Page 48 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

Julia couldn’t resist snorting in amusement. “Honestly, Duchamp, you had me going for the first half. I really thought you had become a sommelier at some point in the last decade and I just hadn’t been privy to it. Good for you.” Her smile lingered a bit on her lips, and she saw his face soften, or maybe she imagined it. Admonishing herself for falling into old habits so easily, she shook her head slightly before finally standing up.

“I’ll get the glasses,” she said, limping her way to the wood-and-glass cabinet at the opposite end of the room, where she kept all the plates and glassware for dinner service.

Noah had been watching the two of them attentively, not saying a word the entire time. Julia had noticed him out of the corner of her eye when she’d been talking to Ethan, and was overcome with the irrational and unfair reflection that she wished he weren’t there.

It was probably mean and uncharacteristic—particularly as the proprietor of a bed-and-breakfast—to wish that another person weren’t in the room, especially if that other person hadn’t done anything wrong and, if anything, had been unfailingly kind and considerate. But there was something about the anonymity of being with regular hotel guests that she enjoyed so much more. Most of the time, she knew, she blended in with the scenery. They believed their coffee got topped up and the breakfast bar replenished by the many invisible hands of the hospitality industry in general and the employees of Donwell Cottage specifically, never really realizing that there were only two and a half, maybe three, of them on a good day.

But here, with Katy and Noah, there was no escape. She was not only the owner and proprietor, but also the host. And she was expected to fulfill her hosting duties for the duration of their stay, no matter how exhausted or socially tapped out she was.

It’s only the first day, she reminded herself, remembering how the two had arrived that morning and she and Ethan had immediately whisked them off to town and started taking invasive pictures of them every time there was an opportunity. But the wordsit’s only the first dayreminded her that there were more days to come. And she was going to have to expend just as much energy, if not more, to get through them.

She resisted the urge to groan—it would be decidedly less melodic, she was certain, than Katy’s had been.

Just a few more days, she thought, trying to rally by putting a more positive spin on the words to trick herself into thinking it was going to be okay.

Pulling down five wineglasses and absently checking for water spots, Julia turned to go back to the table just as Maggie and Katy returned to the dining area. Maggie was holding twolarge heavy white bowls like they were her babies instead of knock-off porcelain serving bowls. And Katy had a small tray in her hands carrying the grilled Halloumi, the cheese slightly melted, with grill marks going down the length of it.

Seeing the semi-melted cheese, Julia realized in that moment that she never really gave Maggie the chance to explore when it came to meals. They usually sat down and decided on the menu together, though admittedly, it often ended up being what Julia came up with and also what corresponded with the groceries they had or could get. Julia also tried to make the meals seasonal, as they were planned around fresh and available produce, starting with the local kind. And then Maggie implemented the menus with hardly a complaint, just happy to do what they’d decided on and make it the best darn version of whatever it was.

They had agreed on a five-day rotation—five different dinners before starting over again after the last day—and stuck to the same few things for a season or at least a couple of months. It worked well, since it often corresponded with the guests’ arrival and departure times—the average length of stay was three days, with some staying the full week, but rarely anyone beyond that.

Donwell Cottage often served as a jumping-off point—or a respite—for people on a different journey. Exploring Finger Lakes Wine Country, making their way northwest to Canada or southeast to the city. No one ever really seemed to comejustfor her bed-and-breakfast experience. And that was fine. Perfectly fine.

So fine that maybe that was why she wasn’t making any money and would probably be losing her business soon if this endeavor of Ethan’s didn’t pan out like she hoped.

As she placed the wineglasses down with a heavier hand than she’d intended, they clattered slightly on the wood. Only Ethan seemed to notice, looking at her hands and then up at her, his expression inscrutable but intent. The others were focused on the meal being laid out in front of them—rather than being placed on the serving board as it usually was—the bowls fitting perfectly around the Dutch oven on the round table with room to spare, with Maggie’s now-signature ratatouille dish still steaming in the center.

Maggie had clearly reduced the amount she cooked from a “regular” night, when the guests were—usually—more plentiful, allowing the food to be served more family style rather than buffet style. Once again, Julia found herself admiring Maggie’s foresight and wondering why she stuck around for such little appreciation and abysmal pay.

“Is that open?” she asked Ethan bluntly, gesturing to the wine bottle in his hand with her chin.

“Uh…” He looked down, as though forgetting he even had it. A lock of burnished-gold hair fell over his brow in an annoyingly handsome way, and Julia had the urge to brush it back with her fingers.

Or snip it off with scissors.

Looking back up at her—obviously not privy to her slightly unhinged thoughts—he asked, “Do you have an opener?”

One bottle opener, five full plates of meat-free food, and four and a half glasses of wine later (Maggie had insisted on hers only being a quarter full, while Julia took an extra splash or two), everyone was digging into their food and lavishing Maggie with praise.

“Todie for,” Katy cried around mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. “Why isn’t our friend Norman here enjoying this as well?”

“Norman went home,” Julia said, swallowing the gulp of wine she had been consuming while Katy was talking. “He usually doesn’t stay for dinner, though sometimes he’ll take something home.”

“Yes,” Maggie agreed, delicately chewing her own food. “Although he wasn’t interested in tonight’s meal, sadly.”

Julia nodded, understanding that the lack of meat was probably a deterrent for old Norman, and made a mental note to buy some cold cuts or something to tide him over the next few days and offset all the vegetarian options she and Maggie were going to have to plan out.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Noah asked abruptly, gesturing with his fork, still pierced with a piece of eggplant, between Ethan and Julia.

The silence lingered, all the fork-scraping, glass-clinking, and chewing stopping simultaneously.

Julia swallowed hard. Had Ethan said anything?

Julia was still trying to wrap her mind around how to respond when Ethan decided for both of them.

“We…don’t.”

Although she hadn’t been sure how to answer, his quick refusal rubbed her the wrong way. Was it that detrimental for Katy and Noah to know that Julia and Ethan had history? It seemed as if Ethan thought so, and he was drawing that line between professional and personal. Julia knew that historically, of the two of them, she tended to be more of a closed book. However, the two celebrities’ easy personalities—and maybe a bit of the wine—had made her want to open up a bit more. Was that foolish of her?