Burn For You

17

“Holy Christmas!” I said, stopping short to stare.

Rayford chuckled. “Told you we had a lot of books.”

A lot didn’t even begin to cover it. The library was three stories tall, capped with a vaulted ceiling painted with reproductions of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Chandeliers sparkled overhead. A huge marble fireplace yawned wide at one end of the room. A comfy-looking overstuffed sofa and chairs beckoned from a corner. And everywhere I looked, there were books. Stuffed into cases that scaled the walls, stacked in piles on enormous coffee tables, leather-bound spines glinting with gold script. Every one looked like a first edition. My fingers itched to touch them all.

From behind me a voice said, “Do you read?”

Of course it was Jackson. No one else could make that sound as if my literacy were in question.

“I’ve been known to,” I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from all the treats calling me so bewitchingly. Distracted and in awe, I added, “Just before he died, my father asked me what I thought heaven was like. I told him heaven was a library that had a lot of comfortable chairs, good lighting, and every book ever written. If I lived here, I’d spend all my time in this room.”

There was a short pause, then Jackson slowly moved into my peripheral vision. Thick scruff on his jaw, thick hair in need of a barber, thick head probably full of the howls of his woodland kin.

“That explains your interesting cocktail menu,” he said, his voice gruff.

I turned my head to look at him. “Interesting? Not pretentious?”

He met my gaze. His blue eyes didn’t look quite as steely as usual. In fact, they could almost be described as warm.

He said, “It’s only pretentious if you’re faking it.” He considered me in silence for a moment, his gaze piercing. “So the classics are your favorite?”

He was referring to my cocktail menu again, which, in addition to Romeo and Julep and The Last of the Mojitos, included other literary-inspired libations like Tequila Mockingbird and Huckleberry Sin. And yes, they were all inspired by classic books.

“The classics were my father’s favorites,” I said quietly. “I created the cocktail menu in honor of him.”

Because I was looking right into his eyes, I saw the brief flicker of regret there.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s because you didn’t bother to ask.”

Jackson and I stared at each other in silence until Rayford discreetly cleared his throat. “Ahem. Should we proceed to the kitchen, sir?”

Jackson gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, giving me a view of his broad back again. He strode away down the echoing hallway, turned a corner, and went out of sight.

“Well,” said Rayford, sounding a little dazed. “I think you’d best go buy yourself a lottery ticket, Miss Bianca.”

When I looked at him with my brows raised, he chuckled.

“Mr. Boudreaux hasn’t apologized to anyone in as long as I can remember. Today must be your lucky day.”

“Rayford,” I said, taking his arm. “Please don’t make me curse. My mama doesn’t like it.”

His chuckles echoing off the marble, he led me away from the library and down the hall.

“. . . and all the pans are in these drawers,” said Jackson, opening yet another enormous drawer to reveal an array of expensive pots and pans, neatly arranged.

He’d shown me through the entire kitchen, stalking from the pantry to the professional-grade range to the cabinets above the sink, and finally the wall of pullout drawers below the row of ovens. The kitchen was almost as big as the library, with its own fireplace at one end and a flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. Everything was gleaming, top-of-the-line perfection.

And Rayford had been right. The kitchen was far warmer than the rest of the house. With the fire snapping and popping in the hearth and the television tuned to a morning news show, it was almost cozy.

“The side patio will be used for a staging area,” Jackson continued, pointing to the French doors that opened onto a wide brick patio shaded by an arbor of wisteria vine. “The south lawn will be tented and set up with the dining tables. The silent auction is scheduled to begin at four with cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres, and the dinner seating begins at six.”

“Which event coordinator are you working with?”

Jackson mentioned the name of a well-known local coordinator who specialized in large events. I nodded, pleased by the choice.

He said, “She’s got all the rentals already covered, including china, glassware, linens, tables, all of it. Everything will be set the day before, so there should be no one in your way when you get started.”

That sounded good. Things were looking more together than I’d dared hope.

“I’ll need to talk to her about the buffet setup—”

“It’s not a buffet,” he interrupted. “Dinner will be served.”

Starting to sweat, I repeated, “Served?”

One side of Jackson’s mouth tilted up. “I’ve hired waitstaff. And bartenders. All you have to worry about is making the food.”

Oh sure. What a cinch. Easy peasy. Making enough food for three hundred people, keeping it hot without drying it out, and coordinating the simultaneous service of three hundred appetizers, entrees, and desserts—all while managing and directing a large waitstaff I’d only meet a few hours in advance—was absolutely no problemo.

Easiest twenty grand I’d ever earned.

My smile was much more confident than I felt. “Great. I’d like to talk to the coordinator today, if possible.”