The next Wednesday was even worse. Or much, much better, depending on how you wanted to look at it. He honestly wasn’t sure he knew.
She played dirty pool, finding ways to touch and distract him no matter how close the score was, but always keeping it just shy of crossing a line where he could call her on it.
He didn’t want to. It was the best six games of pool he’d ever lost, and he went home grinning.
The week after that, he began to doubt he was going to survive her. At one point, he scooped her around the waist to move her out of his way for a shot. She slipped right back in front of him and smiled.
Challenge accepted.
He leaned forward to take the shot, and she leaned back but refused to move out of the way. He held the cue on either side of her, an almost embrace as she stayed right where she was, practically in a backbend inside of his shooting frame but still not touching him. “I’m not distracting you, am I?” she asked.
He gritted his teeth and took the shot before stepping back. “Nah.”
Not unless she counted making him nearly swallow his tongue as he considered the ab strength that trick had required. He’d like to investigate that further.
When the third week in a row passed with another tortuous, awesome night of cheater pool, he knew it was time to kick it up a notch, as one of his favorite corny TV chefs liked to say. They’d found a good groove, but he couldn’t let it turn into a rut. He had to shake things up.
But how?
The answer came in the form of Dahlia Ravenel.
Or a text about her, anyway. He was cleaning up the truck after a good night of vending at Taylee’s high school. She’d told him about the bingo fundraiser the marching band boosters ran every Monday night. There were always a couple of dessert-themed food trucks there, but she figured the older crowd needed some protein to fuel their bingo card madness. Then she’d texted her friends about this “lit new truck,” and the first night was such a big success that it had become their regular gig. Not only had he made Taylee a real paycheck employee, but he still let her keep all the Monday tips as a commission for getting him the gig. She had the instincts of a hustler, and it was paying his rent and getting him catering bookings for everything from garden parties to corporate lunches.
Finding employees for those hadn’t been tough either. Busboys at high end restaurants were always looking to supplement their cash flow, so he hung out behind Charleston’s fanciest dining establishments like a weirdo and recruited them on their smoke breaks.
He’d put away the last of the devilbird marinade when his phone alerted with the tinkling bell effect he’d assigned to Harper. He whipped the phone from his pocket.
Dahlia wants to do a tasting tomorrow. Can you do it?
He texted her right back. Sure. Midafternoon?
He’d have to skip a good lunch rush out at a business park in Summerland that Harper had suggested he try, but he knew how important this was to her—to both of them—and he’d need the whole morning to prep the perfect tasting menu.
Instead of texting him back, she called.
“Hey,” she said when he answered. Her voice was honey too. “Sorry, I know it’s late.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m finishing up work.”
She groaned. “That makes me feel worse because I’m fixing to make your night longer. I thought we would have another month or two before Dahlia wanted to set the menu. She decides to get on top of things at the worst times. Could we meet tonight to go over your choices?”
He glanced at his watch. “Right now?” It was after nine already.
“Yeah. I’m so sorry. Can I bribe you with ice cream to meet me at my office?”
“I’m one hundred percent corruptible. I’ll grab a quick shower and be there in thirty.”
He was there to the minute, walking in to find her sitting on the floor facing the door, leaning back against her desk with her eyes half-closed until the bell over the door announced him.
“Thanks for coming.” She smiled up at him as he walked toward her. She pushed against the floor like she was going to hoist herself up.
“Here.” He hurried to offer a hand. He pulled a little too hard, and she stumbled into him, slightly off balance. “Sorry,” he said, catching and steadying her, his hands pressed against her back.
She’d braced her palms against his chest to find her balance, but now they relaxed and simply rested there. “Hi.”
“Why were you sitting on the floor?”
“Exhaustion.”
His arms tightened around her. She smiled up at him, and he wondered if she was really, truly seeing him. But then her eyes dimmed, and she slipped away from him, gesturing over her shoulder for him to follow. “I promised you ice cream.”
She led him to a tiny kitchenette in the back of her store and pulled a pint from the mini-fridge. “I just put it in there, so it should still be cold. I hope.”
He realized as she rummaged through a drawer for a spoon that he’d never seen her so dressed down, not even at the pool hall. She was in yoga pants and a zippered hoodie.
“Did you come from the gym?”
She nodded, turning with a spoon in hand. “Dahlia texted me an hour ago, and after I quit freaking out I texted you.”
She rested against the counter like she was too tired to stand, and he leaned against the wall opposite, stretching his legs until they met the baseboard next to her. This kitchenette was tiny even by New York standards.
“Don’t stress,” he said. “At least not about the food. It’s handled. But I don’t want to talk about it until I get ice cream.”
“I only have one spoon.” She stared at it sadly.
“I’ll share.”
She nodded and pried the lid off, scooping a bite and delivering it straight to her own mouth. He struggled not to laugh. So much for sharing.
“My turn,” he said, reaching for it.
She scooped another spoonful and extended it to him, sliding it into his mouth. It was soft, even verging on runny, but that barely registered. He watched her carefully, but she didn’t seem to feel like feeding another human was one of the most excruciatingly intimate things a person could do. Maybe her exhaustion was eroding her usual defenses.
She repeated the process, serving herself a bite, then him. This time he reached up to wrap his hand around her wrist and hold the spoon steady, but before he touched her a drip of ice cream plopped right in the middle of the dragon on his forearm.
She scooped the drop off with her index finger and popped it into her mouth to lick it off.
What . . . he . . . how . . .
Hell.
No man was that much of a saint.
He pulled the pint from her hand. She gave the tiniest gasp, as if she just realized what signal she’d sent. He believed it. He’d endured her being intentionally sexy when they played cheater pool, but what drove him the craziest was the ways she was effortlessly sexy without realizing it, like standing in her gym clothes eating melted ice cream.
The spoon clattered from her fingers to the floor, but she didn’t move to pick it up. Her eyes had lost their tired look.
He straightened and took a short step toward her, giving her no doubt about his intentions so she had a chance to walk away.
“This is a bad idea,” she said. But her mouth turned up in a slow smile.
He lowered his head until their lips were almost touching. Almost. She wouldn’t be able to say this hadn’t been just as much her idea. She hooked her fingers in his belt loops—a move he was really coming to appreciate—and he had to catch himself on the counter behind her as she pulled him in to close the gap.
And then . . .
And then the counter became a necessity as her lips opened beneath his. She tasted like pralines and cream. He couldn’t think anymore, and when she made a soft sound as he deepened the kiss, he didn’t remember having any thoughts, ever, in his entire life.
There had only been this. Heat and swee
tness, and an almost-pain that he would drink deeper if he knew how.
Her hands climbed, exploring his hair and sending an electric wave over his scalp and down his back.
It was his turn to groan. That pulled another soft whimper from her, and she tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He didn’t think it was possible for the kiss to get better until she changed the angle of her head, and it nearly buckled his knees. He had to grab for the counter again.
She pulled away from him, her hands still tangled in his hair, but she opened her eyes to meet his. He watched as they grew from unfocused to clear, and he leaned down to kiss her again before she thought too hard.
She kissed him back for an intense, heady minute before she drew back and rested her forehead against his. “Wait.”
“I have been, since the first time you insulted me.” He dipped toward her lips again, but she shook her head.
“I mean it.”
He stopped and let her collect herself even though it was the last thing he felt like doing. She pressed lightly against his chest, and he backed off immediately.
She took a deep breath then walked out of the kitchenette.
He followed her. “Harper—”
But she held up her hand without turning around, and he stopped talking. She went back to her spot in front of her desk and sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest inside her hoodie.
He sat down cross-legged across from her, careful to give her space.
She finally spoke. “That was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid.”
“It was incredibly stupid,” she said, plucking at the zipper pull.
“Why?”
“Because even if I was looking for a relationship, which I’m not, you and I are a bad fit.”
“That didn’t feel like a bad fit.” His world had tilted slightly on its axis. That had never happened to him before.
“You can’t build a relationship on pheromones.”
“Does this only feel like attraction to you? We laugh together. We have long, interesting conversations. I understand who you are. Have I been imagining all of that?”
She dropped her head to her knees. “Did you bring a menu? For tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Was she really going to change the subject just like that?
She held out her hand for it without lifting her head. He fished it out of his backpack and gave it to her. He’d worked hard on it, making sure all the options had some staple of Lowcountry cuisine but dressed up with herbs and seasonings and preparations from global dishes that pushed it to the next level. It may not look like a typical Charleston wedding dinner, but their classic fare was there in the foundations. It was innovative. Fresh, he thought with a twist of his lips. It wasn’t quite a smile. He was too nervous about her opinion for that.
She studied it slowly, as if she were taking apart and examining each syllable in her mind.
Finally, she handed it back to him. “This is why we don’t make sense. When you peel away the chemistry and the funny conversations, underneath you’re a restless New Yorker on the cutting edge of everything, and I’m always going to be a Carolina girl who loves tradition. I’m not restless. I don’t need change and variety.”
“You’re saying this menu is a metaphor for why we’re a bad fit?”
“It sums it up pretty well.”
He dug into his backpack and handed her a new menu.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
She did before glancing up at him in confusion.
He nodded at it. “Isn’t that what a classic Charleston wedding menu would look like?”
“It is, but I don’t understand why you made this.”
“Because I know how important this wedding is to you. I can make all of that and do it as well as anyone in this city. And I will. I had that ready to go because I want you to see that I understand you, and I’ll make that food without a single criticism. This wedding will work. We will work,” he said, pointing between them.
Her mouth had fallen open slightly. Now her eyes warmed, and he felt it spreading through his chest. He knew it. He’d known this would get through to her. He would make three hundred plates of coq au vin with Julia Child’s recipe if it made Harper happy.
But she shook her head, and suddenly that warmth felt like a fist instead.
“I think this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. But I would never ask you to be this,” she said, handing the menu back to him. “I know it’s not you. And it’s not going to make Dahlia happy. Neither of those menus is going to work tomorrow because it’s not possible to make both sides of that couple happy at the same time. Maybe it’s a metaphor for us.”
“That’s grim.”
“It’s not a criticism of you,” she said quietly. “Her mother and her fiancé want tradition. They want classic. Timeless. She wants edgy and unconventional.” She gave him a tired smile and shifted, her knees brushing his. “Or is it hipster and fresh?”
He opened his mouth to object, or maybe apologize for the words he’d thrown at her weeks ago, but she pressed her fingers lightly against his lips to quiet him. “It’s okay. Dahlia versus everyone else involved with this wedding is an unsolvable problem, and it wasn’t fair to ask you to do it.”
He gently tugged her wrist down. “I wanted to,” he reminded her. “I still do. Let me figure this out. I’ll make it work. I promise.”
“It’s unsolvable,” she repeated. “I need this wedding. And I’m going to lose it.”
“Then it’s not going to hurt if I give it a shot.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and ran through a dozen scenarios in his head, testing them and discarding them before he saw the answer. Then he blinked at her and straightened. “Get them here tomorrow,” he said, climbing to his feet and walking to the door. But instead of walking out, he removed the lace-trimmed sash from each of the curtains she’d hung on it to soften the commercial space. “I’m going to need these, plus the location of the nearest twenty-four-hour drugstore.”
When Harper stuttered a confused answer, he smiled at her. “Prepare to be amazed,” he said and slipped out the door.
Chapter Seven
Amazing.
Harper stared down at the eye masks on her desk. “You made these?”
Zak smiled. “Yeah. I Maria-Von-Trapped those curtains like a glue gun god.”
She picked one up and turned it over, delighted by the lacy confection even in the midst of her stress. He’d pulled the lace from her window sashes and attached them to a plain drug store sleep mask in a way that made it look chic and feminine.
“I’m impressed. But what is it for?”
“In food service, we say that half of your appetite is your eyes. But for the Ravenels, it’s getting in their way. Dahlia reads the menus that her mother wants, and it’s turning her off. Mrs. Ravenel will do the same thing for anything Dahlia wants, mostly because it sounds like this bride doesn’t even know what she wants. Just whatever her mother doesn’t. So I figured out how to eliminate that bias. Do you trust me?”
It was a simple question. He was asking her if she trusted him to make good food. Yes. Everything she’d tasted of his was incredible. Especially him.
Um. Getting off track here, girl.
And wasn’t that always the problem with Zak?
In the same way his food had layers of texture and flavor, so did his questions. Like this one. He was also asking if she trusted him to value her goals.
She sighed. “I have to, don’t I?”
“Don’t sound so sad about it,” he said. “This is going to work. I’m going to set up two tasting stations. One right here for Mrs. Ravenel, and the other over there for Dahlia.” He pointed to the table where she displayed different place settings. “You’ll work with Dahlia, and I’ll work with Mrs. Ravenel. I’ll set the dishes up in order, explain them, and then you just make sure it makes into her mouth and not her lap. Are you up for it?”
&
nbsp; Harper tried to figure out how this was going to help, but she couldn’t see how this was going to solve anything. “I can do that.”
“Great. Why do you look worried?”
“I need more details.”
“It’s not going to make you feel better. Basically, I’m going to have them do a blind taste test so that they can form unbiased opinions.”
He was right. She didn’t feel better. “That sounds both simple and really complicated.”
“It is. Is it okay if I set everything up on your desk and that table?”
She stood, lifting her laptop with her. “Sure. I’ll clear them.”
As she walked around the desk to set it on a nearby shelf, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. He slid it up her neck to run his thumb softly along her jawline. She fought the impulse to press a kiss into his calloused palm. Instead, she stepped back.
“This is going to work,” he said.
Layers, again. This food. This relationship.
“I don’t see how.” She busied herself with clearing the rest of her desk as he brought in a parade of covered dishes from his truck parked behind the shop.
At three o’clock exactly, the other table was set up, and they were ready when the Ravenels walked in.
“Lily and Deacon won’t be joining us today?” Harper asked as she opened the door for them.
“Lily picked up a shift at the hospital, and Deacon says he trusts me to choose the food,” Dahlia said, brushing past her. She stopped short when she spotted Zak standing by the desk covered in dishes. “Who is this?” she asked, running an eye down the length of his lean frame.
Harper refrained from an eyeroll. Whoo, boy. Deacon was going to have his hands full.
“Ladies, I’d like you to meet Zak Choi, the genius behind Crossroads Cooking. I think you’re going to be thrilled with what he’s prepared for you today.” She prayed that was true.
Curiosity sparkled in Dahlia’s eyes, but Mrs. Ravenel looked as if she were refraining from an eyeroll of her own.
“I understand there’s a difference of opinion about the food that should be served,” Zak said.
“There shouldn’t be.” Dahlia’s tone held a bitter note. “It’s my wedding.”
Wedding Belles: A Novel in Four Parts Page 6
