Unexpectedly Hers(36)

“Actually, that’s a bit of trivia I do know!” She grinned, feeling good about surprising him.

“I should’ve guessed you’d know food trivia.” He crossed his arms and grinned. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

Thankfully, a hundred beautiful memories of the hours she’d spent in this kitchen with her Grammy tumbled around her brain, obliterating naughty thoughts about Wyatt—er, Dallas.

Grammy had taught her how to can tomatoes and peaches, how to make the flakiest piecrust with Crisco and ice-cold water, how to pair unusual herbs for optimal flavor. Grammy had been Emma’s calm in the eye of the storm, whether that had been her parents’ hot-and-cold relationship, the dark months after her father left, or the awkward teen years when her mother’s starchy attitude made it impossible to talk about crushes on boys without earning a lecture about keeping her legs closed.

“My grandmother.” Emma smiled at the memory of Grammy’s gigantic pink curlers, the paunchy gut she camouflaged beneath muumuus, her nightly bourbon nightcaps, and the stash of racy romances tucked away in her room. The ones Emma had routinely sneaked to read. “She taught me everything I know, although I can never quite replicate her recipes. She had a magic touch.”

“Sounds like you miss her.” Wyatt rested his elbows on the counter, leaning closer. The casual pose made her relax, too.

“I do. She was wise and kind. Helpful without being overly preachy. Tolerant, which isn’t always something you see much in small towns. She had a good sense of humor, too.”

“Was she Native American?”

“No.” Her chin jerked inward. “Why would you think that?”

Wyatt shrugged. “The name of the inn. The artifacts. Although, you don’t look like you have any of that heritage.”

Emma grimaced. “I look like a relative of Casper the ghost.”

“You have a beautiful complexion.” His matter-of-fact tone didn’t sound like a come-on or a ploy.

If not for her good manners—a reflex from her mom’s conditioning—she probably couldn’t have spoken. Compliments weren’t something she heard often, or something she tended to believe. “Thank you.”

Suddenly shy and self-conscious, she turned away, wondering if she should compliment him.

While she floundered for something safe to say, he asked, “What about your parents? What are they like?”

“My mother is . . . unique.” Emma looked upward, searching her brain for a better answer. “Most people would say she’s fastidious, chatty, dictatorial, and on occasion, a bit ridiculous. I suppose that’s all true, but she’s a goodhearted person who simply prefers order and rules. I think structure gives her comfort.”

“Is your dad strict, too?”

“Hardly,” Emma snorted. “He moved to Hollywood years ago to be a ‘big star.’ He landed some bit parts in movies and TV during those early days, but nothing that ever matched his dreams. People called him charming and handsome, but he was also a little selfish. Over the years our relationship has faded. I only hear from him on my birthday and Christmas, if that, and I haven’t seen him in four years.”

“I’m sorry.” Wyatt fidgeted with a whisk Emma had left on the counter.

“Me, too.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “Not so much for myself, though. My mom suffered more.” Emma had left so much about those early post-divorce months unspoken. Those months that had changed the course of her mother’s life as well as her own. “Maybe if she’d met someone new, she’d be less . . .”

Then Emma paused, because she couldn’t put her finger on the words she wanted. She eyed Wyatt, a man much like her dad, and reminded herself that she’d never want to follow in her mother’s footsteps and fall for a chick magnet with big dreams, no matter how flattering his attention might seem at first.

Silver screen-styled passion—the kind that steals one’s breath—was fleeting. The reality was that her mother had spent most of her marriage vying for her dad’s attention and resenting him at the same time. Emma had learned from that exactly what kind of husband to avoid. She wanted someone devoted to her and a family life, not to a career, and not to his own ego.

Wyatt’s voice interrupted her private musing. “And you had to live through all of that here, with strangers around. Was it weird to grow up in an inn?”

Emma shrugged. “However someone grows up is ‘normal’ to that person, I suppose, so it didn’t seem all that weird to me. And there are months when things are really quiet. November is a pretty quiet month, actually, since the resort doesn’t usually open until closer to Thanksgiving.”