“Anything to be of service, Dr. Eddy.”
Of course! He hid a smile behind his hand and turned away from Dakota, who was checking out the suite. “We’re roasting pumpkin seeds and would like to avoid burning down the hotel.”
“I’d be happy to—”
“No, no! We need to figure this out. Just a small tutorial would be great. Roasting means top heat at a high temperature, right?”
“Doctor Eddy . . .” The man’s voice hitched up a notch . . . or three. “I have at least twenty minutes before the dinner orders start coming en masse. Might I come up to your suite and help you?”
Walt placed a hand over the phone to ask Dakota. “The cook is asking to come up and help. What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to make the Morrisons rue the day they met you.”
He laughed, turned back to the phone. “We’re college educated and catch on fast. Won’t take but ten minutes of your time.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Walt placed the phone back on the receiver and moved to Dakota’s side. Her hands were stuck in the inner muck of her small, fat pumpkin. “This will never last until Halloween.”
“Practice,” Walt insisted. “When was the last time you carved a pumpkin?”
“I think I was twelve.”
He picked up a scalpel, one he kept in his kit that he traveled with, and etched into his soon-to-be masterpiece. “We need practice if we’re going to show Junior that his parents aren’t completely lame.”
“And if we have a girl?”
It didn’t go unnoticed that Dakota stopped talking about a pregnancy and started referring to their child as a person. “I like the name JD. Junior Dakota works for me.”
Dakota stopped midpull of stringy pumpkin crap. “No Junior. I will have to veto anything Junior.”
Walt did his best to appear offended. “You don’t like Walter Junior the Fourth?”
Dakota had the good sense to offer a blank stare.
A grin started at his chin . . . he felt it inching up to his lips, his cheeks, and finally his eyes.
“I’ll get you for that.”
He couldn’t stop the laugh that erupted. “I can’t tell you how many times I was cornered in the hall because of my name. I thank God every day my grandfather wasn’t named Horance.”
Dakota raised two orange hands and laughed. “Never tempt worse.” She paused, looked at him. “Not that I don’t like your name. I do.”
“My name is Walter. How many men under the age of seventy do you know who have that name?”
Dakota plopped an especially large portion of muck onto the counter and started squeezing the seeds from the guts. “Walter Cronkite?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
“What about the old Vice President?”
“Over eighty-five . . . or is he gone, too?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” She drew in a quick breath and stopped mid–seed expunge, then dropped her hands.
“What?”
With a quick shake of the head she said, “Never mind.”
“C’mon . . . who?”
“No one.”
He moved around her and picked up the slime that sat on the counter and lifted a handful in her direction. “I hear this stains.”
“Walt!”
“Who?” he moved closer.
She backed away, dripping pumpkin guts over the marble counter. “Disney. Walt Disney. But he’s dead, too.”
He backed away even though he would have liked to see Dakota covered in pumpkin guts. “So we agree . . . no Walter Junior if it’s a boy.”
“Fine!”
“Good.”
“Strong names are a must for a boy. For the record, I think Walt is a strong name.”
He laughed . . . couldn’t help it.
“I’m not kidding.”
When he looked again she actually appeared as if she meant it. He stepped into her personal space, covered her mucky hands with his, and kissed her. “Thank you,” he said when he pulled away.
The doorbell of the suite rang. Only the penthouse would actually have a bell, he thought as he wiped his hands on a dish towel and met the chef.
“Dr. Eddy.” The chef moved into the room with purpose, met with the kitchen, and removed ingredients from the small case he brought with him. “Miss?”
“Laurens,” Dakota answered, her hands still in the muck.
“Perfect pumpkin seeds,” he began and took the lot of seeds they’d managed to extract from the pumpkins and moved to the sink. “Start with a good cleaning, a little butter, and a dash of salt.”
“I like a lot of salt,” Dakota told him.
Walt shook his head. “A dash. Sodium increases blood pressure.”
Dakota scowled.
The chef went through the motions of showing them the finer parts of roasting pumpkin seeds before taking the bits of carved pumpkin and placing them on another sheet and covering it with cinnamon, sugar, and spices Walt would never be able to identify. “Twenty minutes in the oven after the other is finished and you will understand why this time of year makes for the most amazing flavor.”
After offering dinner suggestions, the chef blew out nearly as quickly as he flew in.
The seeds were roasting in the oven and Dakota was sitting at the kitchen table drawing on the pumpkin she deemed hers.