough. Just in time, though, Nola recognized the easy familiarity that had sprung to life between them. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall under the spell of his grin, wouldn’t allow herself to be enchanted by his warm, intimate drawl. She didn’t need Mason Reed anymore.
So she would turn the tables on him. “I’d forgotten that about you,” she told him, spearing her fork into crunchy spinach and a juicy slice of orange.
“Forgotten what?”
“That you’re always asking questions, always poking and prodding, getting people to think, to reveal details they hadn’t planned to share.”
When she glanced at him, he was staring at her with his dark eyes round, his brows lifted. “I do that?”
“Don’t try that innocent face with me. You know you do it quite deliberately.”
“But you didn’t answer the question.”
“My favorite thing about Hawkridge…” She looked out over the dining hall, at all the girls settled in to eat, at the teachers sitting with them, keeping an eye out for any trouble, at the quiet, caring servers, mostly women, moving among them. At that moment, one of the staff set a bowl of ice cream and a steaming apple pie on their table, just to Mason’s right.
Confessing the truth would make her vulnerable. She had to stay strong, keep him at a distance.
“My favorite thing at Hawkridge,” Nola said firmly, “was always dessert.”
AFTER DISMISSING the girls from the dining hall, Tommy turned to Nola and Mason. “I’m having a few people in for drinks. Please come, both of you.”
Nola hesitated, but Mason did not. “Thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes on the headmistress, “but I think I’d better get Garrett home. He’s supposed to show up for a soccer game out in town at eight tomorrow morning.”
“So he is on a team?” Tommy asked. “I wasn’t sure you’d convince him to try out.”
Mason shrugged. “I can’t always get him to go to practice, which means he doesn’t get much chance to play. I’m hoping a few games spent sitting on the bench will change that behavior.”
Tommy nodded. “Well, good luck.” She turned to Nola. “Professor Shannon, can you join us?”
At that moment, Mason lost the battle to keep his gaze away from Nola Shannon. Her fair hair shone silver in the lights of the dining-hall chandeliers. She wore solid black—a shirt and slacks Mason thought were silk, and a jacket he knew was cashmere from the feel of it when he’d helped her put it on after the meal. He’d managed the process without actually touching her at all. Too bad he hadn’t held his breath, and so would have to remember the drift of expensive perfume he’d caught when she was close.
Then she shook her head in response to Tommy’s invitation. “I’m very grateful, but I flew out at six this morning and haven’t really caught my breath since then. Could I take a rain check?”
“Of course. I should have realized.” Tommy put her hand on Mason’s arm. “Your way goes past Pink’s Cottage. Be sure Nola gets home safe, won’t you?”
Not exactly what he’d intended, but at least Garrett could chaperone. “Sure.”
Tommy walked with them to the kitchen to give Mrs. Werner her compliments on the dinner, and then left for her own quarters in the main part of the Manor. Garrett sat at the big oak table in the center of the huge Victorian kitchen, finishing up a giant-size dish of apple pie and ice cream.
He ignored Mason, but his eyes lit up when he saw Nola. “Ms. Shannon! I got Homer down to the pond this afternoon. He slipped right into the grass like he belonged there.”
“I’m glad he felt at home,” Nola said. “I’m sure he was grateful to you for taking care of him.”
“Unlike some children,” Mason muttered to himself. More loudly, he said, “Finished, Garrett? We need to get home.”
Picking up the bowl, Garrett proceeded to slurp down the last of the melted ice cream.
“Garrett.” He closed his eyes in shame. “That’s rude.”
Slurp.
“I try,” Mason told Nola. “But he’s a boy.”
She smiled. “A suitable explanation.” Glancing around the room, Nola shook her head. “I spent more than my share of time in here. Whenever I made trouble—and I made a lot of trouble in the first couple of years—a teacher would assign me kitchen duty. I developed into a terrific potato peeler.”
“That you were.” Mrs. Werner set a wide ceramic bowl covered with a cloth on the table. “Did you like my rolls tonight, Miss Nola?”
Before Nola could answer, the cook tugged her into a hug. Caught in the ample embrace, Nola’s slender body remained stiff. After a moment, she lifted a hand and patted the cook’s shoulder, then drew back, putting a good distance between them.
“Of course,” she said, cheeks pink, voice shaky. “Those rolls are even better than I remembered.”
“You should take a few with you.” Mrs. Werner turned to one of the cabinets. “I always have leftovers.”
“No, really…” But Nola’s voice died away as she was handed a paper package. “Thank you,” she said, blushing yet again. “I’ll enjoy them, I know.”
Mason pulled Garrett’s chair away from the table, then scooted it back in when his son stood up. “We’ll get out of your way,” he told Mrs. Werner. “’Night.”
“More rolls in the morning,” Mrs. Werner told Nola. “Come for breakfast.”
They left through the kitchen door and turned west, toward Pink’s Cottage. “I’ll need a new wardrobe when I leave here,” Nola said. “I’ll have gained fifty pounds eating these rolls.”
“You’ll get your share of exercise,” Mason