Deacon woke up starving. His first coherent thought was Breakfast at Macy’s, but he wasn’t thinking about toast and eggs, or bagels and coffee. Even as his stomach growled, his imagination lingered on the curve of Macy’s cheek, the spark in her eye, the way she laughed.
He couldn’t wait for breakfast because he liked her. Macy was a cake baker, a matchmaker, and a society girl who didn’t seem to notice she was cut from a different, spectacular cloth. She was a wild thing. He saw it in her eyes—a barefoot girl who marched to her own drummer. And he wanted to get to know her better.
Way better.
He rubbed his jawline and decided against shaving so he could slip out before George started puttering around the kitchen. He and George were Aunt Fran’s two favorite men. They were like brothers, antagonizing each other one minute, best pals the next. This morning, Deacon didn’t want to deal with the man’s sly brand of humor.
But just as he was about to close the front door behind him, George showed up in the living room.
“Morning,” he called to Deacon in a singsong voice, as if he’d caught him out.
Which he had.
Deacon sighed and opened the door again. “Not a good way to start the day, seeing you.”
“The feeling’s mutual. You make me feel ugly, you brute, with my bedhead and your GQ hair.” George was in a multicolored robe Aunt Fran had brought him back from a safari trip. “Where ya headed? Not out for a run, obviously.”
Deacon was in jeans, an old L.L.Bean sweater, and a button-down with a frayed collar. “Over to Macy Frost’s for breakfast. And a rundown of the women she’s lined up for me.”
George gave a short laugh. “I like Macy, but this dating scheme is just a tad ridiculous.”
“Agreed.”
“Why are you doing it then?”
Deacon hated starting off the day feeling testy, but he was moving in that direction. “It was Aunt Fran’s greatest desire. She told me in front of you. So why are you rubbing it in?”
“Because it’s the pot calling the kettle black. It will be a cold day in hell when Fran ever settles down, after all the bad luck she’s had. So why is she wishing that on you? It’s a little weird. And hypocritical. I kinda thought you’d remind her of that.”
“You want me to tell her those husbands who didn’t appreciate her were a waste of her time? You really think that would go over well?”
George scratched his chin. “No.”
“I owe her, George,” Deacon said. “It’s kind of heroic, actually, that she has the energy to hope for me in the romance department, in spite of giving up for herself.”
George nodded slowly. “I guess I see your point. We have to get her having hope for herself again.”
“Not a bad idea. Do you think she moved here to investigate a new crop of men?”
George shook his head. “She’s bored, is all. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You’re the guy everybody wants to hang out with.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“Good thing we run with different crowds, brother.”
“I’d hate to fight you for top-dog status,” Deacon said, his mood improving. “I have no idea who’d win.”
George lofted a brow. “If the competition’s about who can pick out the prettiest shelf paper or bake the best roasted chicken, I would.”
“By a landslide.” Deacon winked and shut the door.
When he knocked on Macy’s real front door less than a minute later—the sidewalk one was ajar, presumably just for him—Macy yelled, “Come into the kitchen!”
He hoped she had something besides yogurt and granola. He was spoiled at his aunt’s house, thanks to George. No cold breakfast for him.
At least there was hot coffee. He followed the smell of it past the foyer with a stately, simple staircase into a formal dining room that looked like it was straight out of the olden days except for the modern silver vase filled with poinsettias on the sideboard. He pushed open a swinging wooden door into a vast kitchen with a large brick fireplace at the other end. Strung across its mantel was a line of paper reindeer.
“So I fancy myself a Waffle House cook in another life.” Macy wore a Santa hat and a half-apron with snowmen stitched all over it. She was busy making waffles, toast, fried eggs, bacon, and hash browns.
Sunshine and breakfast with an honest-to-goodness elf. George couldn’t top this. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” he said. “I should have worn my Santa hat.”
“It’s on the table,” she said.
Sure enough, it was. He put it on. She laughed.
“What’s the Waffle House?” he asked.
“A Southerner’s favorite place to eat breakfast at two in the morning.” She smiled. “You have to be a little bit drunk when you go.”
“Ah. Sounds fun.”
“We’ll have to try it sometime.” She had a twinkle in her eye.
“I’d love to.”
With the flick of a wrist, she shut the lid on the waffle iron. “How do you like your eggs?”
He loved her expert confidence. “Over easy is fine. Wow. This is some breakfast.”
“Thanks. Grab yourself a cup of coffee.” She had a whole coffee bar set up.
“I think I want to come over every day for breakfast now.”
“I’ll do this another time for George and Fran, too,” she declared. “But today we need to tackle some business.”
“Sure. In our Santa hats?”
“We have a lot to be jolly about, right? Fran will be thrilled you’re getting started on delivering her Christmas present.” Her eyes were bright. Wide open. Honest.
He was a little disappointed she was so excited about the idea. “Fine,” he said. “But first I have to say, this place is awesome.”
“Thanks. It needs some work. But it’s all mine. And I mean to make my grandmother proud by keeping it up for future generations of my family.”
“Yeah, sorry what I said about the tilt. Good for you for taking care of a special house like this.”
“It’s seen a lot. So has Two Love Lane.” She was busy with the eggs, and then the next second she was pouring orange juice and flipping hash browns.
“You own that property, too?”
“I do. With my two business partners and best friends, Greer and Ella.”
“Real estate is a great investment. In fact, sometimes I wonder why I went toward the tech sector. I love houses. I always loved Monopoly.”
She grinned. “I liked Clue.”
“Great game. You got a billiard room here? Or a conservatory?”
“No, thank God.” She stirred a few pots. “And no neighbors named Colonel Mustard or Professor Plum.”
“That’s good.” He liked how light things were.
She opened a cupboard and brought out two mismatched plates. Apparently, she was done cooking. Everything was hot, steaming, or fried to a golden crisp, and smelled fantastic.
Of course, nothing smelled as good as her flower scent, the one he’d liked the other day. He was tempted to lean in. And he did—
Just as she turned around to face him.
He pulled back.
“Wow,” she said, looking adorable in her Santa hat. “You’re right there.”
“You smell good,” he said. Like an idiot.
But it made her blush. “I do?”
“Yes. Like flowers.”
“Thank you.” She gave a light sigh. “All I can smell is bacon.”
“Really?” He lifted his chin. “You sure you can’t smell my new soap on a rope? Aunt Fran got it for me in the British Virgin Islands.”
She made a skeptical face. “Really, Banks?”
“Why not, Frost?” He crossed his arms. “Soap on a rope is key to leading a manly life.”
She shot him a small grin and leaned in. “Mmm,” she said. “It’s very nice.”
“Why, thank you.” This was the point where he’d usually try to kiss the girl. He always knew what the next step would be.
But not with Macy.
“Is there anything here you don’t like?” she asked expectantly, hovering over the food.
“Uh, no. I like it all.” He meant her, of course. But he still wasn’t sure exactly why. He’d met many gorgeous, charming, smart women over the years, several of whom were amazing cooks. What was it about this one that threw him off kilter?
“I’m glad you’re not a picky eater,” she said, her manner brisk. “Have a seat. I put a file from Two Love Lane next to your place setting. You can start looking through it while I dish up.”
So he did. He sat, and it felt like home with the little blue vase and the single lush pink blossom in it. His ancient floral linen placemat had to be from the 1950s or early ’60s. Macy had paired a faded red linen napkin with it. He also had a fork lying primly on the left, with a seashell pattern on its end, and a matching butter knife, blade turned in, on the right.
Damn, that cutlery was heavy.
“That’s my grandmother’s sterling silver,” she said.
“You use it every day?”
“Sure do.”
So she was old-fashioned but eclectic, too. He couldn’t call her formal. She was too warm for that. George would love her style.
“What kind of flower is this?” He eyed the blossom in the vase and thought how well it went with Macy’s personality. It was sunshiney and open but elegant, too.
“A camellia from my back garden.” She poured two glasses of orange juice from a glass pitcher.
“You didn’t squeeze that juice, did you?”
“Of course,” she said, and held up an old hand juicer. “Good for my grip.”
“You play tennis?”
“Yes. But badly. As for camellias, they bloom in winter. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Yes.” He wanted to play tennis with her—that morning. Too bad she had to work. He opened the file on the women, and words, words, words leapt out at him. He didn’t feel like reading. He wanted to talk. But he tried to read the file because this was business, and she clearly wanted to keep it so.
He perused the names and photos at the top of each page: Tiffany (cuddling a kitten; absurdly pretty). Louisa (outdoorsy in hiking boots). Rena (dark-eyed; holding an artist’s paint brush in front of a canvas). Barney (wearing glasses and a ponytail; definitely pretty).
But anyone could be pretty. Go to any makeup artist and be transformed. It took someone special, someone different, however, to be striking. It meant something intriguing in a woman’s personality was revealed on her face. He much preferred to keep company with a woman who could claim his attention that way.
Although gorgeous didn’t hurt. Gorgeous kicked off that instantaneous man reaction in him which had everything to do with sex and nothing to do with long-lasting rapport.
Macy was gorgeous. But she was also striking. That was a deadly combination when Deacon wanted to keep thinking bachelor thoughts.
“Barney’s an interesting name,” he said.
“Barney is short for Barnwell, a surname in her family,” Macy explained. “Barney’s great. You’ll love her. She’s a firefighter.”
“For real?”
“Yes. She’s got some great stories to tell.”
A few seconds later, she brought over his plate with everything on it. Somehow he was supposed to eat all that.
“Do you prefer real maple syrup or the fake kind?” she asked.
“Either.” He liked how she fussed over him.
“I like Log Cabin,” she said, “and I will never change. But I have both.”
While she retrieved them, she asked if he wanted blueberries and/or whipped cream on his waffle, or just butter, along with his preferred syrup.
“Just butter, please.”
“That’s how I like my waffle.” She beamed. It was too early in the morning to tolerate people beaming at him, but somehow he liked when she did. And he was glad he’d pleased her.
What was wrong with him? Everyone understood why he’d want his aunt’s approval, considering that she gave up so much just to raise him. But this girl … he barely knew her.
She sat down opposite him and slathered her waffle with butter. Then she poured Log Cabin syrup all over it and sighed. “I love breakfast,” she said. “Please dig in.”
So he did. Their eyes met across the table. He read sheer enjoyment in hers. And he was happy too. Food was good.
But so was sex. And a man eating a delicious breakfast opposite a beautiful woman who’d cooked it for him and fussed over him would also be thinking about sex with her.
He tried not to. They talked about the nice weather for December. He’d never had such a temperate holiday season. She told him about the Christmas boat parade that night. She ate a piece of bacon with obvious gusto. And then another.
“I’m sorry you have a bacon allergy,” he said with a straight face.
“Yeah. It’s terrible.” She chuckled.
They had a companionable ten seconds together watching Oscar roll on the floor, hoping for some tummy scratches. Deacon took the file folder and scratched him behind the ears with it.
Macy rubbed Oscar’s belly with the tip of her shoe then looked up at Deacon. “Hey, your aunt should have a little boat parade party.”
“She is,” he said. “Celia arranged it.”
“Oh, great! I’ll gladly watch it from your balcony.” She paused. “Not that I’m inviting myself.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “We’re neighbors. Aunt Fran was going to ask you today, so I will, instead.”
She was quiet. Some sort of awkwardness descended where it really should not be, not after their happy little breakfast. She took a few sips of coffee without speaking. He made another cursory glance through the papers in the file, but none of those women interested him at all. He was sure they were perfectly nice and would make for enjoyable dates for any man. But his heart wasn’t in it.
What was he doing in Charleston? That question popped into his head, even though he already knew the answer: He was here to give his aunt a month of his time. He’d carved out this time, just for her. Everyone he worked with had prepared themselves. So had he.
Yet he didn’t know what to do with so much unscheduled time. He wasn’t comfortable with it. He had too much time to think.…
But he didn’t even know about what.
“You seem really tense right now,” Macy said. “Is something upsetting you? Is it this dating thing?”
He shook his head and focused on his over-easy egg.
She took another bite of hers. “No date has to last longer than two hours. Honestly, if one of these women isn’t your type at all, the date could be concluded in an hour and a half. That’s considered long enough to be respectful and polite.”
“Fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He wanted to go on a date with her. He didn’t want her to be his so-called tour guide at Waffle House. He wanted more.
When Deacon knew something, he confronted it head-on. But for some reason, with Macy he felt he had to tread carefully. Maybe it was because she was Southern, and he felt like an outsider here. He didn’t want to step on toes and totally ruin his chances with her.
He wanted that chance.
She kept eating. So did he.
Suddenly, she put her fork down. “I’ve heard from Fran and George that you’ve had a lot success with women.”
He lofted a brow. “And I’m sure that’s just how they explained it.”
She smiled. “They said you love ’em and leave ’em. Actually, that they leave you because you’re not into commitment.”
“That’s more accurate.”
“But is dating itself hard for you? Plenty of CEOs know what to do in the boardroom but have a difficult time partnering on a date—the give-and-take that’s required. So they never bother to learn. I mean, powerful men often have women waiting in line, so dating isn’t something they need to put a lot of thought into.”
He put his fork down, too. “Do you really think I might have that issue? Not knowing how to be a good date?”
She popped a blueberry in her mouth with her fingers. “I’m not sure. You were awfully demanding in my office. But that was business. So was Fast and French. I have no idea how you’d be on a real date. It’s something to watch out for, is all.”
“Duly noted.” She was in pro matchmaker mode. He wanted her back as Macy the wannabe Waffle House cook.
“It’s also okay,” she said, “not to be familiar with or like this artificial way of dating. Blind dates are hard.”
“I’ve been on blind dates. That’s how I met my last girlfriend.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. That weird awkwardness was back. She pressed her napkin to her lips, then stood, her coffee mug in her hand. “Can I get you a refill? Coffee? Juice?”
“No, thanks.” He stood too, and followed her to the counter, but held back a ways. “Thanks for a great breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Don’t forget your file, okay?”
“Right.” He strode quickly back to the table and picked it up.
When he turned back around, she’d lifted her mug to her lips, and all he saw was her eyes, which were deep, and warm, and bright beneath her Santa hat. He knew then that he’d keep that image of her forever, might even dream it at some point.
She put the mug gently on the counter and said, “I think these four women are all great.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Feel free to set up follow-up dates on your own. And you might even meet someone else at one of the parties you’ll no doubt be invited to. This goes without saying, but ask out anyone who seems interesting to you.”
“Right.” Except he couldn’t ask her out. Not yet. And she was the one he wanted to take to dinner, pull out a chair and buy a glass of champagne for. He wanted to woo her, the old-fashioned way.
She went to work rinsing their dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “I’ve got one more thing before I have to head out. You know how I get to work on finding you a soulmate?”
“You like to remind me of that.” He put the leftover orange juice and the butter in the fridge before grabbing a paper towel, dampening it, and wiping down the Log Cabin bottle.
She shut the dishwasher. “There’s something bothering me about this so-called arrangement.”
“And that is?”
She turned to face him, her hands behind her back on the counter. “I can’t work my end well when you’re not being honest with me.”
“I’m being truthful,” he insisted.
She pushed off the counter. “I’m not so sure.”
He pushed in both chairs at the table.
She put on a jacket that hung from a wooden coat tree in the corner. “You said you’d never been in love as an adult—I’m talking the serious, non-puppy type of love between possible soulmates.”
“I understand.”
“But is it true? Or it is fun to let people assume it’s true? Maybe you get something out of having a playboy image.”
He removed his Santa hat. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.” She took hers off, too. Then she picked Oscar up, who was rubbing against her leg, and put him in his tote, slung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her purse. “I don’t expect you to be forthcoming about your present. But I do expect at least a foundation of truth about your romantic past when we work together. It’s only fair.”
“You’re right.” He knew he was trying her patience.
They walked outside together into blue skies and mild temperatures for December. It was a gorgeous day. Too gorgeous with that big yellow sun in his face to lie any longer.
“What the hell,” he said, stopping on the pavement beneath his aunt’s house. “Shakespeare said, ‘Love is merely a madness.’ I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in love. Real love, the soul-searing kind. And so if people want to call me a bad boy for that, it’s better than being known as that loser guy with no heart and no luck.”