Once she had the bra on, and had replaced the T-shirt, Nicole made her way out of her room. She was crossing the combined living room/dining room, headed for the kitchen, when the upstairs guest bedroom door opened. Her head swung toward it, a smile of greeting claiming her lips for Marguerite. But it faded, replaced by surprise when she saw Jake coming out of the room.
“Morning,” he said before ducking into the washroom.
“Morning,” Nicole murmured, but doubted he’d heard it. He was already closing the bathroom door. Frowning slightly now, she continued on into the kitchen, eyes widening in surprise when she saw Marguerite seated at the island, perusing the paper. The woman beamed a smile when she spotted Nicole.
“Oh, good morning, dear,” Marguerite greeted. “You’re just in time, Jake made coffee and a lovely brunch for us. It’s in the oven staying warm, but he’ll be back in a minute and probably serve it right up. He just ducked into his room to change his shirt. I bumped into him as he was whipping the eggs and some of it slopped on him.”
“His room?” Nicole said uncertainly. “He was coming out of your room when I—”
“Oh,” Marguerite waved that away with a laugh. “I moved my things downstairs and told him to take the upper guest room. It seemed sensible for him to be on this floor since this is where he’ll be doing most of his work, and it would have been silly to make him sleep downstairs last night and then have to move all of his things upstairs today.”
“Oh, of course,” Nicole said slowly and turned to find a cup and pour herself a coffee. She was in desperate need of one now as she considered that the man had slept a wall away last night . . . close enough to hear her snore. Well, if she did snore. Or what if she talked or mumbled in her sleep? Or tossed and turned a lot? How much could he hear through the wall?
“I hope you like omelets.”
Nicole gave a start at that question in a deep male voice. Jake had returned. She offered him a weak smile as he pulled on oven mitts and moved to the stove.
“I had to work with what was available, so I made toast, and an omelet with sausage, onion, potatoes and cheese in it. But if you don’t like eggs or something I can make you French toast, or pancakes or—”
“No, the omelet is fine,” Nicole interrupted, her mouth watering when he opened the oven door and a lovely scent rolled out on a wave of heat to tempt her nose. “It smells lovely.”
“Doesn’t it?” Marguerite agreed cheerfully. “I did tell you he was wonderful.”
“Yes, you did,” Nicole said faintly, following Jake to the kitchen table in the corner. Really she was following the two plates of omelet, not Jake; he just happened to be carrying them.
Her gaze slid over the table, noting the tablecloth, which she rarely bothered with, and the place mats with perfect place settings. Jake had even set out salt and pepper, ketchup, and A.1. sauce, and milk and sugar . . . which reminded her of the coffee she held in hand that still needed doctoring.
“Sit,” Jake ordered and then added, “You too, Marguerite. Dig in before it gets cold and I’ll grab mine and the toast.”
Nicole sat at the table and quickly added cream and sugar to her coffee, but her gaze was on the omelet. She was not good at making omelets. Hers always came out as messy scrambled eggs, but these looked perfect. Light, fluffy, and oozing with yummy stuff. She actually found herself swallowing repeatedly as saliva built up in her mouth and was glad to be done with the coffee business so that she could try the omelet.
Fortunately, Jake returned to the table just as she set her coffee aside to take up her fork and knife. Nicole had been raised that it was only polite not to eat until the cook had finished and joined the table. The cook being her mom when she was taught this notwithstanding, Nicole would have felt terribly guilty for digging in before Jake was seated. But she would have done it. Now it wasn’t an issue.
“Mmmm,” Nicole murmured, once she’d popped the first bite into her mouth. It really was good. If the man made omelets for her every morning she’d be happy to get up to eat them, morning person or not. And if all of his cooking was this good, the man deserved a raise, she thought, which reminded her that they hadn’t discussed his wages yet. Or anything. She supposed they’d have to sit down and hammer things out after Marguerite left. What pay he expected, what his job description included, and what he expected from her too, because, seriously, he was already looking too good to be true. Nicole didn’t want the trial two-week period to end with her wanting him and his culinary skills to stay, and him unhappy with her as a boss and wanting to leave.