Hannah's List. Debbie Macomber

herself, that was their agreement. No contact.

      When Winter had suggested the terms of their pact, she’d fully expected Pierre to break it. He broke every other one they’d made. Oh, that wasn’t totally fair. When they’d shared a place, he did occasionally prepare dinner, but not on a reliable basis. Often he’d be too tired or he’d simply forget, so she did most of the cooking. Even when she left a notation on the calendar it hadn’t helped. And he hadn’t exactly done his allotment of household tasks, either. If Pierre couldn’t manage to pick up his dirty socks, she wondered how he’d ever deal with being a husband and eventually a father.

      Despite their agreement, it bothered her that he hadn’t made a single effort to contact her. She hadn’t tried to reach him, either, but that was because he’d always been the one to make the first move, the one who sought peace after their quarrels. So, admit it or not, she’d expected to hear from him.

      Pierre’s temper flared hot and erupted like a volcano, and when he was finished it was over. He was ready to kiss and make up. Not so with Winter. She blew like a factory whisde, and when she finished, it wasn’t over. She wanted Pierre to react, to change, to learn and grow. Instead, he just walked away until she became what he called “reasonable” again. He’d make overtures to see if that “reasonable” state had been achieved and when he decided it was safe, he’d act as if nothing had happened. Until the next time…

      Now something unforeseen had turned up and she wasn’t sure how to handle it. Michael had come to visit and he’d made it plain that he was interested in her. At least that was what she’d assumed. While setting their rules, neither Pierre nor Winter had provided for such a contingency. The question remained. Did she want to go out with her cousin’s husband? Winter still didn’t know.

      By midafternoon, she’d talked herself into breaking the agreement with Pierre and seeking him out. She had a valid excuse. While she wasn’t eager to acknowledge it, her real reason was that she was starved for the sight of him. These past few weeks had been a revelation.

      She missed Pierre. She loved him and, in the weeks apart, that hadn’t changed. Closing her eyes, she heard the lilt of his accent and her heartbeat accelerated at the memory. She missed his touch, his whisper when he woke early in the morning and kissed her. In a crazy kind of way, she even missed the excitement, if that was the appropriate word, of their quarrels. What it came down to was that nothing seemed right without him.

      Now Michael had offered her the perfect excuse to see Pierre. Her pride would stay intact and she could present Pierre with this new situation and gauge his feelings. If he truly loved her, he’d move heaven and earth to join her in solving their problems. The possibility of another man’s interest should galvanize him into declaring his own. Her goal wasn’t to make him jealous, but to get him to recognize his feelings. The more she thought about it, the more hopeful Winter became.

      Sitting at her desk, she called his cell phone, let it ring once, then abruptly disconnected. She wanted to do more than speak to Pierre. She wanted—needed—to see him. One look would tell her if he missed her half as much as she missed him.

      Decision made, Winter waited until later that afternoon, in the lull between lunch and dinner. She contacted the Hilton and confirmed that Pierre was indeed working that day. She pictured walking into the kitchen, pictured Pierre raising his head, meeting her eyes. He’d stop whatever he was doing and come toward her as though drawn by an invisible rope. Then she’d rush into his arms and he’d tell her how unhappy he’d been without her.

      Figuring she had time, Winter went shopping at a fancy little boutique off Blossom Street owned by Barbie Foster, whom she’d met through Anne Marie Roche. Anne Marie had the bookstore diagonally across from the café and was also a friend of Alix’s. On a whim she purchased a new outfit. The classic “little black dress.” Elegant yet sexy, it was ultraexpensive and worth every penny because of the way it made her feel. She was going to give Pierre an eyeful of what he was missing, just in case he’d forgotten.

      When she’d changed clothes, she took a cab to the Hilton. She announced herself to one of the dining-room staff.

      “I’m Winter Adams, a friend of Pierre Dubois,” she explained. “If you tell him I’m here, I’m sure he’ll see me.”

      She wasn’t left to wait more than a few minutes. In that time she reviewed what she wanted to say. The staff member returned, smiling, and said, “Chef Dubois will see you in his office.”

      “Thank you.” Winter followed the other woman into the kitchen.

      Its size made her own small café look insignificant by comparison. Winter lost count of how many people she saw working at various stations. Everyone was busy with meal preparation. One thing was obvious; Pierre had his hands full. If nothing else, this experience would teach him some organizational skills, which in her opinion were sadly lacking.

      It took about two seconds to realize that her assumptions about her reception—and his improved organization—were off base. His desk was in a state of chaos.

      He stood when she entered the room, but he didn’t advance toward her. Worse, he showed no signs of being happy to see her. He wore his chef’s toque and white uniform and appeared all business. Nothing in his expression revealed any curiosity about her visit after all these weeks.

      Winter blinked. “Hello, Pierre,” she said softly, letting her voice betray her feelings.

      He ignored her greeting and gestured for her to sit down, then seemed to notice that the chair was stacked with papers, catalogs and menus. He scooped up the whole pile and set it on the corner of his desk, where it promptly slid off and tumbled to the floor.

      Winter bent down to help him retrieve the assorted pieces of paper.

      “Leave it,” he snapped. He hated it when she felt the need to tidy up a room.

      Swallowing, she straightened, then sat in the chair while Pierre dealt with the fallen papers.

      He didn’t say anything the entire time he was reassembling the stack. Neither did she.

      When he’d finished, Pierre threw himself into his own chair. The room wasn’t big, but it was much more spacious than her tiny office at the café.

      “How are you?” she asked with a small, tentative smile.

      “Busy.”

      In other words, he was telling her to get to the point and be on her way.

      “I hadn’t heard from you,” she said, hoping the comment sounded casual and carefree.

      “We agreed there’d be no contact. It was your suggestion, as I recall.”

      “We did say that,” she said, nodding. If he wanted this to be strictly business, fine. “So you understand I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t important.”

      His gaze narrowed. “Are you pregnant?”

      She stared, hardly able to believe what he’d said. “You know better than to ask such a thing.”

      “Do I?”

      “Yes,” she flared. She was the responsible one. After the first week, it became abundantly clear that she’d have to be in charge of birth control. As a matter of fact, she’d continued with the pill, which was ridiculous since they hadn’t even touched in weeks.

      “If you aren’t pregnant, what’s so important that you have to interrupt me in the middle of the day—on a Saturday, no less?”

      Winter hadn’t stopped to consider that he might have two or three different banquets scheduled during a weekend.

      Nonetheless, she forged ahead. “An interesting situation has come up that I felt I should discuss with you.”

      “By all means,” he murmured with more than a hint of sarcasm.

      “My cousin Hannah’s husband—”

      “Your cousin who