With a smile, she closed her sketchpad and left to buy furniture, paint, and décor.
* * *
When Abbey returned, Richard informed her that her dinner had been prepared yet again, and Mr. Sinclair was waiting for her in the dining room. She didn’t want to be excited, but the truth of the matter was that she was happy about seeing him again. If it continued, however, she would have to mention that she should have some say in the matter. What if she’d already eaten?
Abbey walked into the dining room and found Nick sitting in the same spot as last time, to the right of her plate. He stood up, greeting her with a smile. She sat down, and he followed suit.
“Thank you for having dinner with me,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She was trying hard to act like this was a totally regular occurrence.
“I took the liberty of having dinner prepared, hoping that you hadn’t eaten while you were out.”
“I haven’t,” she said. “But I do promise I’ll start packing food so that you don’t have to keep feeding me.”
He smiled again, his face amused. “You don’t have to pack lunches and dinners for yourself. Richard can easily have meals arranged.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He took a sip of his iced tea. She took in the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the slight auburn strands in his dark hair, the masculinity of his hands up close.
“Did your horse win?”
He smiled. “No. I’m sorry.”
She smiled back, trying not to think about the fact that he’d lost that money. She couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to have the loss of a thousand dollars have no impact on her life.
“The reason I’ve asked you to dinner tonight is because I wanted to discuss what you think is going on with my grandmother. I went to see her today, and she said she’s having trouble breathing. She also said that you looked quite worried about it.”
Abbey had made sure not to show any emotion when she’d checked Caroline. How did she know that Abbey was worried? “I won’t be concerned until I have a formal diagnosis. I’m not able to pinpoint her exact condition, so I can’t offer options for her. I told her I’d make an appointment with the doctor.”
“Will you keep me informed of her condition, please?”
Abbey nodded.
“I also wanted to have a chance to discuss the Christmas party with you. I hope you don’t mind having a working dinner.”
“You’re always working,” she said with a smile. She’d meant it to be a lighthearted comment but there was no shred of amusement on his face. She looked down at her plate. It looked like chicken. At least she knew how to eat that.
“I’m pleased with what you’ve done in the ballroom,” he said, draping a linen napkin in his lap. “I was wondering if you could buy a freestanding bar for one end so that I can hire someone to bartend. It will need to be substantial—holding a small refrigerator and wine cooler. There are outlets hidden in the flooring—you’ll have to figure out where they are to install the bar.” He cut a piece of chicken and left it sitting on the fork in his hand.
“Are you getting into the festive spirit?” she asked, glad to hear he’d given the party some thought.
“I’m making sure loose ends are tied up,” he said, but she did notice a slight acceptance in his eyes. “I’m planning around a hundred people, plus my family. My sister, her husband, and her son will be heading down from New York. My mother will be coming as well. They’re scheduled to arrive Christmas Eve. I’m hoping we can have it all finished by then. I’d like you to help plan the party as well. Just the ordering mostly. I’ll get you the information that you need.”
“Sure.”
“Can you think of anything else for the ballroom that would facilitate a gathering of that size?”
“Hmm. Let me think about it.” She reached down into her handbag and pulled out her sketchpad, jotting down a note to herself.
“Tell me about your progress. How are the bedrooms coming?”
“I’ve sketched out a basic plan for the first three, and everything has been ordered. The furniture should be arriving early next week. The bedding and decorations will trickle in within the next few days, and I’ll be working on paint and lighting soon. Would you like to see my sketches?” She turned the pages back and began to show him, but he dismissed it, holding up his hand to stop her.
“Forgive me. You have the artistic eye. I trust your vision. Please. Eat. I’d hate to be a host who serves cold food.”
“Does everyone always do what you say?” It was a bold question, but his eyes had given her the courage to ask.