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Morbid.
Clasping the woman’s hands between hers, she feigned a little smile. “Why would you say that?”
“This is Dalton House, and so it should stay.” Her beady eyes glared up at Derek. “Let me tell you—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Fellows,” he interrupted her.
Jeanine. That’s it. Jeanine Fellows.
“We can take comfort Miss Dalton is here for now, can’t we?” Derek patted the old lady’s hand, steering her away. Once she was gone, his arm came around her again, squeezing Breanna to his side. “Pay Jeanine no mind. She’s just missing the old days, grieving your grandmother.”
“I see that.” The massive door opened yet again, making her shiver.
His fingertips skimming over her bare back, goosebumps prickled her flesh. Derek leaned into her. “You’re cold.”
Duh.
Standing six feet from the door, who wouldn’t be? Not that he’d know in the genuine cashmere crewneck he wore beneath his tailored blazer. Well-fitted trousers in that subtle plaid he seemed to favor. Sleek leather loafers. Ralph would be so proud. Okay, maybe he looked hella fine, but that wasn’t the point.
“A little.”
“Forgive my thoughtlessness.” His arm remaining around her, Derek situated them away from the door, closer to the foyer’s welcoming fireplace. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
From this vantage point, she could see into other areas of the house. People walked about, holding drinks and little china plates piled with hors d’oeuvres. Starving, Breanna licked her lips. That croissant she had earlier stopped tiding her over ages ago.
And, of course, Derek noticed. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Me too.” He chuckled, lacing his fingers with hers. “Tell you what, we can join the party in a little while. Have some drinks. Get a little something in your stomach, okay?”
“Okay.”
“But don’t go overboard.” Glancing down at her, the smile nearly reached his eyes. “We’ll have our Thanksgiving dinner in private once the guests are gone.”
Ready to tell him she could stuff herself full with canapés and still make room for turkey and all the trimmings, Breanna pursed her lips. But then the sheriff came through the door carrying a white bakery box tied with string, and the retort flew from her head.
“Jordy.” She hugged him like an old friend, and considering he was the first person she met on this mountain, he was.
Balancing the box in his hand as they swayed, the portly man patted her back. “How’re you gettin’ on, Miss Breanna?”
“I’m good,” she said, pulling away from him. “Everything’s good.”
“Well, you’re as pretty as a picture now that you’re all cleaned up.”
Derek scowled. Whether because of her lack of decorum or the sheriff’s compliment, she couldn’t say.
Jordy cleared his throat. “Hank and his wife asked me to bring this for you.”
Breanna all but squealed. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Could be.” He grinned. “If you’re thinkin’ banana cream pie. Hank’s been beatin’ himself up over lettin’ you go out in that storm.”
“He couldn’t have known,” she said, hugging him again. “And I’m all right. Please thank him and his wife for me. I’m going to savor every delicious bite—it’s the best banana cream pie on the planet.”
“She was downright flattered that you thought so,” Jordy said, tipping the brim of his hat. “I’m gonna mosey on over to the kitchen, see what Francie’s up to. I’ll just, uh, tuck this away in the fridge for you.”
