“Cioppino.” He poured wine into the pot, and then into the glasses.
“Whatever—it smells great.”
“I know this, pancakes, how to roast a chicken, and I grill a mean steak.”
She lifted her glass. “To better days.”
Mike tapped his glass against hers. “To better days. Now, what else do you want me to do? We’ve got an hour for this to simmer. And I never did catch your name.”
Her mouth pursed and he wondered if she was going to give him some smart-ass answer. Instead, she stuck out her hand. “Karen Whitaker.”
Chapter Three
Karen had to admit—the guy had a great hand shake. Solid, no sweaty palm, warm skin and the only fault she could make were the fingernails that looked manicured and polished. Not like her hands. She pulled back fast from the touch, her face warm. Everything about the guy—even when soaking wet—screamed polished and perfect.
Small droplets of water clung to his da
rk hair still, leaving damp curls. Her fingers twitched thinking about pushing them back in shape—or way out of order.
“So you going to say how long you’ve been here?”
She waved a hand. “The hotel—forever just about. But…” the words faded and she had to pull in a breath and push past the sharp pain that still caught her. “My folks came here to retire. They wanted to run a small, homey hotel. It was a great place to visit for me. At least for a time.”
He glanced at her and turned to stir his fancy fish stew, adding some seasonings. “You said another storm hit last year?”
She gave a dry laugh. “One too many, right? It took out a lot of buildings in the area.” She looked down at the scarred wooden table. She didn’t want to think about how many had also died—her parents included.
Thank God, he didn’t ask.
Instead, he stirred the fish stew and nodded. “Lost my folks way back. I don’t even remember when. If it hadn’t have been for Zach—my older brother—I didn’t know where I’d be. He just about raised me.” He glanced at her, more understanding in his eyes than she would have thought possible—he’d seemed like such an all-business jerk when he’d shown up.
His mouth crooked in a small smile, and her pulse took off. Her mouth dried and she looked away, her cheeks hot.
Her cheeks had always flushed with every little thing. It was a bad habit and one that she unfortunately had never really grown out of.
“Hey, got any bread?”
She looked up and found Mike smiling at her. This time she was ready for the charm and she threw a blanket on her reaction. Getting up, she dug out bread, fixings for a salad. She pulled down trays and Mike helped her with plates and silverware. “Room service with a flare. Got any books around and candles? You want folks relaxing. Maybe we should take them some wine?”
She shook her head. “If things get really bad I want everyone sober. Besides, I can’t afford—” She bit off the words.
He glanced at her. “Can’t afford?”
“Supplies may not be getting to the island right away after this storm. So let’s not splurge just yet.”
She carried trays off to the other guests. Mr. and Mrs. Nesser, an older couple, seemed to regard the storm as an adventure. They loved the hot soup, held hands, and she was pretty sure they planned to spend the rest of the evening in bed together. It was nice to see the romance hadn’t gone out of their long marriage. Sighing, Karen headed to the next guest. Juilet Sparrow was too busy taking video of the storm to even think about food and waved her off, but Ted Gunderson looked pale and ready to expire of fright at any second. He kept her with a hundred questions about their safety. When she finally had him calmed down, she leaned against the wall and put a hand to her face.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the storm just swept the hotel away. She was close to giving up. Her folks hadn’t taken out enough insurance to cover the damage from the last storm, and the insurance company had been more than slow to pay.
Now she had a looming payment on the debt she’d been stupid enough to fall for as well—thank you for nothing, Lyle—and her school loans, and this storm was going to put another hole in her budget with more repairs and a fewer guests for a time.
She shook her head. Maybe the smart thing would be to sell, but if she did that now, she’d take a loss. And she’d be failing her parents. They’d loved this place. She wanted their lives to have meant something—to have stood for something.
She thought about the offer that ‘Pops’ Warner had made her. It had been an outrageous proposal. “Marry me! You could go back to school and come home on the weekends or something.”
She’d almost laughed. Pushing sixty, Pops had already buried two wives and divorced two others. He kept his hair determinedly black and liked to wear tropical shirts that hung open to show off his tan—and wrinkled chest. He’d wiggled his eyebrows and winked at her. “All you’ll have to do is keep up with your wifely duties. If you know what I’m saying?”
She’d turned him down, trying to be as nice as she could. But no way was she jumping from one fire to the next. Lyle had put her off men in general and smooth-taking, charming men in particular. She wasn’t falling for that white knight act again. No way.