“One sister. One brother.”
“Maybe they’ll come out to visit. We give employees a ten-percent discount.”
Memphis shook her head, her gaze dropping to the table. “We’re not, um . . . close.”
That explained why her sister or brother hadn’t come to Montana with her. My siblings drove me bat-shit crazy, but I couldn’t imagine life without them. But what about her parents? Memphis didn’t offer anything else, and Eloise, who I could normally count on to be nosy as hell, didn’t ask.
My hands moved automatically to assemble two plates, and when they were ready, I slid them across the table.
“Thank you.” Memphis inched the plate closer, carefully folding a taco before taking a bite.
Some chefs didn’t like watching people eat their food. They feared the raw reaction. Not me. I loved watching that first bite. In my early days at culinary school, I’d learned from expressions, both good and bad.
Except I should have looked away.
Memphis moaned. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Any other person and I’d give myself a pat on the back and take it as a job well done.
With Memphis, my heart thumped and a surge of blood raced to my groin. Watching her eat was erotic. Only one other woman had had the same impact. And she’d fucked me over ruthlessly.
Trouble. Goddamn trouble. I needed Memphis out of my kitchen and, before long, out of my loft.
“This is amazing,” she said.
“It’s just tacos,” I grumbled, focusing on the other plates. I didn’t want her compliments. I’d rather she hate the food.
“Knox is the best,” Eloise said, taking her own bite.
“It’s been a long time since anyone has cooked for me.” Memphis scooped a spoonful of my fresh pico, readying her next bite. “Unless you count Ronald McDonald.”
Eloise’s mouth was too full for her to speak but that didn’t matter. I told you so was written all over her face. Her phone rang and she plucked it up from the table, muffling a groan as she swallowed. “I’ve got to take this. Come find me when you’re done,” she told Memphis before picking up her plate and scurrying out of the room.
The doorbell at the alley door buzzed. Our food supplier came every Monday. Bless him for being three hours early. It was the perfect excuse to escape this kitchen, but before I could make a move, Skip shut off the flat top and untied his apron. “I’ll get it. You eat.”
“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth.
I didn’t take my plate to the stool beside Memphis. I inhaled a taco while standing beside the prep table. The sound of our chewing mixed with Skip’s muted voice as he chatted with the delivery driver.
Then a phone rang.
Memphis put her food down and dug her phone from her pocket. She frowned at the screen, then silenced the call. Not two seconds later, it rang again. She declined it too. “Sorry.”
“Do you need to get that?”
“No, it’s fine.” Except the strain on her face said it wasn’t fine. And she didn’t touch her food again. What the hell? “Thank you for lunch. It was delicious.”
I waved her off when she stood to clear her plate. “Just leave it.”
“Oh, okay.” She wiped her hands on her gray slacks. Her black sweater hung on her shoulders, like it had once fit but now was too loose. Then she was gone, rushing out of the kitchen with her phone clutched in her grip.
Skip came down the hallway with a box, setting it on the table. The delivery guy followed with a dolly.
I signed for the order, then began putting my produce away in the walk-in.
“So who was that?” Skip asked. “New front desk clerk?”
“Housekeeper.”
He grinned. “She’s a looker. You interested?”
“No,” I lied, picking up an apple to run my thumb across the taut, waxy skin. “Once the lunch rush is over, let’s make an apple pie or two for the dinner dessert menu.”
In another life, another world, I’d chase a woman like Memphis. But I’d spent the last five years in reality.
She was a hotel employee. My temporary tenant. Nothing more.
Memphis Ward was none of my damn business.
CHAPTER THREE
MEMPHIS
The numbers on the microwave’s clock taunted me as I paced the length of the loft. With every turn, the green glow caught my eye and earned a sigh of despair.
Three nineteen.
Drake had been crying since one.
I’d been crying since two.
“Baby.” A tear dripped down my cheek. “I don’t know what to do for you.”
He wailed, his face red and his nose scrunched. He looked as miserable as I felt.
I’d fed him a bottle. I’d changed his diaper. I’d swaddled him. I’d unswaddled him. I’d rocked him in my arms. I’d propped him against a shoulder.
Nothing had worked. Nothing I was doing would make him stop crying.
Nothing I was doing was . . . right.
Did all new mothers feel this helpless?
“Shh. Shh. Shh.” I walked toward an open window, needing some fresh air. “It’s okay. It will be okay.”
Before I’d left New York, his pediatrician had told me that colic typically peaked at six weeks old, then began to decline. But Drake’s seemed to be getting worse.
His legs stiffened. His eyes were squeezed shut. He squirmed, like the last person on earth he wanted to be stuck with was me.
“It’s okay,” I whispered as my chin quivered. This would pass. Eventually, this would pass. He’d never know how he’d tormented me as an infant. He’d never know that I was hovering above rock bottom. He’d never know that being a mother was so damn hard.
He’d simply know that I loved him.
“I love you, baby.” I kissed his forehead and closed my eyes.
God, I was tired. I’d stopped nursing because he’d been so fussy. Maybe that had been a mistake. The expensive, sensitive-tummy formula that was supposed to help only drained my bank account.
My feet hurt. My arms hurt. My back hurt.
My heart hurt.
Maybe I was in over my head. Maybe this move had been a horrible idea. But the alternative . . .
There hadn’t been an alternative. And since I’d been here less than a week, I wasn’t ready to call this a mistake. Not yet.
Don’t give up.
“One more day, right? We’ll make it one more day, then rest this weekend.”
Tomorrow—or today—I’d be splurging on a triple-shot latte before going to the hotel. Caffeine would get me through my Friday. And this weekend, we’d recharge.
I only had to survive one more day.
My first four days at The Eloise Inn had flown by. Monday, I’d spent doing paperwork and orientation. Tuesday, I’d jumped into cleaning. After three days of scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming and making beds, every muscle in my body ached. Muscles I hadn’t even known existed were screaming.
But it had been a good week. Granted, the bar for good days wasn’t all that high, but we’d made it to Thursday—or Friday—and that was a win.
Drake had been an angel at daycare. Every evening when I’d picked him up, I’d braced for news of an expulsion. But Drake seemed to save these fits for the night. For the dark hours when the only person around to hear him cry was me.