then grabbed napkins from the cabinet above the refrigerator.
“Because…you’ve known my grandfather for years?”
Hands full, he turned to Grace. “Yes. Where do you want to eat?”
“How ’bout the family room? I was lying in front of the fire.” Grace eyed him, wondering quite literally where he had been all her life. A stupid thought in truth, since she was only seventeen. “Since you clearly have things under control, I’m going to go to the bathroom.”
As if enjoying some inside joke, he smiled. “That I do. But a fire, Grace? You do realize we live in Utah and it’s pretty warm right now?”
“You know what they say about those who can’t take the heat,” Grace said jokingly.
“Trust me. I can take the heat. I’ll meet you in the family room next to the fireplace. You know…where the heat is.”
Grace came back to a note sitting in front of the fireplace and no Quentin.
Meet me out back. Q
So much for being able to take the heat, she mentally scoffed, and walked through the double doors leading to the backyard oasis. Utah was known for its dry, arid desert; Morgan Manor was known for its views of distant stony canyons. It was beautiful.
Large blossoming fruit trees lined the path to the pillared gazebo where Grace expected to find him. From where she stood, all she could make out was the bell-shaped roof of the gazebo. Grace took in the scents of cherry and apple blossoms as she followed the path created with slabs of natural slate. The smell was more amazing than the views, in her opinion.
Not seeing Quentin under the gazebo, she continued down the path to its right and brushed aside a low-hanging branch to reveal a grassy clearing before her. Her eyes widened with surprise at the picnic setup Quentin had managed to pull together in the few minutes she was in the restroom.
In the middle of the grassy knoll, Quentin sat on top of a blanket, take-out boxes scattering the center of it. His shoulders bunched under his blue button-down shirt and his hair fell forward as he reached for the boxes, opening their tops. Still not noticing her, he mumbled to himself and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes. Grace quietly watched him with a smile, taking in the Quentin view. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbow. On his left wrist he wore a watch, and a thick leather bracelet on his right. She never noticed jewelry on a guy before, but on him, it looked totally hot. Her stare remained fixed on him as he pulled his leg up, to rest his elbow on his knee. Slowly, he pulled a napkin between his fingers. A fluttering in the pit of her stomach took her by surprise as she remained mesmerized by his hands
A soft breeze ran over her, and for a second, the smell of water and fresh night air enveloped her. Closing her eyes, she breathed it in. When she opened her eyes again, Quentin was turned around and watching her with a grin. The flutters instantly died down. She felt stupid, but seeing the picnic had her smiling back.
“Hungry?” he asked, still smiling.
Grace sat down across from him on the red gingham blanket, unable to contain a wide, toddler-like grin as she crossed her legs Indian-style and reached for a plate.
Quentin nodded toward the plate in her hand. “I would have already had your plate dished, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat.”
She gestured to the feast that he had set out. “Hello? You’ve done more than enough bringing me this food and the tissues.”
He handed her a wineglass full of liquid the color of sunshine and lifted his glass close to hers. “Here’s to new friendships.”
“To new friendships.” She gently touched her glass to his before taking a tentative sip. The liquid was lemonade. Homemade lemonade. Her favorite. “How’d you know?”
“Know what? That you’d like the lemonade?” He gave her a playful smile.
“That too. But no, the tissues.”
“Yesterday at the reception you continued to use that shredded-up tissue, and your nose looked more worn-out than the tissue. I figured there wasn’t anything softer in the house, or you would have found it. And Christophe told me about the lemonade.”
Inside she was torn. She was happy her grandfather had talked about her favorite things, but sad he wouldn’t be talking about anything ever again. “Perceptive and observant,” she said instead, not wanting to