Free The Welcoming by Nora Roberts Page B

rearranged his idea about breakfast and gossip in the kitchen. For now he’d make do with coffee.
    â€œWondered where you’d got to,” Mae said as she pulled bacon out of the refrigerator again.
    â€œI didn’t want to get in your way.” He nodded toward the coffeepot. “I thought I’d take a cup up with me.”
    â€œYou need fuel.” Dolores busied herself arranging a place setting across from Charity. “Isn’t that right, Mae? Man can’t work unless he has a proper breakfast.”
    Mae poured a cup. “He looks like he could run on empty well enough.”
    It was quite true, Charity thought. She knew what time he’d come in the night before, and he’d been up and working when she’d left the wing to oversee the breakfast shift. He couldn’t have gotten much more sleep than she had herself, but he didn’t look any the worse for wear.
    â€œMeals are part of your pay, Roman.” Though her appetite had fled, Charity nipped off a bite of bacon. “I believe Mae has some pancake batter left over, if you’d prefer that to eggs.”
    It was a cool invitation, so cool that Dolores opened her mouth to comment. Mae gave her a quick poke and a scowl. He accepted the coffee Mae shoved at him and drank it black.
    â€œEggs are fine.” But he didn’t sit down. The welcoming feel that was usually so much a part of the kitchen was not evident. Roman leaned against the counter and sipped while Mae cooked beside him.
    She wasn’t going to feel guilty, Charity told herself, ignoring a chastising look from Dolores. After all, she was the boss, and her business with Roman was . . . well, just business. But she couldn’t bear the long, strained silence.
    â€œMae, I’d like some petits fours and tea sandwiches this afternoon. The rain’s supposed to last all day, so we’ll have music and dancing in the gathering room.” Because breakfast seemed less and less appealing, Charity pulled a notepad out of her shirt pocket. “Fifty sandwiches should do if we have a cheese tray. We’ll set up an urn of tea, and one of hot chocolate.”
    â€œWhat time?”
    â€œAt three, I think. Then we can bring out the wine at five for anyone who wants to linger. You can have your niece help out.”
    She began making notes on the pad.
    She looked tired, Roman thought. Pale and heavy-eyed and surprisingly fragile. She’d apparently pulled her hair back in a hasty ponytail when it had still been damp. Little tendrils had escaped as they’d dried. They seemed lighter than the rest, their color more delicate than rich. He wanted to brush them away from her temples and watch the color come back into her cheeks.
    â€œFinish your eggs,” Mae told her. Then she nodded at Roman. “Yours are ready.”
    â€œThanks.” He sat down, wishing no more fervently than Charity that he was ten miles away.
    Dolores began to complain that the rain was making her sinuses swell.
    â€œPass the salt,” Roman murmured.
    Charity pushed it in his direction. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she snatched hers away.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” Charity poked her fork into her eggs. She knew from experience that it would be difficult to escape from the kitchen without cleaning her plate, and she intended to do it quickly.
    â€œNice day,” he said, because he wanted her to look at him again. She did, and pent-up anger was simmering in her eyes. He preferred it, he discovered, to the cool politeness that had been there.
    â€œI like the rain.”
    â€œLike I said”—he broke open his muffin—“it’s a nice day.”
    Dolores blew her nose heartily. Amusement curved the corners of Charity’s mouth before she managed to suppress it. “You’ll find the paint you need—wall, ceiling, trim—in the storage cellar. It’s marked for the proper