My Secret Fantasies

“A message from my sister,” Miranda interjected, clutching her mug with both hands. He noticed a few of the stickers on her nails were peeling at the edges. “Apparently, Nina called the tearoom Friday and left her name. But that’s all.”

Miranda withdrew a mangled piece of pink paper and smoothed it out on the granite, pressing down the edges.

“See?” She pointed at the note.

“‘Miranda’s sister, Nina, called,’” he read aloud, frowning. “This is the sister you never talk to?”

“I only have one sibling.” Something about the stilted way she said it made him wonder if she was upset. With him? Or with her family situation?

He headed over to the counter to start a pot of coffee, one of the few things he ever used the massive kitchen for.

Joelle cleared her throat. “I was only speculating about what she wanted, but since Nina has never called the tearoom before and has hardly ever called Miranda—”

“Never,” Miranda clarified, staring down at the pink message.

“—it seemed like she might have something important to say. And from all accounts, she had an acrimonious parting with the bastard of an ex-husband.”

While Damien wondered what “accounts” she’d heard and from where, a sharp knock came at the back door a second before it opened. Footsteps sounded along the hardwood in the screened porch.

“Anybody home?” Scotty called, before opening a second door, between the porch and the kitchen.

Damien waved him in. The farmhand usually stopped by most workdays to grab a cup of coffee or to share something his wife had baked. Damien’s easy rapport with Scotty reminded him of the way Ted had treated him when he’d been running the farm. Damien had always appreciated feeling at home here. He may have doubled the size of the house, but some things he kept just the same.

“Come on in,” Miranda said, at the same time he did.

While they exchanged looks at their unexpected chorus, Scotty’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze glued to Miranda in a man’s bathrobe.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting.” Scotty’s feet stayed glued to the mat by the door. “I can come back later.”

“Don’t be silly,” she chided, waving him inside. “There are more quiches in the fridge if you want one.”

“Quiches?” Damien asked, his stomach rumbling, while Scotty practically sprinted to the side-by-side refrigerator.

“I made a bunch yesterday for your staff,” she announced, before turning to Joelle. “I used that recipe for a zucchini, bacon and Gruyère quiche. It was great.”

“The spinach and Swiss was my favorite,” Scotty called, already manhandling the aluminum foil tins stacked and labeled on one shelf.

Damien left the coffeepot to battle for his share of the leftovers.

“How many kinds did you make?” He turned on the oven even as he tried a bite of the light, flakey crust and amazing egg filling while it was still cold. “Wow.”

The doorbell rang before he could mumble anything else around the mouthful of the best quiche he’d ever eaten. Miranda could seriously cook.

“I so should have gotten dressed,” she muttered, sliding off her seat to answer it.

“I can get it.” Damien realized his kitchen—damn, his whole house—had never been so full. He hurried to beat her to the door.

“That’s okay, I’ve got it.” She waved him off, giving him a sexy wink over one shoulder. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

He followed her, anyway. Rumors of that bastard Rick left Damien unsettled, and he wasn’t leaving her alone anytime soon.

But when she pulled open the front door, it wasn’t a dirtbag former boyfriend standing there.

Petite Violet Whiteman had a point-and-shoot camera in her hand. Aimed right at Miranda.

“Miranda Cortland, why didn’t you tell me it was you!” she squealed as she clicked the shutter of her camera. “I had no idea I was visiting with the Nebraska Backstabber two days ago when we had tea in this kitchen!” Click, click. “I can’t believe you didn’t mention it once.”

Damien stepped between them, since Miranda looked too dazed by the flash to take action.

“Violet, this might not be the best time.”

8

“VIOLET.” I RECOVERED MYSELF enough to close my mouth so I didn’t look like a     dying fish in all the photographs. “Can we talk privately?”

I hoped I could reason with her somehow, because I sure as heck     didn’t want her to post those pictures online. Or anywhere.