Southern Heartbreaker: A Single Dad Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  “Y’all,” he says, rounding the truck to stand next to me, “this is gonna be amazing.” He grabs the top of the back door with his hand. Leans into me, my arm brushing his side as he leans in to kiss my cheek. “Morning, E.”

  My body electrifies at the simple touch. The whole nine yards: skin tingling, knees going numb, heart thumping. He’s wearing a broken-in white tee, shorts, and sneakers. As casual as it gets, but he looks—and smells—so damn good.

  I can’t help but check him out as he straightens, towering over me. The tee clings to his broad pecs and biceps. Combined with his smile and his Saturday morning scruff—it’s a little more unkempt than usual—and stick a fork in me, I am done.

  It’s been almost a week since I last saw him. On some level, I knew I’ve missed him, as evidenced by the Ford-laden fantasies I indulge in every night with the help of my vibrator. But now it hits me that I’ve missed him. The kind of longing that kills your appetite and gives you that magical floaty feeling.

  I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again all week.

  I still don’t know what I’m thinking in terms of the whole kid/parenthood idea. But I am thinking about it. I am feeling more optimistic about my career and life and family in general. I have a long ways to go, but I’m moving in the right direction. Away from fear, toward…

  Courage? Taking risks?

  Ford?

  “Good morning,” I say with a smile. Because right now, with Ford Montgomery standing next to me, his whiskey brown eyes soft on my face, it’s physically impossible not to. But I do manage to slide my hands into the back pockets of my shorts, lest I surrender to the impulse to paw this man in front of my dad. “Thanks again for having us out here. I’m excited. And nervous.”

  “If those tacos you made the other day are any indication, people are gonna lose their minds over this food,” Ford says. He extends a hand to my dad. “Mornin’, Mr. Lacy. Good to see you again, sir.”

  Dad shakes his hand, adjusting his hat. “No need for the ‘sir’, Ford. We’re all grown-ups now. And it’s good to see you, too. Evie said this whole thing was your idea. Gotta say I’m impressed.”

  Seeing two of my all-time favorite men shake hands, the warmth of familiarity flowing between them, makes my insides go soft.

  Lordy I’m in trouble.

  “Least I could do for someone as talented as your daughter,” Ford replies easily. “Food is kind of what I do for a living, so when Eva told me she was working on a new cookbook, I knew I wanted to help out. Here, let me get that.”

  He takes the tray of grit cakes my dad was pulling out of the truck. At the same moment a voice calls out, “Daddy!”, and the little girl wraps herself around Ford’s leg in a whirl of messy hair and glitter.

  “Whoa!” my dad says, laughing. “Who is this?”

  Ford smooths the girl’s hair away from her face. “Mr. Lacy, this is my daughter, Bryce. Bryce, you remember my friend Miss Eva, right?” His eyes flick to me. “This is her daddy, Mr. Lacy.”

  Bryce looks at us for a beat before she smiles, tucking her head into Ford’s hip.

  “Hi, y’all,” she says. Then she looks at me. “Are you the world famous author daddy was telling me about?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “I wouldn’t say world famous. But yes, I am an author.”

  “That’s neat,” she replies, still clinging to Ford’s leg.

  Ford looks at me again. “Bryce, why don’t you take Miss Eva to the barn? Show her all the decorations you’ve been working on.”

  “Decorations?” I smile. “Did you make them yourself?”

  Bryce nods.

  “Then I definitely want to see them. I bet they’re beautiful.”

  She untangles herself from Ford’s leg and grabs my hand. It’s small and sticky, and for some reason this makes my smile grow. “The most beautiful. Come on, I can show you. Miss Gracie and Mr. Luke helped me put them up. But you can help with the glitter.”

  “Because of course there’s glitter,” Ford murmurs.

  Bryce scoffs. “Daddy, what’s a party without glitter?”

  My dad laughs “You’ve got a bossy one, Ford. I like that.”

  “You have no idea,” Ford says. He nods at Bryce and I. “Y’all go on inside—we’ve got the food handled.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eva

  I don’t know what I did to get Bryce to warm up to me so quickly, but she is a little ball of energy as she tugs me through the barn. Grip firm on my hand, she shows me the drawings she did of fish—“daddy says you make the best”—corn, trees, and, a bit puzzlingly, gnomes.

  “Am I missing something with the gnomes?” I murmur to Ford as he passes by, arms laden with extra trays.

  “It’s just what we’re into this week,” he says, winking at Bryce. “Better than last week’s obsession with Emojis. Of course she got fixated on the eggplant one—purple is her favorite color—which was super fun when she kept drawing these gigantic phallic shapes at school. We had a great chat with her teacher about that, didn’t we, bun?”

  Already I’m smiling so much my cheeks hurt. My nerves recede just the tiniest bit. In the midst of the stress and hurry of all the prep work required to cook for an event like this, I forgot that today might actually be fun.

  That bringing people together with my food is actually a really cool thing. In the past, I’ve kicked around the idea of hosting cooking classes, but I never really got around to doing it. Maybe now is a good time to start. It’d be cool to create this sense of community on a more regular basis.

  After she’s done showing me her decorations, Bryce asks me to help her sprinkle all the tables with tiny pieces of confetti and handfuls of glitter. When I see the confetti is gold and shaped like pineapples, I just about die of cuteness overload.

  “Did you pick these out?” I ask, holding my hand up high over a table as I let the confetti sprinkle down onto the tablecloth.

  Bryce tries to do the same. Half the confetti ends up either in her hair or on her crocs. I decide to let her run with it. A little extra sparkle never hurt anyone.

  “I did,” she replies proudly. “My daddy helped, though. He said pineapples mean ‘welcome.’ Like, they are saying hello to your friends.”

  My heart skips a beat. Ford is busy. But he still took the time to not only organize this whole shindig, but to also incorporate cute, thoughtful touches like pineapple freaking glitter.

  Delighting his daughter in the process like the rock star dad he is.

  I hear his laugh, and my heart skips a beat again when I glance over my shoulder and see him helping my dad set out the food on two long tables at the front of the barn. Dad unwraps a big bowl of brisket, orange, and jicama salad, which I dressed in this deliciously tangy, peppery vinaigrette. Ford gently tugs the tablecloth back into place, then smooths it out with the flat of his palm.

  I feel that tug in my chest. The movement of his palm over my skin. I suck in a breath.

  Why why why does he have to be so excellent?

  “Eva! Hey!” I turn to see Gracie beside me, lit up and smiling.

  I reach out and wrap her in a tight hug. “Hi friend. Thank you so much for letting us do this. Really means a lot.”

  We both laugh when Bryce wraps her arms around our waists, joining the hug.

  “Girl power,” she whispers.

  “Always,” I whisper back, and she smiles.

  My God, is she a heartbreaker when she wants to be. Just like her daddy.

  “And are you kidding?” Gracie says, pulling back. “We are the ones who should be thanking you! Luke and I are so damn honored you chose us to host your tasting. When Ford called asking if we could do it, I literally jumped up and down with excitement.”

  “I hear your food is good, girl,” Luke says, sidling up to our little circle. “Y’all know I’m gonna be fatter than a pig on Sunday after this brunch.”

  His thick southern accent gives me all the feels. Now my smile is so big and so
painful my eyes have started to water.

  “Miss Eva.” Bryce is tugging on my hand. “I have another surprise to show you. It was daddy’s idea, but I helped him set it up.”

  Exchanging a glance with Gracie, I let Bryce lead me to a small table tucked beside the food. It’s set with a pretty floral tablecloth and several copies of my first cookbook, Smokin’ In the Girls’ Room, arranged in slightly mismatched stacks.

  Bryce picks up a handful of sharpies and hands them to me. “For you to sign your books. The books will go in the goodie bags, because you can’t have a party without those.”

  Taking in her smile, the sharpies, the books—I’m overwhelmed.

  Oh yeah. This has Ford written all over it.

  I glance over my shoulder, and like he knows I’m looking for him, Ford meets my eyes from across the room. He saunters over, all shoulders and sweetness, and grins shyly, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his shorts.

  “What?” he says. “You can’t have a party without goodie bags.”

  “That’s what I said!” Bryce adds. She looks up at me. “Miss Eva, we know how to do parties right. I’ve had four birthdays and so has daddy. We are real experts.”

  Ford looks at me, too. “We sure are.”

  The softness in his eyes—all this happy attention—

  Lord have mercy.

  “Thank you,” is all I can manage.

  Ford ducks his head. “I’m rooting for you, E.”

  Now I’m really going to cry. Because this is all so wonderful. But also because I’m not so sure I deserve that wonderfulness. I’m trying my best to keep expectations clear between Ford and I. He knows exactly where I stand; he knows why we have to keep it at just fun for now.

  But it’s becoming more and more obvious that what’s going on here is so much more than that.

  That the connection we share transcends the boundaries of fun or fuck buddy. And yet here I am, accepting Ford’s generosity, his kindness and his encouragement, anyway. Knowing full well I may never be able to give him what he’s looking for. I’m trying to figure out how I feel. Trying to figure out what I want. I hate stringing Ford along, but I need time. If I’m going to jump in, I want to do it with both feet. And I know that level of certainty isn’t going to come easy.

  The thought makes my chest hurt.

  Luckily Ford’s parents burst into the barn at that moment, arms laden with flowers that provide the perfect distraction. The arrangements are simple but gorgeous: Mason jars filled with green hydrangea, white peonies, and big, glossy magnolia leaves.

  I give Monty and Eliza each a hug, and help them set the jars out on the table.

  “Y’all really didn’t have to do this,” I say.

  Eliza just smiles, nudging a jar into place beside a dish of my twist on Mom’s mac ’n cheese.

  “Of course we did,” she replies. “You’re like family to us, Eva. Always will be. Monty and I couldn’t help but notice our son’s had a bit more pep in his step since you’ve been in town. I’m not one to pry—”

  “Uh, yes you are,” Ford says in passing, a big box of God knows what cradled in his hands. “Mom, please be cool. Please?”

  “Anything for you, sweetheart.” Eliza’s smile deepens as she waits for him to disappear outside. She turns back to me. “Anyway. Monty and I are just so happy to see you around town. We hope you’ll be staying for a bit?”

  “Not sure what my plans are yet, to be honest. But I’m happy to see y’all, too,” I say. And I mean it. Being around Ford’s family is like a breath of fresh air. It’s one thing to recognize on a rational level the idea that maybe motherhood doesn’t spell out the death of my dreams.

  It’s quite another to see that idea in action. The ache in my chest grows as I watch Eliza beam at her husband and son. As I witness just how lit up Ford is when he’s around his daughter. He lifts Bryce onto his hip and whispers conspiratorially in her ear; she returns the favor; they both dissolve into giggles like true partners in crime.

  I find myself giggling, too.

  I want in on that secret.

  For the first time ever, I’m feeling a nudge of—wow, is that FOMO? I never in a million years would’ve guessed I’d have a fear of missing out when it comes to anything kid related.

  But here I am, feeling like I’m missing out.

  What does that mean?

  Does it mean I could see myself being a parent?

  Because suddenly, the thought doesn’t scare the shit out of me like it used to. Maybe because I could envision myself signing up for this kind of motherhood. The kind where I’m doing what I love—cooking, creating—while being around the people I love.

  A vision pops into my head. Me, signing the cookbook I wrote with one hand while holding Bryce’s sticky fingers in the other.

  Ford beside us, smiling. Maybe cracking a dirty joke underneath his breath.

  My heart skips a beat. Am I nuts to find that whole scene appealing? Am I just romanticizing things because I’m out of my mind with nerves and giddiness?

  People start to trickle into the barn, and then they come in a full-blown rush. My mom and Alex. My friend Olivia, the author of My Marriage to the Marquess, shows up with her boyfriend Eli in tow. He’s Gracie’s older brother, and just so happens to be the owner of one of Charleston’s most famous—and successful—restaurants, The Pearl. He’s kind of a big deal in the culinary world. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having heart palpitations at the thought of him eating my food.

  But then Ford is at my side, and Bryce is wrapping that sticky little hand of hers around mine again. Luke and Gracie appear, his arm draped around her shoulders. Just like that, we’re all talking easily about Luke and his amazing stone-ground grits. How not long ago Eli wanted to bash Luke’s face in for breaking his sister’s heart, but that after an insane groveling period involving brown liquor and a pair of breeches, he was forgiven by both Gracie and Elijah.

  I’ve heard the story a hundred times, but it still makes me smile. And you know what? It helps. I’m nervous as hell. Being surrounded by my friends, though, by the people who know and love me, feels fucking amazing.

  I didn’t know I could feel so off-kilter and so at home at the same time.

  It’s electrifying.

  I’m shaking by the time people line up for food. Taking a deep breath, I stand behind all the trays and dishes and bowls. Square my shoulders and clasp my hands behind my back. Tell myself that this is just a tasting, that taking risks is worth it, that it’s not too late to pivot back to barbecue even if the thought strangely depresses me.

  “Here.” Elijah presses a metal flask into my hand at the small of my back. “Helps take the edge off. Never gets any easier, does it, sharing your food with the world?”

  Letting my hand drop to my side, I look down at the flask. Look back up at Eli. Slowly unscrewing the cap, I say, “Thanks. I don’t think I’ll ever not be nervous about it. The food. My work.”

  “I get nervous all the damn time. And I’ve been in this game for—Christ, has it been almost twenty years now? But I’ve found being nervous usually means you’re doing somethin’ right. You’re pushing your boundaries. Trying to get better. And that is always a good thing.”

  I turn a little, allowing Elijah to shield me while I knock back the flask. I wince at the bite of the bourbon on my tongue. But the burn that trails down my throat as I swallow loosens my shoulders. They fall back from my ears, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Thanks.” I hand back the flask. “I hope this means I’m doing the right thing. I’m just starting to feel like I’m on the right track again. Like I’m gaining momentum, you know?”

  Eli grins, taking a sip from the flask before tucking it into his pocket. He glances at the table. At the long line of people waiting, plates in hand. “From what Ford tells me, you’re gonna be just fine. Few people know food—and hospitality—like that guy. You’re in good hands, Eva.”

  He grabs a plate and heads to
the back of the line.

  Fortified by the bourbon, I turn back to the table and smile when I see Ford and Bryce at the front of the line.

  “Someone insisted she be the first to try the famous author’s famous food,” Ford explains. Bryce watches intently as he spoons mac ’n cheese onto her plate. “If you can’t tell, we are very excited.”

  “I love macaroni,” Bryce says, and sticks her finger into the pile on her plate. Ford tries to swat away her hand, but she manages to pop a cheesy pasta shell into her mouth.

  I lean down. “That’s my mom’s recipe. It was my favorite when I was little, too.”

  “I’ve made food before. Cookies, mostly.” She chews. Reaches for another shell, but this time Ford catches her. “Miss Eva, this is so delicious. Will you show me how to make your food?”

  “I’d love to,” I say, and I glance up at Ford.

  My stomach dips at the funny look on his face. His eyes are kind but hot, too.

  I don’t know what to do with a look like that.

  I do know that seeing Bryce enjoy my mac ’n cheese makes me think that, for this cookbook, I should continue to focus on recipes that are family friendly. Crowd pleasers. Food that everyone, kids included, can enjoy.

  Who knew four year olds could be a source of inspiration? Kinda cool.

  And terrifying.

  But cool nonetheless.

  The line moves quickly. I answer questions, tell stories. Point out my mom when she approaches wearing a proud grin. She’s chatting with Eliza, practically buzzing with excitement.

  My family always got along with Ford’s. I used to think it was because his was so great. But now, filled to the brim with inspiration and gratitude and the realization that I wouldn’t be here making this food—food I’m so damn proud of—without my parents, I think it’s because my family is pretty damn great, too, despite their faults. They love and support me unconditionally, and maybe that’s all I need. Not their approval. Not their personal happiness.

  Just their love.

  The last person loads up their plate. I make myself one, even though I’m still too nervous to eat, and take a seat between Alex and Ford—our families have camped out together at a table near the barn door.