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Bryce sets it down in the middle of the table, revealing a creamy cheesecake with fresh strawberries on top, drizzled in strawberry sauce.
He turns back for the kitchen, but Beatrice wraps her hand around his wrist. “Sit, my boy. Enjoy some dessert with us.”
His eyes dart to the empty chair beside me, and he shakes his head. “Dishes.”
I don’t know if it’s the embarrassing fact that he doesn’t want to sit next to me, or that he has to clean the dishes after slaving over a three-course meal, but I spring out of my seat. “The cook shouldn’t be on dish duty. I’ll do them.”
“No, I’ve got them.”
I waltz past him as if I didn’t hear him.
When I’m standing in front of the sink, I twist my hair into a top knot, and squeeze the soap onto the sponge. The door creaks behind me, and I chew my bottom lip waiting to see what Bryce will say.
Without turning around, I throw his words back at him. “You stare any harder, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”
“I’m not staring. I’m glaring at you for doing the dishes when I told you I’d do them.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Funny, your stares and your glares all look the same.”
He grunts, and walks toward me. “I don’t need you to help me. I’m perfectly capable of doing the dishes myself.”
“I know that. But my mother had a rule: The cook never cleans her own dishes.” I shrug. “You cooked an amazing three-course meal. The least I can do is help.” When he says nothing, I offer another option. “Why don’t I rinse off the dishes, and you can stack them in the dishwasher? Something tells me you’ve got rules about the way a dishwasher gets loaded. Tell me, have you thought of any new ones since this afternoon?”
He grunts again, propping his cane on the edge of the counter. “Not yet.”
“Maybe I’ll get some paper so you can write them down, and tack them onto the wall.” I laugh. “You know, you should be thrilled that I’m such a helpful guest. Anybody else would try to take advantage of your generosity.”
“They’d try, but they’d fail.”
I side-eye him, my gaze skating over his arms. “You’re right. They’d be too scared of you to try anything. I know I would be.”
His body stiffens beside me as if I doused him in ice water. “You’re afraid of me?”
“What? No. That’s not what I said.”
His eyes narrow, and he takes a step away from me. “What have you heard about me? Did Nana tell you, or did you look me up?”
What is he talking about?
My eyebrows draw together. “I haven’t heard anything. I was just joking with you.”
“Don’t lie to me. You wouldn’t have said that if you didn’t know something.”
Know what?
I turn off the faucet, and swivel to face him, pressing my wet palms to my chest. “I honestly don’t know what you are referring to.”
His eyes widen. “You’re a reporter.” He scrubs his hand over his jaw, and lets out a sardonic laugh. “This whole I’m sad because my mother died thing is all an act, isn’t it? Shit. You’ll stoop that low just to get a story. Unbelievable.”
“Excuse me?” Anger shoots through me like a bolt of electricity. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are speaking to me like that, but I can assure you, I would never lie about my mother’s death. Certainly not to get close to a jerk like you. How dare you accuse me of something like that.”
“Look, I—”
“No.” I plant my hands on my hips. “I might be a guest in your house, but that does not give you the right to talk to me this way. Add that to your list of rules.”
Before he can say another absurd word, I storm out of the kitchen, out of the inn, and I don’t stop until I’m inside the house.
His house.
