A Place to Call Home

Chapter Three

Abby spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen, perfecting a recipe for the baking powder biscuits she planned to use to make strawberry shortcake that evening.

Some people escaped to the gym or a spa when their stress levels went off the charts. Abby escaped to the kitchen. Until she’d become friends with Jessica Benson, who’d joined the staff as a pastry chef at Porter Lakeside the previous winter, she hadn’t looked at herself as anything more than a dabbler in the culinary arts.

Jessica was the one who’d dared her one evening to serve her chocolate mousse crepes with raspberry vanilla sauce to the hotel guests rather than the appreciative wait staff that usually reaped the rewards of Abby’s stressful day.

They’d been such a hit that Jessica had included them on the dessert menu. The next day, she’d asked Abby why she was wasting her talents, doing what was expected of her, rather than being in the kitchen doing what she loved.

Once Abby had gotten over her initial defensiveness, they had become the best of friends. Not only had Jessica encouraged her not to settle on the path of least resistance, she’d been instrumental in bringing Abby to a crossroads where she’d made the most important decision of her life. To surrender her heart to God and follow Him. No matter where He led her.

And Abby was convinced, in spite of her fears and the occasional setback, that He’d led her to Mirror Lake.

She tipped her face toward the ceiling.

Thank You, Lord.

She felt as if she’d been repeating those three simple words over and over, but nothing else seemed to fit. She was thankful.

Don’t hold on to your fears, Jessica had told her the day she’d left. Hold on to God instead.

Sometimes that was easier said than done, but Abby was trying. While Jessica had sent her off with a hug and words of encouragement, Alex had lectured her. Warned her that sharing her home with the guests was a far cry from simply handing them a keycard and leaving them to their own devices. No privacy, he’d told her. Your life won’t be your own.

If Abby hadn’t understood the underlying reason for the warning, she might have been tempted to tell him that her life had never felt like her own anyway. But after she’d turned it over to the Lord, the excitement over what He planned to do with it overrode her fears. Most of the time.

Lost in thought, Abby stared down at the bowl of ingredients, wondering if she’d added the right amount of flour. With a sigh, she dumped it back into the canister and began to measure it out again.

This time, she couldn’t hold Alex responsible for the dozens of biscuits cooling on wire racks around the kitchen. Or the reason she was so distracted today. This time, her new carpenter was to blame.

Quinn O’Halloran.

She’d seen him mask his dismay when he’d walked into the lodge that morning. Not that she could blame him. There was a lot of work left to accomplish.

The to-do list taped to the refrigerator filled one side of a piece of paper and half the other. Daniel’s absence had already put her behind schedule. Which was the reason she’d agreed, against her better judgment, to let Quinn stay in one of the cabins.

As long as the cabins were ready for the grand opening, everything else would work out. Abby had discovered she wasn’t ready to put guests in the main house right away. Years of having her privacy fiercely guarded had seeped into her personality in ways she hadn’t acknowledged until she’d moved out from under the protection of her family’s last name.

The rhythmic tap of a hammer paused for a moment and Abby couldn’t resist peeking out the window. Quinn had left after she’d shown him the rest of the cabins but returned a few hours later and went straight to work. True to his word, he’d started with the cabin windows. Most of the building materials had been delivered before Abby arrived in Mirror Lake and she’d shown Quinn the musty garage where everything was stored.

His progress—and that, she told herself sternly, was what she was checking on—gave her a renewed hope that she would be open for business right on schedule.

Something moved near Quinn’s feet and even from the distance separating them, Abby knew what it was. Mulligan. He’d whined at the door when Quinn’s truck had returned, preferring to nap in the great outdoors at the new carpenter’s feet than with her in the sunlit kitchen.

The traitor.

After removing the last batch of biscuits from the oven, Abby cleaned up the kitchen and then slipped out the back door, where she’d hung a load of sheets and towels on the line.

On warm afternoons, she preferred to put the sun to work instead of the industrial-sized dryer in the utility room. The Porter Hotels’ housekeeping staff would have shaken their heads at the extra work but Abby found pleasure in doing things the old-fashioned way.

As she approached the cabin where Quinn was working, two dogs streaked toward her. Mulligan barked several times, as if introducing her to the lively, buff-colored cocker spaniel that bounced at his side as if it had springs in its paws.

Abby braced herself for impact but the dog pulled up short at the last second and sat down, lifting one dainty paw for her to shake.

Charmed, Abby set the laundry basket down and dropped to her knees. “Aren’t you a little sweetheart? What’s your name?”

“Abby, Lady. Lady, Abby.” Quinn sauntered over, pushing the hammer into the leather tool belt that rode low on his narrow hips. He’d swapped the khaki pants he’d been wearing that morning for a pair of well-worn jeans. “We’re roommates, so I had to bring her along.”

Which meant that other than Lady, Quinn lived alone. For some reason Abby’s heart—totally on its own accord—lifted and performed a brief pirouette at the thought.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Abby sincerely hoped that wasn’t true. “I wasn’t thinking anything. But now that you mention it, Lady is…”

“She’s what?” Quinn’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d heard it before.

Not the type of dog Abby would have pictured riding shotgun in Quinn’s pickup.

“Beautiful.” Abby smiled as the spaniel tried to squirm into her lap. “Mulligan will love having company. If you ask him, I think he’d tell you that I’m pretty boring.”

Not with that smile.

Quinn slapped the thought away as soon as it surfaced.

Apparently his former life wasn’t as ingrained as he’d thought. Because he’d broken one of the cardinal rules of the trade. Don’t get personally involved with a client.

You tried that once, remember? Look where it got you.

Frustration surged through him. Because nothing, beginning with his first glimpse of Abby Porter, had gone the way he’d expected.

First, he got another earful from Faye when he’d stopped by the office on his way through town. Even though the appointment book had a lot of white space, she’d been suspicious from the moment Quinn had informed her that he would be temporarily filling in for Daniel Redstone. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Faye scolded him often enough about his tendency to micromanage the business, so his sudden decision to turn O’Halloran Security over to his part-time employees for two weeks had been out of character. The promise of a new air conditioner had finally appeased her, and he’d managed to escape.

Conscious of the time, Quinn had driven home, tossed some of his possessions into the back of the truck and boosted an ecstatic Lady into the passenger seat.

On the way back to the lodge, Alex had called him. Twice, because Quinn had ignored the phone the first time. He wanted to know why Quinn wasn’t with Abby. He wanted to know how work on the inn was progressing. And he wanted Quinn to give him updates—daily updates—on how his sister seemed to be handling the stress.

The last request had given Quinn the opportunity to educate Alex on the difference between providing personal security and spying. Porter hadn’t been happy with the lesson but Quinn knew he had to draw the line somewhere. Plus, Alex’s attitude toward Abby had rubbed Quinn the wrong way. It was true she didn’t seem like the type to take on a project as large as renovating an old former Bible camp but something in the determined set of Abby’s chin made Quinn wonder if she wasn’t up to the challenge.

Quinn had been tempted to tell Porter that, too, except he didn’t know how to say it without sounding as if he were getting emotionally involved. And because he didn’t do emotionally involved anymore, he’d simply cut the conversation short and decided he’d be screening his calls from now on.

There’d been no sign of Abby when he parked the truck in the driveway, but he’d heard her singing along with the music filtering through the open windows. Relief had poured through him. If Abby was inside, it meant that he could be outside. And Quinn welcomed the chance to clear his head.

It had worked. Up until the moment he spotted Abby walking across the yard, a laundry basket anchored against one hip. The sight of her felt like another kick to his solar plexus.

If possible, she looked even prettier than she had that morning.

Quinn tried not to notice the way the sunlight picked out the gold and platinum highlights in her hair. Or how the bright pink apron, fashioned to look like a slice of watermelon, accentuated her slender waist and the gentle curve of her hips.

“Have you had Lady since she was a puppy?” Abby asked, unaware that her smile scraped like sandpaper against Quinn’s already frayed nerves.

“I inherited her.”

“Inherited her?”

“My dad passed away last year. Lady belonged to him.”

Quinn didn’t bother to add that the dog had been another innocent victim of his father’s neglect. The day before the funeral, Quinn had followed a rusty chain anchored around the post of the deck to a box made of scrap wood underneath an oak tree in the backyard. He knelt down to look inside and was stunned to see a pair of bright but wary eyes staring back at him.

Quinn hadn’t known his father even owned a dog but it didn’t surprise him a bit that he hadn’t taken care of it. Mike O’Halloran’s legacy was one of abuse and neglect. He’d let his family splinter apart, his house practically fall down around his ears and his locksmith business slide to the verge of bankruptcy.

While Quinn debated whether he should try and lure the dog out or simply call animal control, Lady had taken charge of the situation. She’d sidled up to him, her coat matted and dirty, and politely lifted a paw for him to shake.

Quinn had picked her up, taken her into the house and fed her. Then he gave her a bath. That night, Lady staked a claim near his feet when he went to bed.

She’d been there ever since.

“I’m sorry about your father.” Abby rose to her feet and laid her hand on Quinn’s arm. It took all his self-control not to jerk away from her touch. “My parents died when I was fourteen. They were flying home from a convention in a friend’s twin-engine plane. There was some sort of mechanical failure…” Her voice trailed off, the memory—and the pain—as fresh in her eyes as if it had happened only the week before.

“You mentioned a brother. Alex. Do you have other siblings?” Quinn thrust his hands in his pockets, jostling her hand from his arm.

A heartbeat of silence preceded her answer. “No. Just Alex. He’s eight years older than I am. He was finishing his last semester of college but he came home and took over the…I mean—” Abby caught herself. “He kept things going.”

Took over, Quinn thought wryly, was probably a more accurate description. Still, he couldn’t imagine the kind of pressure Alex Porter had faced after the death of their parents. Not only had he stepped into his father’s shoes as CEO of Porter Hotels, he’d become an instant guardian to a much younger sibling. It went a long way in explaining why he was so protective of Abby.

Their eyes met and she backpedaled, almost tripping over the laundry basket in the process. “I’ll put these sheets and towels inside the cabin for you.”

Quinn released a sigh as the two dogs bounded after her. When he followed a few minutes later, he found Abby in the kitchen, eyeing the meager bag of groceries he’d dumped in the middle of the kitchen table.

“You brought…food.”

“I don’t expect you to provide my meals.”

Abby’s teeth tucked into her lower lip, a habit that Quinn had noticed seemed to coincide with her desire to say something she wasn’t sure she should. The trait must have slipped through the cracks of the Porter DNA. Alex had no trouble saying what was on his mind.

“I know, but…” She picked up a can of ravioli and it looked to Quinn as if she shuddered. “It’s silly to cook for myself when I can easily make enough for two.”

Sharing meals with Abby. Quinn stifled a groan. Granted, it meant more time in her company but it also meant…more time in her company.

He scooped up a few cans of tuna and shoved them in the cupboard. “That isn’t necessary. I’ll make do.”

“I’ve been trying out different recipes to serve to the guests.” Abby paused to study the label on a loaf of white bread. “Daniel was my official food critic. And since you’re taking his place as my carpenter, you might as well take his place as the taste tester, too.”

The offer was reasonable. And generous. At the moment, Quinn wasn’t sure he was in the mood to be either. He didn’t want to get to know Abby better. “Thanks, but I’ll get more done if I work at my own pace and don’t have to stop for meals at certain times.”

I’ll get more done. He’d said the words deliberately but Abby didn’t react the way he’d expected. Instead, she stared at him thoughtfully, as if he were a chessboard and she was studying her next move.

“Mmm.” That was all she said. But instead of leaving, Abby began to sort through the groceries and put them away. Quinn joined in, only to speed up the process so he could get back to work. And put some distance between them again.

She clucked her tongue with something that sounded like disapproval.

Quinn slanted a look at Abby and caught her frowning at the can of soup in her hand. “What’s wrong? Is it expired?”

“It’s chicken noodle.”

“So?”

“If you put chicken and water and some noodles into a pot, it turns into chicken noodle soup. Homemade. Which means it tastes better.”

“That takes time.”

“So?”

Quinn resisted the urge to smile when Abby tossed the word back at him. “So I work a lot. It’s easier to open a can.”

Both were the truth. He didn’t work full-time as a carpenter, which was what Abby assumed he did for a living, but the long hours spent rebuilding O’Halloran Security called for sacrifices in other areas. Like his entire life. But that didn’t appear to matter. Abby rolled her eyes and put it in the cupboard next to a box of generic macaroni and cheese.

“Macaroni. Cheese. This isn’t hard to make, either,” she muttered.

“Really?” Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Because I would think it’s extremely challenging to locate fluorescent orange cheese, grind it into a powder and seal it in a tiny foil package.”

Abby laughed. The lilting sound poured through the tiny kitchen. And swept right through his defenses. Fortunately, Abby’s cell phone chirped, granting him a few moments to shore them up again.

“I’m sorry.” She glanced at the number and a shadow skimmed through her eyes. “I should take this.”

“No problem.” Quinn retreated to the cabin deck and picked up one of the windows. Through the screen, he could hear one side of the conversation.

“I don’t care and I don’t think my attorney will, either.” A long silence followed before Abby spoke again, her tone glacial. “Did he mention that Abby Porter is the one who called? No? Well, you might want to mention my name…yes. Thank you.”

Quinn’s lips twisted.

He’d never have put that autocratic, hand-me-my-crown-and-scepter voice with the woman in the paint-splattered T-shirt who’d offered to make him dinner.

What’s the matter? You expected to see this side of her.

That was true. But he hadn’t expected to be so disappointed.

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