Through A Magnolia Filter. Nan Dixon

can throw something together in the kitchen.”

      Relief filled his deep blue eyes. “I’d be ever so grateful.”

      “Sure.” Moving around the desk, she grabbed his bag.

      “That’s my cameras,” he said. “I can get it.”

      “I’ll be careful. You’re juggling two suitcases.”

      She led the way to the elevator. “There’s always coffee, tea and soda in the dining room.” She pointed to the library. “Our evening wine tastings are held there. Feel free to borrow the books and movies.”

      He kept glancing at his camera bag. Or was he checking her out?

      She tightened her glutes.

      “The house is lovely,” he said as they wedged into the elevator.

      “It is.” She inhaled, catching a whiff of his scent. Nice. “We just finished the full renovations in August.”

      “Your website said you were under construction.”

      “That’s Carleton House.” She stepped out of the elevator and stopped at the window overlooking the adjacent mansion. “We’re in the process of restoring the house next door. I’ve booked your crew into Carleton House. It opens in February. If you prefer, we can move you there when they arrive.”

      “I’ll think on it.” He stopped in front of his room. “This it?”

      “Yes. You’re in the Martha Jefferson room.” Instead of setting the bag down, she handed the strap to him so he wouldn’t worry. “If you use the front stairs and head down the hallway by the reception desk, you’ll find a swinging door. That’s the kitchen.”

      He touched her shoulder. His scent wrapped around her. Mint, apples, lemons. Not a fragrance she would associate with a man—but he made it work. She leaned in and took another sniff. Delicious.

      His gaze caught hers. “I appreciate the help with my bags. It was a long day.”

      She stepped back. Her objective was to learn more about photography, not drool over him or his cologne. She headed to the back stairs. “Let me see what food I can scrounge up.”

      She would ply him with food and if there was an opportunity—questions. Find out if she could use her photography for more than selling cards.

      * * *

      LIAM ROLLED HIS suitcases next to the bedroom door, settling the camera bag on the bed. It was foolish, but he unzipped the bag. The Hasselblad, Rolleiflex, his Canon, Nikon and all his lenses and filters looked undamaged. Barbara had come through with a portable, and it was fine.

      Dolley had been careful. And watching the bag had given him the opportunity to admire a really lovely bum.

      He stretched, working a kink out of his lower back. Ms. Dolley Fitzgerald was more interesting in person than in her website photograph. She had...energy. A camera couldn’t capture her gleaming green eyes or the life in that mass of red curls.

      He unpacked a few things, plugged in his phone to recharge and set the stack of releases on the desk with his computer.

      His stomach rumbled. He pocketed his key card and headed downstairs.

      The curved railing was silky smooth under his palm. What a difference between the uncared-for Kilkee manor house and this well-preserved Savannah mansion.

      He would get something to eat, take the lay of the land with the first Fitzgerald sister and then fall into bed.

      Tomorrow he planned to wander Savannah, get a sense of the city and the historic district. He loved exploring and listening to the natives. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t an aboriginal community in Australia or a small tribe forced out of their hunting grounds in Africa.

      Skirting a tower of poinsettias, he found the right hallway and pushed on the swinging door.

      Dolley stood in front of a stainless steel counter, containers covering the surface. The worktops, grills and a wall of fridges made this look like a restaurant. But in the back was a small sitting area with a glowing fire and a Christmas tree.

      “You found me.” Dolley pointed to the back area. “Grab a chair by the fire. I’ll bring everything over.”

      He snatched a chunk of cheese as he passed by the counter. “Thanks ever so much.”

      “What would you like to drink? Beer, wine, soda? We have Jameson if you’d prefer.”

      He sank into an armchair. “A Jameson, neat, would be appreciated.”

      She dropped off a tray of cheese, sausage, crackers and fruit. “I’ll grab your drink.”

      She pushed through the swinging door. Her short black dress flirted with her tidy bottom. Nice.

      He piled a cracker with cheese and meat and took a bite. Followed up with some cool green grapes. He kept going as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

      Ever since Seamus’s funeral, his appetite had been—off. His meals had been haphazard at best. He’d do better. He’d comply with the schedule Dolley had rattled off. She’d said the hours were in the pamphlet she’d handed him. He’d make sure he didn’t miss meals like he’d been doing in Ireland.

      “Sorry it took so long. Jameson is in the library.” Dolley pushed through the doorway. “It’s always there for guests, FYI.”

      The room brightened. Why? He turned his photographic instincts to the question. Dolley? It wasn’t just her hair, it was her—her smile—her sparkle. Being in Kilkee had drained him. Maybe in Savannah he could absorb some of her vitality.

      “This is great.” He waved his hand over the half-decimated spread of food.

      “I could make you a sandwich,” she offered.

      He took the tumbler from her hand and their fingers bumped. Awareness surged through him. “This will hit the spot.”

      “Would you like company?” she asked.

      “Please.”

      She took the armchair across from him, curling her feet underneath her trim bottom. She tipped her wineglass. “Welcome to Savannah. Sláinte.”

      Her pronunciation was spot-on. “Sláinte.”

      They both stared into the fire. He popped grapes in his mouth, enjoying the silence, so different from the cacophony of airports and planes.

      “Did you fly straight from Ireland today?”

      He shook his head. “I was in New York for a week. Meetings.”

      “My sister, our chef, trained in New York.” Her smile dimmed. “I visited when I was seventeen. Not sure I could live there. I enjoy fresh air too much. But the city—everything moved and breathed. It was alive.”

      Weird that she mentioned the one thing that bothered him about the city—the smell. “I can never get the stench of petrol out of my nose. I hate the crowds.”

      “I love crowds.” Her grin made her green eyes twinkle. “Savannah smells like life to me. Green and growing. And when you get closer to Tybee, the ocean.” Her shoulders lifted and dropped. “I love it here, but I’d like to see...the world.”

      The world? Been there. Done that. “Tybee sounds like Kilkee, but warmer.”

      “Kilkee? Is that where you live in Ireland?”

      “Only for part of my childhood. Before that I lived in county Kerry.”

      “It sounds so—glamorous.”

      He shook his head. “It’s a small coastal village.”

      “I checked out your website.” She leaned forward. “It’s amazing. I love your Irish landscapes—well, all your