“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 admired 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.
“So that makes it right?” Every time he’d asked her what was in a sandwich, she’d been filled with pride that he’d enjoyed her creation enough to ask. And all along, he’d been pilfering her work.
“I know this hurts.” Her dad’s gaze was soft. “Do you remember when you took my set of screwdrivers to Emory’s to fix the loose storage lockers?”
“Don’t try to say that’s the same.” Kimmy couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
I should have told Mom. She’d understand.
“I didn’t begrudge you the use of my tools.” He was in dad mode, words slow and deliberate, as if he knew her mind was circling around the possibility that she’d been betrayed. “I did ask you after a month to bring them back when I knew I was going to need them.”
“Tools are not sandwiches.”
“But you borrowed my tools without asking,” her dad continued.
Kimmy swallowed a groan of frustration.
“You don’t have to admit I’m right.” His hand fell away. “But you know I am. Ninety-nine percent of the time.”
Kimmy stared at the freshly painted ceiling.
Her mother climbed onto the lower step of the truck. “Are you almost ready to go? I promised Haywood I’d be there soon. He left us a key under the mat.”
“Yes, Mom, but can you weigh in on this?” Because Kimmy would like to have someone on her side.
“Sure.” The pleasant smile on her mother’s face hinted at expectations of a food truck opinion. She had no idea there were much heavier issues at hand.
Kimmy explained what Booker had done.
Her mother didn’t hop up and down in anger. “You’re saying Booker used your sandwiches to finance his way through college?”
“Yes.” Maybe her mother was doing a slow burn on this.
“Don’t you create new sandwiches every week?” She was in mom mode, calmly presenting her arguments. “Do you even remember what sandwiches you were making ten years ago?”
No. “That’s not the point.”
A truck pulled up outside. It was a new truck, and Booker was driving.
Kimmy’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“Family goes the extra mile, honey.” Her mom hopped down and waved to Booker on her way back inside the house.
“Family.” Kimmy watched Booker approach. She had on her grubbies: jeans and a T-shirt she didn’t mind getting dirty. He wore pressed khakis and a black Burger Shack polo. “He’s not family.”
“Isn’t he?” Her dad waved Booker inside. “For years, you would’ve argued he is.”
She hated that her parents’ arguments made sense. Scowling, Kimmy set her hands on her hips.
“Hey.” Booker bounded up the steps and looked around. “What’s all this?”
“Kimmy’s future.” Her dad excused himself and left them alone.
“Family’s got your back,” Kimmy muttered. “Not.”
“What’s that?” Booker ran a hand over the countertop the same way Kimmy did when she came in, a greeting of sorts to the kitchen. He glanced around and then faced her. His gaze was soft, forgivable.
Do not forgive.
“This is my big move forward,” Kimmy said instead, planting her feet. “When we were kids, we always talked about having businesses of our own. This is mine.” She plastered a smile on her face and shored up her defenses for his criticism. “I know it’s not brick-and-mortar or white tablecloth but it’s a start.”
“What a great idea.” Booker began opening cupboards, checking out her space.
My baby.
“Low overhead. Freedom to change locations if the grass is greener elsewhere.” He poked around the box of utensils from Aunt Mitzy, muscles flexing as he moved things around. Every hair in place except that cowlick. His voice familiar, comforting, approving. “You can make your own hours. Work the catering circuit.”
“You stole from me.” There was no escaping that fact.
“Yes.” He leaned against the counter, not running from anything.
“You operated an illegal grill from your dorm room. No health inspections. No business license.” At the time, she’d thought he was daring for doing so.
“Yes.”
“And because you cheated the system, you thought you could cheat me.” Her words were roughened by hurt. “You didn’t ask. I would’ve been okay if you would’ve asked.” Because what her parents had said was true. He was like family to her.
Booker’s gaze didn’t drop from hers. “My dad gave me an indoor grill as a graduation present. I used it to cook meals. And then my college friends wanted me to grill for them. They were willing to pay.” He scratched at his cowlick. “My roommate was a business major. Somehow, it went from this little thing to a big thing overnight. Except…people got bored with burgers.”
“So you turned to sandwiches.” Hers.
“It was weird,” Booker said slowly, nodding. “When I prepared your sauces and put them on the grill, it was as if you were next to me, helping me, working with me.” His gaze was so dark and sorrowful she knew she’d forgive him. “I miss us working side by side, bumping elbows and scooting around each other.” His gaze took in the food truck’s kitchen. It was just the right size for bumping elbows and scooting.
But he’s not going to be cooking in here with me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission.” Booker’s eyes were filled with regret. “I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you the truth.”
The air between them seemed thick with significance.
Kimmy could forgive him, and their friendship would carry on. Or she could hold on to the hurt, letting it sit like the taint of rotten eggs. She wasn’t the grudge-holding type. But she wasn’t the brush-it-off-and-everything-is-hunky-dory type either.
Kimmy sighed. She’d forgive him and hope time would heal the wound he’d made. “You should have asked or at least told me sooner. But you always were a procrastinator.” That wasn’t true but a truce sometimes required levity. And there was the promise she’d made about the week ahead.
Booker gave her a rueful smile. He knew he was still on shaky ground. “There’s something else. I—”
“Kimmy!” Her mom banged out the front door. “Time to go.”
“I have to help my mom with a client.” Kimmy moved toward the door. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Booker had a bewildered expression on his face. “What time?”
“What time?” Kimmy paused on the top step. “What time are you picking me up for Hay’s party?”
Chapter Six
Kimmy took Monday off to drive into Greeley.
She needed dresses, a pedicure, and a stylish haircut if she was going to spend the week pretending to be Booker’s girlfriend on the wealthy side of town.
What I need is my head examined.
This was the one time she should’ve broken a promise. Her hesitation wasn’t just because she was still in the process of forgiving Booker. Growing up, she’d never felt as if she fit with the kids who wore expensive tennis shoes and name-
brand blue jeans. For heaven’s sake, she’d cleaned Haywood’s house yesterday for the party she was attending tonight. If that wasn’t proof she was out of her element, she didn’t know what was.
At the mall in Greeley, Kimmy ventured deep into foreign territory—a department store dress department.
“May I help you?” The woman who stepped between the racks had a style Kimmy envied. She wore a figure-flattering dress and a pair of attractive heels that didn’t look tortuous.
“I’ll have one of those.” Kimmy’s gesture encompassed the woman. “I need three dresses to wear to wedding events and one to a wedding. Plus shoes. And…” She sighed. Might as well just admit all her failings. “This is what I normally wear to work.” She gestured to her blue jeans and red T-shirt. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make me look like I know what I’m doing in the dress department.”
The sales clerk—Lydia, her name tag said—took Kimmy by the arm. “I’ve been dreaming of you my entire life. Come on.”
An hour later, Kimmy was armed with four dresses she’d never wear after this week, a pair of heels she could stand to wear for a few hours, and a referral to the spa in the mall.
At the spa, the hairstylist wasn’t as excited to see Kimmy as Lydia had been. “What kind of product do you use on your hair?”
“Shampoo.” By the woman’s frown, she could tell that was the wrong answer. “I have to wear my hair back for work every day. I don’t need product.”
The hairstylist tried to run her fingers through Kimmy’s frizzy hair but her hands moved slowly through the thick mass. “You need product. Good product.”
Kimmy took that to mean expensive. She couldn’t afford expensive. That was why she didn’t go to Prestige Salon in Sunshine. With all her credit card spending today, she was setting her food truck timeline back a week.
The hairstylist ran a comb carefully through Kimmy’s hair. “And you need bangs.”
“I don’t want bangs.”
“You need bangs.”
“No bangs.”
“I’ll change your mind.”
“No, you won’t,” Kimmy said as politely as she could.
Sealed with a Kiss--A Sunshine Valley novella Page 5
