Rachel crossed her arms over her bulging abdomen. “It’s just normal pregnancy stuff. I am carrying the equivalent of an airline-approved carry-on around my middle.”
Andrew just looked at her until she gave an irritated little huff. “You can lower that arrogant eyebrow of yours. I admit it. Dr. Bingham is a little concerned about the swelling in my hands and feet. Overly concerned, if you ask me. He and Eli are friends, so…” Her eyes narrowed. “Did Eli call you?”
“I plead the Fifth.” Andrew grinned. “I received an order from the top to take control of things here while you go home, put your feet up and watch the cooking channel.”
Rachel scowled.
“Or knit baby booties.”
The flash of longing in her eyes surprised him. “I don’t knit.”
“You don’t cook, either, but that hasn’t stopped you from trying to master it. For the past two years.”
“Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite cousin? Because if I did, I take it back. And all the other nice things I might have said to inflate your already enormous ego—”
The intercom interrupted her. Rachel reached for the phone but Andrew beat her to it. “What’s your secretary’s name?”
“Zoe.” Rachel tried to pluck the phone out of his hand.
“Andrew Noble.” He winced as a high-pitched squeak pinched his eardrum. Probably because he’d managed to sneak in when she’d abandoned her post. “What can I do for you, Zoe?”
Rachel attempted another hostile takeover so Andrew swiveled the chair around. “Tell Mr. Chrone I’ll be the one meeting with him tomorrow morning about the estate. That’s right. Me.” Andrew hung up the phone and faced his cousin again. “Why are you still here?”
“What did they bribe you with to come to Chestnut Grove?” Rachel demanded. “Virginia is a long way from Rhode Island. Whatever it was, I’ll double it if you leave quietly.”
“No one bribed me.” Andrew shrugged. “I’m the only one in the family who leads the kind of wastrel existence that allows me to take over a huge charitable organization without advanced notice. Not that I’m not qualified to spend other people’s money. I’ve been doing that with Great-Grandpa’s trust fund for years.”
The flicker of sadness in Rachel’s eyes scraped against Andrew’s conscience. She might not listen to the gossip but she read the papers. There was no getting around the fact that, over the years, his reputation as an irresponsible playboy had stained the fabric of the Noble family. Still, they’d remained stubbornly loyal to him. Especially Rachel.
Sending up a prayer for forgiveness, he used that loyalty to his advantage. “Unless you don’t trust me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. Your smile will probably raise more money in a day than I could in a month. It’s just that…there’s no reason for all this fuss. I’m fine.”
Andrew might have believed her if she hadn’t ended the sentence by yawning.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Rachel. Let me take care of the Foundation while you take care of yourself and the baby. If Bingham gives you the green light to keep working, I’ll abdicate the throne.” He patted the leather armrests on the chair. “I promise.”
Because he expected round two, the sudden relief in her eyes stunned him.
“Fine. You win. You can even move into my loft if you need a place to stay. And come for dinner—”
Andrew had tasted Rachel’s cooking, and she was more gifted in the boardroom than she was the kitchen. “The Starlight Diner is just down the street.”
He laughed when Rachel glowered at him.
“If you need anything—”
“I’ll ask Zoe.”
“Mr. Chrone—”
“Collects baseball cards and raises African Violets,” Andrew finished.
“All right.” She didn’t move.
Andrew arched a brow. “Now what do you need?”
She grinned and wiggled her bare toes in the carpet. “My shoes. They’re under the desk.”
“Billionaire bachelor alert.” Miranda Jones looked up as Darcy, the young waitress who shared the breakfast and lunch shift with her at the Starlight Diner, swept into the kitchen and gave her a teasing grin. “And he’s sitting in your section. Again.”
Andrew Noble.
Miranda’s concentration dissolved. If a list of the world’s most eligible bachelors existed, Andrew’s name probably appeared at the top of it. The Noble family was the equivalent of American royalty and Andrew, the prince. The media loved him, even if all they could report were the details of his latest adventure in some exotic locale or the name of the woman who happened to be at his side for one of the Noble Foundation’s many fund-raising events.
He’d come into the diner earlier in the week and Miranda guessed he was visiting his cousin, Rachel Cavanaugh. Why he’d chosen the Starlight instead of one of Richmond’s swanky, award-winning restaurants, she had no idea. And now he was back. Three days later.
“You can wait on him,” she murmured. “I have to deliver this order to the boys at table five before they waste away.”
Darcy’s gum snapped in surprise, but then she grinned. “I’m not going to turn down that tip. Or the chance to stare into those dreamy eyes.” She sighed dramatically and put one hand over her heart.
“What about Greg?” Miranda felt compelled to bring up the name of the young deliveryman Darcy had been mooning over for the last two weeks.
“Greg? Greg who?” Darcy winked and straightened the collar of her pink polo shirt—the standard uniform of the diner waitstaff. She sashayed out of the kitchen, humming “Someday My Prince Will Come” under her breath.
Miranda exhaled in relief. Maybe she had just given up a generous tip but something about Andrew Noble flustered her.
You mean, other than the obvious, a voice in her head mocked. That he’s incredibly easy on the eyes and wealthy enough to live a life of leisure?
Something a working girl like her couldn’t begin to fathom. She’d never had a problem dealing with a customer before but, when Andrew had walked into the diner, her heart had responded with an unsettling kick. Darcy would welcome his attention. Miranda wished he’d find another restaurant.
“M.J. Snap out of it! Order up!” Isaac Tubman’s exasperated shout echoed around the kitchen. And probably the entire dining room. But no one would blink an eye. The regulars were used to the gruff old cook and his occasional tirades.
“Sorry.” Miranda scooped up the tray of hamburgers and took a step toward the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area.
“Don’t forget the garnish!” Isaac thundered, stopping her in her tracks.
“You’ve been watching Emeril again, haven’t you?” Miranda smiled but dutifully dropped a sprig of wilted parsley onto each plate.
Miranda heard Isaac chuckle as he turned back to the grill. She’d worked at the diner for four years, both as a waitress and a bookkeeper, and she’d learned right away that Isaac’s bark was worse than his bite. When her son, Daniel, had developed bronchitis shortly after Sandra Lange had hired her, it was Isaac who’d shown up at their apartment one evening with a container of homemade chicken noodle soup and his wooden checkerboard to entertain the little boy, giving her a much needed break.
In spite of Miranda’s reluctance to accept help from anyone, the simple gesture had endeared her to the old cook. As a single parent, Miranda had gotten used to doing everything on her own, But Daniel, her