The Guest Cottage by Nancy Thayer Page A

forced herself to return to the kitchen for more coffee, found a notepad and pen, and began making a grocery list for Trevor.

T revor wandered into the kitchen barefoot and unshaven. He wore board shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of a horse’s head on it and the words
Why the long face?
Little Leo followed, clutching a duffel bag to his chest. Like his father, he was fully dressed but barefoot.
    “Try it under the table, Leo,” Trevor told his son. “That won’t get in anyone’s way.” He scratched his head, making his dark hair stand out in several directions. “Coffee! I smell coffee.”
    “Good morning,” said Sophie. “Help yourself. Cups are on the counter.”
    Trevor’s eyes darted around the room, landing on anything but Sophie, who wore a baggy T-shirt that couldn’t hide the fullness of her breasts. When had a woman last greeted him with a smile? Or filled the room with such a clean, sweet fragrance that he wanted to rub up against her skin like a cat? Or made coffee in the morning? He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a large gulp. “Man, this is good.”
    Leo had obligingly crawled under the large kitchen table, where he knelt, unpacking his Legos. With great care, he began his routine, grouping them according to color: yellow, blue, red, green.
    “Leo, want some Cheerios?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured some Cheerios into a bowl and set them on the floor next to his son.
    Sophie looked concerned. “Doesn’t he want milk?”
    “He prefers to eat them by the handful. I’ll give him some juice after a while.” Sophie’s eyebrows folded into a small frown. “Hey, don’t worry, he gets plenty of milk.”
    “Glad to hear it,” Sophie said lightly, adding, “It’s a gorgeous day.”
    Trevor opened the sliding door to the patio and stepped out into the sunshine.
    “Daddy.” Leo didn’t raise his voice, but the anxiety was there.
    “Right here, kid. Not going anywhere.” Returning to the kitchen, Trevor poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and added milk. He pulled out a chair and joined Sophie at the table. Nodding toward a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, he said, “That looks nice.”
    “Help yourself,” Sophie told him. “I keep a lot of fruit around for the children.”
    She wore no makeup. Her face glowed from yesterday’s sun, accentuating the blue of her eyes. One eyebrow arched a fraction of an inch more than the other. No pencil darkened her brows. She was all natural, and healthy, and fresh.
    Sophie looked puzzled. “Would you like a banana?”
    Trevor jerked himself back to reality. He nodded toward the sheet of paper in her hands. “Is that the grocery list?”
    “It is.” Sophie’s slid the paper across the table to Trevor, who took a moment to read it as he shoveled Cheerios into his mouth.
    “Huh? Arugula? Salmon? Quinoa?” His mood flipped. Leo had never eaten these things, and in his fragile emotional state it would be a disaster to suggest it. “Excuse me, but I thought we were buying food for children, not for international CEOs.”
    Sophie arched an eyebrow, the slightly higher one. “Doesn’t Leo eat fish?”
    Protectively, Trevor said, “He eats tuna fish. Leo is four years old. He likes hot dogs, pizza, mac and cheese, cheese-and-mustard sandwiches, cheeseburgers, and French fries. I make him eat some cucumber, carrot, or edamame with every meal.” Trevor looked down at the list again. “But linguine? Clams? First of all, how can he even eat linguine? I can hardly eat it. It falls off the fork. And clams? He’s never had them before. I’m not a fan either. They taste like rubber.” He knew he sounded unreasonable, but he didn’t want Leo faced with unusual food that would frighten him into throwing a tantrum.
    Was she being judged, insulted, found lacking in her judgment? Sophie went on the defensive. “So you’re saying we
all
have to eat at the level of a four-year-old’s palate?”
    Offended on his son’s behalf,