Serendipity's Repast

CHAPTER 8

She woke up alone.

The moment Bridget realized that the place beside her was empty, fear pricked at her, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

When she touched the space where Heath had been, the sheet felt cool. He hadn't just left, he'd been gone for a while.

Why?

Was he ashamed of what had happened between them last night? Or perhaps now that he had gotten what he was after, he was no longer interested.

No! She was jumping to conclusions, Bridget insisted fiercely. There was probably some ranching emergency that required his attention and he just didn't want to wake her up before he left. Heath seemed to be too nice a guy just to use her and discard her like some boorish oaf.

Kevin seemed like a nice guy, too, at first. Bridget blocked the thought out of her mind. She was just skittish, that was all. Once burned, twice leery. She'd feel much better about all this when she saw Heath again.

Except she didn't see him again.

One day passed, then another, and another, with no sign of the cowboy who had ridden off with her heart—only to trample it beneath his horse's hooves. He wasn't working outside the house, wasn't popping in the way she expected him to.

The way he had done before they had made love together.

Face it, Bridg. You've been used.

Five days after New Year's Eve, Bridget couldn't take it anymore. She'd behaved like some needy, oversexed idiot and now she was paying the price for it.

Well, she wasn't going to stand for it, she decided angrily. Not at all. The hell with him, and the hell with this job, she thought, working herself up.

She was going home.

But, because she always honored her commitments, she couldn't just walk out on everything without a backward glance. She had a reputation as a professional to maintain. That meant telling Mr. Foster she was quitting.

Picking up the phone the way he'd instructed her to, Bridget called to let the man know that she was leaving.

"Leaving?" Mr. Foster repeated incredulously.

"Yes. I wanted to call and tell you," she said, her voice distant. "I can't stay here."

"But why?" Mr. Foster wanted to know. "If it's a matter of more money, Ms. Howerton—"

"No," she cut him off quickly. "It's not the money. The money's more than adequate. I've just changed my mind about catering this party, that's all."

"But why?" Mr. Foster repeated again.

"My reasons are personal," she told him, hoping that he wasn't going to press her for a further explanation. "But don't worry, I'm not leaving you in a lurch. I've got all the menus already planned with the recipes written out. I'll leave them taped to the refrigerator and I'll stick around long enough for you to find a replacement, someone who can prepare all the recipes properly. But once they come on board, I'm gone."

"Is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind?" Mr. Foster wanted to know.

"I'm afraid not," she replied firmly. "My mind's made up. Sorry."

"I see," was all Mr. Foster said, then added, "We'll be sorry to see you go."

Before she could say anything further, Mr. Foster hung up.