Sweet Home Carolina Read Online Free

rush of customers.
    Riding high on spiked lemonade and oddly revived by the
exotic company, Amy hummed under her breath and poured boiling water over the
leaves of her favorite Keemun in her special china teapot. She’d heard that
comment about hot tea. And she was feeling just spiteful enough to get even for
this invasion of demanding, temperamental customers — ones she suspected would
steal her livelihood from under her nose if they could.
    She helped Janey load the dishwasher while the tea steeped.
Only one of their new guests had eaten her delicious roast chicken. None of
them had touched the whipped potatoes or creamed peas. She’d had to send Flint
down to the grocery for arugula, spinach, and fresh mushrooms, or whatever
facsimile he could find, plus oysters. The local store seldom carried more than
iceberg and canned mushrooms. Seafood of any sort in the mountains was suspect.
    She had created an entire new menu of salads and appetizers
to suit their vegetarian, no-carbohydrate diets out of the barest scraps at
last minute notice, and not one of them had expressed appreciation. Not even Saint
Stephen, who’d adroitly switched between flirting with every woman in the room,
barking at his cell phone, and ordering his lackeys about, all at a dizzying
pace. Amy wasn’t certain how he managed to eat a bite.
    A little too aware of her own padded figure in comparison to
all these anorexic creatures, Amy poured her perfectly steeped Keemun into a
china cup with malice aforethought.
    She sliced a fresh lemon and added just a touch of sugar.
The fragrance of Chinese tea leaves wafted upward from her delicate teacup as
she leaned back against the stove and took a restorative sip.
    Saint Stephen snapped his cell phone shut and dropped it
into his jacket pocket. He eyed Jo’s flask with interest.
    “The oysters and vegetable couscous were admirable,” he
murmured. “But I do not share my friends’ affinity for espresso. I don’t
suppose I could prevail upon you for a martini?”
    Amy would have smiled at the compliment, except if he really
was the infamous idiot who meant to take the mill away from the town, she
wanted him nailed to the floor with sharp steel, not good liquor.
    “This is a dry town, no alcohol,” she replied. Dry towns
tended to discourage most business types interested in the area. She could
hope.
    His aristocratically thin nose twitched as his formidable
gaze settled on Amy’s cup. “Perhaps you have something that would appeal to my
more British tastes, then?” he suggested.
    “British?” Amy raised her eyebrows and sipped her tea with
the bravado of half a flask of whiskey. “I may not be a world traveler, but I
recognize French and Italian when I hear it.” Still, British would explain the
posher edge to his English.
    He flashed a wide smile. “My mother is from West Virginia,
my father is from Paris. I have a villa in Italy, but I was raised in London. I
eat British .”
    “You ate oysters instead of the steak I offered,” Amy
argued. “Even I know Brits like their beef.”
    Saint Stevie was probably in charge of tips. She should be
waiting on him hand and foot. But she’d done that all evening, and he hadn’t
bothered to express his appreciation — until she’d deliberately taunted him. Now she had his attention. Men, European
or not, were all alike. She was learning to play this game.
    “I like oysters. That does not change my nationality. Is
that hot tea I detect?”
    “Yes,” she said with a smile. “Keemun. Would you like to
know the province?”
    “I would like the tea, please,” he said decisively, shoving
the icy glass away. “Hot.”
    Hmmm, Mr. Pretty Boy wasn’t averse to giving orders instead
of flattery. Orders, she hadn’t learned to ignore, especially when they
involved food and hospitality.
    Now that she had his attention, she counted this round won,
and reverted to her true nature, sort of. She shuffled through the café’s
cluttered cabinet until she