If I don’t have Tampa, what do I have? Where do I go? My thoughts drift to Meg, a warm flicker dancing under my skin as the idea of home and her mingle together. It’s strange. I’ve thought about her nonstop over the last two weeks—well, if I’m being honest, for the last seven months. I’ve only seen her face-to-face maybe a total of five to six days, but she makes me happy in ways no one else does, or at least can right now.
With that, a plan forms, the first plan in weeks that feels good, feels right, and I welcome the new emotions coming in. I’ve been sitting in a fog, and finally, finally it’s clearing a little.
Peanut Butter and Oat Snack Balls
THE FIRST FOUR months of the year in Charleston are my absolute favorites. Technically it’s winter, but really here in the south it’s spring. Every year I look forward to it, and on the first day of March, we celebrate at OBA by changing the menu and welcoming spring-inspired dishes. With the weather cool and mild, our patio fills up with guests first, and they find themselves surrounded by blooming flowers such as roses and wisteria.
In addition to the Wine and Food Festival, there’s also the Festival of Houses and Gardens. It takes place the weekend after, and this year I bought two tickets to celebrate. I’m not sure who’s going with me yet, but there are a hundred and fifty historic homes calling my name and saying, Come tour us. Wander through our impeccable gardens and explore our unique architecture. I truly love that these old homes do this. Outsiders get to wander through the historic district and glimpse the insides through the windows, observing in awe and wonder, and this allows us to step back in time and see it for ourselves.
It’s while daydreaming of sweeping grand staircases and elaborate crown molding that my phone pings with a notification in my back pocket. It’s seven in the morning, I’ve just finished making today’s haul of madeleine cookies, and I’ve paused to slip on a pair of animal print heels I brought to wear today and to drink another cup of iced coffee. I am addicted to this coffee, which I have no qualms about admitting; it’s just so good.
When I pull my phone out, my brows pull down as I see it’s an Instagram post from Jack. Surprisingly, my heart rate picks up a beat as I open the app and stare down at the image. It’s a picture of Zeus sitting in the grass with a beautiful old oak tree behind him. Around the tree, fog lingers on the ground. It’s a beautiful photo, and I know right where this is: Lexi’s back yard.
So that’s where he’s been, or that’s where he is. I wish he had told me; then again, the last time we spoke was about a week ago. Since then it’s just been short text messages about our days, the weather, boring things like that.
Part of me is happy to see he’s out of the condo and with friends, but the other part of me, the part that allowed myself to believe our friendship is closer than that of others, frowns. I had no idea he was there. He didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell me. I feel left out, and it sucks. The caption underneath it says: Man’s best friend.
Zeus really is; I know it—he loves that dog something fierce—but I feel the sting of rejection even though I know I’m being irrational, and I can’t help but reply: I thought I was your best friend. It’s not original, and others have already commented that they would be his best friend too, but my feelings are a little hurt.
Oh well.
Shaking it off, I bury the rejection and focus on the positive. Bright side, right? He’s out. He left the condo. He’s with Bryan. And that makes me happy. I want him to be happy; he deserves it.
An hour later, my phone pings again. He’s replied: Ha! You know you are. Looking forward to lunch . . .
Lunch? What does that mean? I answer with: ???
Several hours later, the kitchen door swings open, and Taylor pops her head in to find me.
“Boss, you have a visitor.” She’s grinning hard, and this confuses me.
“I do?” I quickly think back over my schedule for the week and can’t come up with anything I might have missed.
“Oh yeah you do,” she says, pleased with herself.
“Who is it?” I ask, dipping the spoon into the fresh pot of soup and tasting it. With soups, it’s all about the spices, and this one needs just a little more salt to be perfect.
“I didn’t catch his name—I was too busy trying to roll my tongue back into my mouth.” She swipes her hand over her ponytail, smoothing it down.
“What? Really?” My brows are now rising in surprise.
“Oh yeah.” She knows something; she’s just choosing not to tell me. I toss the spoon in the dirty dish bucket under the counter and walk over to quickly wash my hands in the sink.
Untying my apron, I place it on my work station and follow Taylor out into the dining room. There, standing next to the marble bar set against the back wall, is Jack. About ten different emotions slam into me all at once, and tears unexpectedly fill my eyes.
I walk straight to him, he wraps me in his arms, and there in front of everyone, we hug as if my life depends on it.
His warmth. His solidness. His larger-than-life size. His smell. His everything.
I’m so happy to see him.
His chest vibrates with a low chuckle, and it’s then I realize he’s thinner. Pulling back, I look up into his face and see the dark shadows and lines this last month has given him. My heart aches for him, and then it hits me again that he’s standing here in my restaurant in Charleston.
“Oh my God—what are you doing here?” I stammer. “Not that I’m not excited to see you, because I am, but . . . gah, what are you doing here?” My hands slide to his arms. He’s wearing a navy blue Henley and a nice pair of jeans that cling to him perfectly. I shake him, just a little so as to not throw him off-kilter with the crutches he’s still using, trying to reassure myself that he is in fact here and I’m not dreaming.
“Thought I’d drop in and have a late lunch with you.” His eyes are latched onto mine, and it’s not lost on me that we are drinking in the sight of each other. I knew I missed him, but I wasn’t aware I had missed him this much. From his expression, I’m thinking he’s realizing the same thing.
“Lunch . . . that’s what you meant.” I grin, and a tear unexpectedly sneaks out. Reaching up, he uses his thumb to wipe it away as he cups my face, and I reflexively tilt my head just a bit to nuzzle closer.
“Yeah. I hope that’s okay.” His voice is low and rough. It sounds good, and it feels good as it rolls off my skin.
“Of course it’s okay.” Leaning into him, I again sink into his embrace as he drops his head and lays it on top of mine.
“I missed you,” he says quietly.
“Ditto,” I mumble against the softness of his shirt, and his arms tighten around me.
Minutes pass as we embrace and soak up each other’s presence. I’m certain we’ve drawn attention to ourselves and I should have taken him to the office or into the kitchen, but I just can’t find it in me to move. I could stand here with him forever, and then I start to panic. I know it’s an irrational feeling—after all, he just got here—but he just said lunch, nothing more.
Tipping my head back, I look up as he stares down with his beautiful brown eyes. “How long are you staying?” I ask.
His eyes briefly dip somewhere lower on my face then jump back to mine as he contemplates his answer. “I’m not sure. I . . . uh, I had a meeting with the team’s head athletic trainer yesterday, and he suggested that a change of scenery might be good for me. Then my truck just drove itself here.”
He’s studying me for a reaction, and the only one he’s going to get is happiness.
“Really?” I’m in complete disbelief but so elated at the same time.
“Yep, really.” One side of his mouth tilts up a little as I let out a sigh.
There’s an edge of vulnerability to him; it’s endearing, and unwarranted. How could he think I wouldn’t want him here? His hand slips up my back and tangles in my hair. I can feel him rolling it between his fingers, and it feels nice.
“Are you staying
with me?” I ask hopefully.
“You did say there would always be a room for me at your house.”
“I did.” With that the largest smile breaks free on my face, and he gives me one in return. It’s so beautiful to see him smiling again; it’s almost blinding. “Did you bring Zeus?” I look behind him.
“No. Bryan took him back to Lexi’s a few weeks ago. He’s there running free.” I hear what he’s not saying: it was too hard with him in the condo. I know they used to go for long walks and jogs; poor guy needs his energy expelled on the regular.
“Okay, well, if you decide you want to go get him, he’s welcome here, too.”
“I appreciate that. I did drop by to see him this morning, fill them in on what’s going on. He’s happy there for now, so he gets to stay a little longer.”
“That explains your post.”
“Yeah, I miss the fur beast and wanted to see him.”
“I kind of miss him, too. After all, he does like me more than you.”
Jack laughs, and the hairs on my arms stand up.
“I don’t know about that,” he says defensively.
“Are you hungry? When’s the last time you ate?” Of course my go-to is food. Food is love, and I need to feed him.
Right on cue, his stomach growls, and I grin up at him.
“Well, I guess that answers that question.” I slide my hand over his stomach, his very flat and defined stomach, and it growls again.
“Yeah, I ate a slice of pie this morning at Bryan’s when I dropped by, but that’s it.”
No wonder he’s losing weight. “Then you must sit down and let me feed you.”
Taking a step back, I guide him over to a two-top table and take the crutches as he sits.
“So this is the infamous OBA?” he asks, his gaze leaving me and slowly trailing over the details of the dining room. I try to take it in with fresh eyes, but I’m blinded by pride. I love what I’ve created so much.
Exposed brick walls, wrought iron and crystal chandeliers, high-backed fabric chairs, the wall of honey, the champagne bar in the back, and chunky wooden farm tables. We have an inside dining room and an outside patio that’s filled with herbs and potted vegetables. The restaurant is Southern, shabby but classy, light and airy, and it’s the perfect ambiance for a delicious meal.
“Yep.” I smile at him.
“I know I’ve seen pictures of it online, but it’s so much more in person. It’s bigger than I thought it would be.” I watch as his eyes roam, taking it all in, and I feel exposed, as if his gaze is trailing over me. Stupid, I know, but this restaurant is my life, and here he is looking at it and forming his own opinions. What he thinks shouldn’t really matter, but to me it does.
“I hope that’s a good thing?” I’m seeking clarification.
His eyes come back to find mine then he wraps his hand around my hip and squeezes. “The best thing.”
“Good. Thank you.” He’s made me so sincerely happy I could melt.
Silence again falls over us as we stare at each other. I take in how the last month hasn’t been the kindest to him, and this makes me sad. Unfortunately, it’s so easy to see, and I can’t help but wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
His stomach growls again, breaking the moment, and we both laugh.
“I have the perfect thing. We just made a fresh pot of seafood gumbo, and there’s some cornbread that’ll go spectacularly with it. What would you like to drink? I make a mean iced coffee.” He grimaces, and I remember he tasted it over Thanksgiving. “Oh, that’s right.” I grin. “Forget that. Sweet tea?”
He shakes his head. “Water’s fine. Thank you.”
“Of course! Okay, you hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
Spinning, I quickly walk back into the kitchen with my heels clicking on the floor and my heart hammering in my chest. Why is it acting so crazy? Gah, it’s just Jack.
Following behind, Taylor slides up next to me as I grab a bowl and begin to fill it. “So, that’s Jack?” She eyes me knowingly.
“You know it is. You knew before you told me.”
She shrugs while slicing a piece of cornbread and placing it on a small plate. “Maybe. I thought you said y’all were just friends?”
“We are just friends—why?” I look over at her.
She matches my gaze, not backing down. “Sure doesn’t look like it.”
“How does it look?” My eyes narrow at her.
“Like it’s more . . . so much more,” she says dreamily.
With that, she spins around and leaves me standing in the kitchen, holding his soup with my mouth hanging open, dumbfounded.
Southern Seafood Gumbo
THE RELIEF I felt when my eyes landed on her was so visceral my entire body jolted. It’s like for the last month I’ve been holding my breath, and only now can I finally exhale. I don’t know why; the reality is we haven’t been friends for very long, but seeing her walk out of the kitchen in her wild high heels and with her curly hair all piled up on top of her head and sticking out, I instantly knew with every fiber in me that it was the right decision to come here.
And don’t get me started on her food.
Within ten minutes of her sitting me down at the table, it was covered with the best gumbo I’ve ever had, cornbread, fried green tomatoes, an order of shrimp and cheddar grits, and little cookies to top it off. I know she has a team of people working back there, but damn, all of this is technically hers, and I’m in awe. Of course, I told her it was all too much, but she just stated that her restaurant was as good as her house, and as the host, it was her job to feed me. Who am I to argue?
Once lunch was finished, she wrapped up what she was working on and beamed at the idea of driving my truck, so I let her take us back to her home. I wasn’t sure what to expect there either, but as she parked on the curb in front of a little light yellow row house looking all bright and sunny, I shook my head with a wry grin. This house fits her to a tee.
“So, this is where you live?” I ask, looking around after walking up the front steps and through the front door. Just like at her restaurant, I take in every detail, and every detail is so her. The home is older, two-story—as most are in this part of town—but it isn’t ostentatious. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, and the decor resembles that of the restaurant: elegant but homey, and one hundred percent her personality.
“Yep. I signed a four-year lease-option contract when Shelby and I moved in. We weren’t sure how the restaurant would do, but this summer it will be four years, so I have to decide if I’m staying and going to buy, or if I’m moving.”
“Any reason you wouldn’t want to stay? It looks like a great home. How big is it?” My eyes trail from the staircase in front of us to the left, which appears to be her sitting room and then behind it a dining room. All over the floor there are boxes of plates and piles of what look like linens, and on the table are different arrangements of flowers.
“It really is a great home,” she says as she drops one of her bags on the console next to the door. “It’s four bedrooms and three and a half baths. Selfishly, I want to be closer to OBA. I love to walk, but sometimes even I find it a little scary so early in the morning.”
My head whips back to her. She’s kicking off her heels, and she shrinks several inches to where her head barely reaches the top of my shoulder. My brows draw down, instantly not liking the direction this story is headed. “What time do you go in?”
“I try to be there by five to start baking.” She glances at me all innocently before walking into the room on the right and then farther into the house, toward what I’m assuming is the kitchen. Hobbling behind her, I follow.
“Yeah, I don’t think I like the idea of you walking there alone in the dark either.” I know I have no ability to make any claims about what she can and cannot do, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that walking around a city in the early dark hours of the morning is just dumb.
She glances at me again as she places the
other bag, the one with the shrimp lasagna roll-ups we’ll have for dinner in it, in the refrigerator. There’s a frown on my mouth, whereas there’s a smirk on hers that says, Yeah, I don’t care what you think about me walking. I’m going to do what I want, when I want.
My frown deepens.
“That’s not safe, and you know it.”
Completely ignoring my concerns, she walks toward a doorway under the stairs, and my eyes trail down the backside of her. She’s wearing a green T-shirt and skintight jeans that highlight her tiny little ass. I know I’m not supposed to think about how her ass would feel in my hands as she wrapped her legs around my waist, but I’m a guy . . . come on now.
“So, let me give you a quick tour,” she says, changing the subject. She looks back over her shoulder and her eyes drop to my leg, the wheels turning as she assesses how mobile I am, but then she shrugs one shoulder and proceeds. “This is the dining room.” We move into it, and I watch as she looks at each of the decorations on the table. “It’s not usually cluttered like this, but Taylor and I have been planning for a brunch we have coming up.”
“Looks like a fancy brunch.” The arrangements range from large to small, with an array of items such as different flower looms, dogwood branches, and lemons.
Her cheeks tinge pink, and a small smile makes an appearance.
“It is. I don’t think I told you, but we’re participating in Charleston’s Wine and Food Festival coming up.”
She didn’t tell me, and I can’t help but feel the sting of rejection. I’m not sure why she wouldn’t want to share this with me; we’ve talked just about everything over the last couple of months—well, the months leading up to the injury. I guess I haven’t talked much since.
“No, you didn’t tell me.” I keep my voice neutral to not let her know this bothers me. “That’s awesome. Isn’t it like a really big deal?” I’m not a foodie and I’ve even heard of this festival.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 12
