Countdown to the Perfect Wedding. Teresa Hill

is fine. Anything quick and not too much trouble.”

      Was that agreeable enough? He hoped so. He certainly didn’t want to cause any more trouble. Please, let him not cause any more trouble for anyone, especially himself.

      “Okay.” She nodded, pulling a big bowl out of the refrigerator and scooping out a serving of mixed fruit. “You can start with this while I warm up a plate of quiche and potatoes for you.”

      She put the bowl down in front of him, along with a pretty cloth napkin and polished silver utensils, then she promptly turned her back on him to go to work on the rest.

      Tate dug in to the fruit like a man half starved to death. Just plain cut-up fresh fruit. Nothing special about it, he told himself. She hadn’t done anything to it, so it had to be his imagination that it was really, really good. Or maybe the sheer anticipation of what was to come, what he’d smelled this morning—bacon, eggs in the quiche, fried potatoes, freshly baked croissants. He soon smelled it all again as she warmed things in the microwave.

      He sat obediently on his stool, still having gone undetected in the kitchen with her, not doing anything untoward at all, feeling quite proud of himself. He was back, Tate the good guy, soon-to-be married, and all was right with the world. She put a plate of luscious-smelling, beautiful food down in front of him. He could smell the bacon, the golden crust of the quiche, the onions and spices mixed in with the potatoes, the warm croissant.

      “Anything else I can get you?” she asked politely.

      He smiled, again not too friendly, and said, “No, thank you. This is perfect. Just perfect.”

      She put a small dish of butter in front of him, a salt shaker, then frowned at the pepper shaker in her hand. “Just a second. I bought fresh peppercorns for the grinder. I just think fresh pepper tastes better.”

      She turned to find the little plastic grocery bag she’d stashed in the far corner of the kitchen, picked it up and pulled out a little jar, but when she went to put the bag back down on the counter, she didn’t quite make it. The bag caught half on the edge, half off, and then slid to the floor. A little spice bottle rolled toward him, and Tate bent to pick it up.