by A. J. Pine
“We have four hundred,” Mims said into the microphone. “Going once. Going twice. Sold!”
The crowd was parting, cowboys moving out of the way as the lights came up.
And then a man approached. A well-dressed man. A solid man.
Booker.
Buying Kimmy hadn’t netted Booker the response he wanted—Kimmy’s gratitude.
Yes, there was relief in her eyes, but only temporarily.
Added to that, Paul and the cowboy who’d bid against him were lingering nearby.
“My hero,” Kimmy said to Booker when they were seated in a booth in the back with two glasses of champagne and a dinner order placed. Her gaze darted around Shaw’s, around his competition. “But let’s be clear. Although I appreciate the save, you need to circulate through the crowd and find me a wedding date. You promised.”
Fat chance, honey.
Bidding on Kimmy against other men had stepped on a nerve, one connected to a proprietary feeling for her. She might never see him romantically but for the next hour, she was going to be his.
“Look, we’re here.” Booker raised his champagne glass. “Let’s toast. Here’s to old friends and new beginnings.”
With a sigh, Kimmy clinked her glass against his. “Hear, hear.”
“We should take this time to catch up.” Booker had a lot of explaining to do, and his hour alone with Kimmy had begun. “We didn’t get a chance to do that the other day. What’s new?”
“What’s new?” Kimmy smirked. “I put myself out there in the Widows Club bachelorette auction.” She’d looked miserable up there, smiling on command. “And that’s about it for me. You?”
“I want to increase Burger Shack profits and put Dante through school.” Booker was proud that he’d be able to do it. That is, if he could increase earnings at the original Burger Shack. And to do so, he needed Kimmy to sign a contract.
Instead of regarding Booker with warmth and respect, Kimmy frowned. “Why do you want to give Dante a free ride when you never had one? From what I hear, Dante doesn’t even work at the Burger Shack anymore.”
“He can’t work because he’s on the track team.” And before that he’d been on the basketball team. And in the fall, the football team. Although there was the matter of the skateboard that shed doubt on Dante’s school activities. Regardless, Booker had to stay on point. “Have I told you how hard it was to work and go to college?”
They’d talked more in the four years he was in college than in the last four years.
“Are you complaining? Seriously?” Kimmy sipped her champagne and stared at him over the rim of her glass. Her mouth tipped up at the corners. “From the way you talked, you loved every minute of it.”
He had but Booker denied it anyway. “I ran an underground grill from my dorm room. I could have been kicked out at any time.”
Kimmy crossed her arms over her chest. “Again, you loved every minute of it.”
“I was exhausted and stressed 24/7.” It had been a continuous adrenaline rush. “It probably took ten years off my life. I don’t want it to take ten years from Dante’s. Or worse, make him sick again.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is your mother here? I think I just heard her talking about Dante’s life expectancy.” Although Kimmy was fond of Dante, she’d never been fond of the way Booker always came last in the family. “Oh, no. It was you who was babying him.”
“Here it comes.” Booker cupped a hand behind one ear. “The work lecture.”
Paul passed by. He’d had too much to drink and was strutting like a peacock, all despondency over being dateless gone.
Kimmy’s gaze chilled. “Hard work builds character, Booker. You know this.”
“Is your father here?” Booker refilled their glasses. “Doesn’t he always say that?”
“Touché.” Kimmy and her siblings had been told, not encouraged, to find jobs as soon as they were old enough to drive. “Would you take it back? All those years spent working with your family at the Shack? I wouldn’t.” She leaned forward as if what she had to say needed to be private, despite the fact that they had to talk loud enough to be heard over the bar’s music. “Don’t you love cooking? Wouldn’t you rather be in the kitchen than anywhere else? I know I would.”
Before Booker could answer, Clarice showed up at their table. “Sorry to interrupt,” she shouted.
Mims was right behind her, pointing to her ear and a bright-red clip-on earring. “She forgot her hearing aids.”
“I didn’t forget.” Clarice bristled. “I don’t need them in here. Everybody is shouting.”
Mims patted her friend’s shoulder. “We just wanted to ask Kimmy if she’d participate in our bake sale next week. It benefits the Little League.”
Kimmy sat back, her expression turning wary. “Isn’t that competitive?”
“No, no, no,” Mims reassured her. “I mean, Wendy Adams always sells out her Bundt cake first but it’s all for a good cause.”
Booker was trying hard not to smile. Kimmy had given the Widows Club an inch, and they were trying to take their mile. She’d be a prime target for every fund-raiser they had from now on.
“Oh, Booker.” Mims smiled down at him. At first glance, it was a benevolent smile. But upon closer inspection, it was a smile that meant business. “Did you ever find a wedding date?”
“No.” It was Booker’s turn to fall back against the seat.
“There’s Wendy now,” Clarice shouted. “She was late and just missed being up for auction.”
Sure enough, Bitsy, another Widows Club board member, escorted Wendy toward their table as if Kimmy or Booker were in need of her.
As if I want Wendy to be my wedding date.
Booker’s shoulders cramped, sending a sharp twinge up his neck.
“I have an idea,” Mims said, still smiling. “Why don’t you two team up for the bake sale?”
“Booker and me…” Kimmy’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t bake. We grill.”
Clarice frowned at Mims and shouted, “I think there’s a rule—”
“There is no rule, Clarice,” Mims said at the same volume. The Widows Club president wasn’t good at hiding the high sign. She made wild eyes at Clarice and drew a make-believe zipper across her mouth. And then she turned to Kimmy with a big smile. “You could grill dessert.” She cleared her throat and turned to Booker. “Together.”
“I was just talking to Iggy,” Clarice shouted at Kimmy. “He loves fried food.”
Kimmy paled.
Booker wanted to laugh. The Widows Club was trying to match Kimmy with Iggy. But it wasn’t a laughing matter. They were trying to play Cupid with him and Wendy and eating into his time alone with Kimmy. The auction had promised an intimate date but Booker wasn’t getting his money’s worth.
Bitsy and Wendy paused at their table.
Wendy, the shiest, most withdrawn girl from their high school class.
Paul danced past, scooting through the crowd. He’d fastened his tie around his head like a sweatband, and he had his dress shirt open, revealing a stark white T-shirt.
“Hi,” Wendy said to Booker in that meek voice of hers, one he had to strain to hear.
He and Kimmy were better at secret high signs than Mims and her widows. Booker pressed his lips together and stared at Kimmy, willing her to read his mind: Red alert. We’re being cornered.
Paul danced back doing the “Look Alive” dance, drawing Kimmy’s attention away from Booker. “I’ll buy Wendy.” The town exterminator didn’t stop dancing. “Two hundred. In cash.”
Everyone blinked.
Paul planted his feet but his hips kept moving, as did his shoulders. And there was a side-to-side head bob. The cobra dance move. Despite being drunk, the man had moves. People around them were applauding his skill.
Paul extended a hand toward Wendy. “Come on, girl. Are you ready for this?”
The Wendy he remembered from high school would have shrunk back. That wasn’t this Wendy. She put her hand in Paul
’s.
“Sweet.” Paul skipped off, dragging her after him.
The Widows Club huddled together. This was Booker’s chance. Not just to communicate without words to Kimmy but to confess what he’d done. Beg forgiveness. Offer money. And perhaps salvage their friendship.
“Kimmy,” Booker said sharply, staring at her with mind-meld intensity.
She stared back. And then understanding dawned in her eyes as she seemed to receive his message.
“I’ve got this.” Kimmy tapped Mims on the shoulder. “Can you excuse us, ladies? Booker paid a lot for a date with me, and I’d like to give him his money’s worth.”
Chapter Five
It’s official. We’re being targeted for wedding dates,” Booker told Kimmy as soon as the Widows Club set off to rescue Wendy or collect their two hundred dollars. It wasn’t clear which.
“Why are you panicking?” Kimmy sipped her champagne. “You never used to freak around the Widows Club.”
“They brought me Wendy Adams.” He’d have preferred they brought him Kimmy. Instead, he’d had to buy her outright. Nothing was going right tonight. “They’ve never flaunted a date in front of me before.”
“You’re older now. And still single.” Kimmy glanced toward the dance floor, where Wendy was doing the mom dance and Paul was bouncing around her like a pogo stick. “Besides, Wendy’s got a smidge more personality now.”
Was that a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth?
Kimmy faced him squarely, not a hint of a smile on her face. “Besides, I should be the one who’s nervous. Clarice mentioned Iggy. My last resort.”
They stared at each other for a moment and then burst out laughing.
Kimmy drank more champagne, mischief in her eyes. “You know what this means?”
Booker shook his head.
“You’ll have to be my wedding date.” She said it with a straight face.
Booker sucked in a breath, afraid if he blew it out, he might just break his cheeks by giving her the biggest smile on record. “You’re asking me…”
She nodded.
Booker’s heart swelled. He’d hidden his feelings for Kimmy for two decades. But he had to hide them a while longer. She was asking him out at the worst possible moment—right as he was about to confess to basing his sandwiches off her concoctions.
He blew out a breath. “No.” It pained him to refuse her.
“Hang on.” She laid her palms on the table and narrowed her eyes. “No? Is this about prom?”
Prom. She’d debuted her dance style there. And he, as her let’s-go-as-friends date, had been unwilling to step out on the floor and join her.
Stupid, fragile teenage ego.
Paul tossed bills at the widows and then ran to the bar. He scrambled onto a stool and then onto the bar itself. A swing of his arms and his button-down sailed into the crowd, which was clapping and egging him on. A twist and a shimmy and his T-shirt followed. And then he boot-scooted toward the far end of the bar.
“Booker. Book.” Kimmy waved a hand in front of his face and glanced Paul’s way. “This is about how I dance, isn’t it? Wedding dates are obligated to dance.”
“This has nothing to do with your dance moves.” And everything to do with his obligations to his family.
“I’m not asking you to promise to have and to hold until death do us part.” Her shoulders were bunched around her ears. “It’s one date between friends. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”
Booker ran a hand over his face. It was hard to present logical arguments with Paul dancing a few feet away. The town exterminator reached the end of the bar and boogied along the short end, not caring that the bartender was on the phone, most likely with the sheriff.
And then something Kimmy said sank in. “Hold the phone. Did you just say promise?” Booker stilled, trapping Kimmy’s gaze with his own. “You know how I feel about promises.” And he knew how she felt about hers.
“Promises to you always come with conditions.” She studied him carefully, shoulders lowering. “Name yours.”
This is your chance, his inner voice whispered.
Yes, his chance to clear the air about sandwiches and the past. But maybe a chance to win her heart as well.
“If you don’t agree,” she said impatiently, “the widows will try and set me up with all kinds of men for the wedding. And you…Wendy Adams was just the start for you.”
Booker shook his head. “You know how they get.” The widows. They were like a bouncy Labrador who kept bringing his owner a different toy to play with until…“I need more than a wedding date this week. I need a girlfriend to avoid more permanent matchmaking.”
The words dropped between them, drowning out the music and the crowd noise and the approaching siren.
“So…” Kimmy was looking at him as if he were a box of spices that was unlabeled, one she couldn’t believe she was considering purchasing. “You’re saying we date for real?” Her head was shaking before she’d finished her sentence.
“I’m saying we pretend to have fallen for each other.” Easy enough on his part. “We show up at the wedding events. There’s a family-and-friends barbecue Monday, the wedding party celebration on Wednesday, a rehearsal dinner on Friday, and then the actual wedding on Saturday.”
“You do remember prom,” Kimmy said, staring at her hands and grimacing. “I want to dance.”
“It’ll get you out of the bake sale.” One less Widows Club event to worry about. “And I’ll get out on the dance floor. I promise.”
Her barriers were coming down. Kimmy was no longer looking like she’d swallowed vinegar. “Still…”
“You’ve got nothing to lose.” Whereas he…This could definitely boomerang. In fact, it would as soon as he told her about the contract.
Kimmy reached across the table for his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. “We’re putting years of friendship on the line.”
Sometimes you had to fish or cut bait. “We’ll be fine.” Booker came around to Kimmy’s side of the booth, sliding in next to her. “We’ll hold hands, like this.” He took one of her hands in his, noting the way her eyes widened. “And occasionally, we’ll brush the hair from each other’s eyes.” He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, noting the way her breath hitched. “And every so often—just to sell it, of course—we’ll kiss.” She held herself very still as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You can do that, can’t you?”
He wasn’t sure anymore that he could. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her somewhere besides her cheek.
“Promise me you’ll be my pretend girlfriend all week long.” This was important, perhaps more important than him proving that she wouldn’t reject his touch. “Kim. Promise me.”
“I promise,” she said begrudgingly.
“Say the rest.” Luckily, a waitress delivered their food—two blue cheese burgers with two sides of sweet potato fries—just in time.
Kimmy’s eyes flashed to her fries and then back to Booker’s face. “Did you plan this?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Do you want me to go first?”
Eye roll. Huff. Kimmy put her hand a few inches over her fries. “I promise on an order of hot fries to be your wedding date for a week so you won’t be harassed by the matchmaking Widows Club.” She took a fry. “And you?”
He put his hand over his fries. “I promise on an order of hot fries to make sure Ariana knows you’re no threat.” The bride knew that anyway. He picked up a fry.
They both took a bite and then grinned at each other.
That’s when the guilt set in, heavy on his shoulders. He knew Kimmy wouldn’t renege on their deal no matter how mad she was at him.
“This is such a bad idea.” Kimmy lifted the top of her burger and sliced it open to check the inside. “Medium rare. Love.”
“Jeffrey’s cooking in the back. My dad taught him everything he knows.” Booker checked his burger. Also medium rare. “I’ve always admi
red how you keep a promise.” He wrapped his fingers around his burger.
Kimmy was ahead of him. She took a bite and then made a sound of approval.
“You know my college grill?” he asked.
She nodded, snagging another fry. “Needs more garlic.”
“I never told you what I put on the menu.” Booker was coming up on her slowly, carefully. “And you never asked.”
She’d teased him instead. “What’s on your menu, Booker? Plain burgers? Doubles? Extra-large patties on an extra-large bun?”
And when she’d finished her teasing, he’d always nod and say, “Something like that.”
“It was your business,” Kimmy said now, nodding her head slightly.
Guilt pressed down on him harder. Not just on his shoulders. It closed around his throat, trying to halt his words. He pushed them out anyway. “The reason I was so successful…The reason I had loyal customers…It was because I used your sandwich recipes.” Not at first. But that didn’t matter.
For just a moment, Kimmy’s head continued to nod. She continued to chew a fry.
And then her brow furrowed. Her head stilled, and she swallowed. The corners of her mouth turned down. “You what?”
“I—”
“You jerk.” She shoved him out of the booth and ran.
“You’re on his side?” Kimmy stopped digging through a box of kitchen utensils her aunt Mitzy had purchased at a garage sale for her, and straightened in the food truck. She clutched a metal spatula. “Booker’s?”
She’d been dumping the events of last night in her father’s lap while he installed her stove.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” Her dad slid the stove into place and rubbed his palms on his coveralls. “You have a large extended family supporting you. And he—”
“He stole from me.” Kimmy shook the spatula in the air. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night, not with betrayal burning her heart worse than too much four-alarm chili.
“Haven’t you always told me the Belmontes give everything to Dante and nothing to Booker?” Her father laid a hand on her shoulder.
