He pulls his hat off, runs his hand through his blond hair, and then fits it back into place. The ends curl out from under the edge, and the look is downright sexy.
“Funny it never occurred to me to ask what OBA stands for, I’ve just called it that,” he says as he picks up a jar of honey to read the label.
“Most do. It’s easier to say, and we’ve had the initials enlarged as a monogram on all of our marketing materials, too.”
Spotting the lavender honey, he stops in front of it and grows quiet. His face is thoughtful before he turns to look at me. “So, you like lavender?”
“Like it? I love it! And I was crazy excited to see how much of it you have planted and growing around the winery. Don’t be angry if you find some missing when I leave, I do plan to take some clippings back with me.”
“My mother likes lavender, she planted them,” he says fondly.
“Your mother has good taste.” I smile at him.
“Yes, she does.” He smiles back, and it’s a warm smile. The affection for his mother evident.
“Come on.” I bump my hip against his. “Taste the honey with me. I’m going to buy some to take back to the restaurant.”
“I’m not tasting the honey.” He groans, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yes, you are.” I find an open jar and dip in another sample stick. “Here.”
Begrudgingly, he takes the stick and drops it into his mouth. Looking at me, his eyes narrow and he swallows before confidently saying, “Sourwood.”
I glance at the jar, and he’s right. My eyes widen in shock and I look at his smug face. “How did you know that?”
“You’re not the first woman in my life to like honey.”
I’m not sure how I feel about this comment. Is it because he called me a woman in his life, or that he’s referencing others, but I decide to brush it off.
For the next half hour, Zach and I taste a dozen different honeys and buy almost as many. We wander through the market, stopping to purchase some fruits and vegetables for a few recipes I have in mind, and not surprisingly, we argue over what tastes better.
Fifteen minutes after we leave the farmers’ market, we reach downtown Asheville. Zach finds a parking spot about a block away from the restaurant, and I laugh at him as his stomach growls.
“What? It’s lunchtime.” He shrugs as we get out of the truck.
“Well, let’s go then.” I flash him a smile, and dart across the street. I’m halfway to the other side when a gust of wind blows my skirt up. It isn’t much, but it is enough for me to throw my hands back and smooth it down. It is also enough for me to realize that I flashed Zach. Looking back, I find him wearing a slightly guilty, slightly pleased smile. Ass.
“Hi, welcome to Tupelo Honey,” says a very chipper hostess as we walk in, her eyes skipping from me to Zach and staying there. “Just the two of you today?”
“Yes, please,” I answer her, understanding the effect he has on her. After all, he has the same effect on me—until he opens his mouth.
“All right, if you’ll follow me this way.” She grabs two menus, and we walk behind her to a small table near the front window. This place is exactly like I remembered it, and I’m so excited.
“Your server will be right with you.” She blushes as she glances at Zach one more time.
“Thank you.” His deep Southern voice causes her eyes to stumble just a bit before she walks away. I shake my head.
Both of us sit, and I can’t help but take in every detail. I think there are very few people who enjoy eating out as much as I do.
Feeling Zach watching me, I drag my eyes away from the dining room and to him. He’s pulled his sunglasses off and this is the first time I’ve seen his eyes today. Blue . . . so blue. Butterflies flutter and then take flight in my stomach. I know we’re not on a date, but sitting at this small table with him, it sure feels like it.
Since inviting him on this little trip with me, I’ve toyed with the idea of telling him about my blog. I know he doesn’t like critics, but I don’t think I’m an average one. I don’t usually tell anyone, I like the anonymity as much as possible, but we are working on this project together and I have nothing to hide. Additionally, I don’t want to keep secrets from him, even if this is a short-term project. It’s a part of me, and I’m proud of it.
Sucking in a deep breath, I decide to go for it.
“So, working as a chef isn’t the only thing that I do.” His eyes narrow, but he leans forward to hear me better. “Aside from the restaurant with Meg, I also have a food blog I love. It’s how Food Network found me.”
Like most people, when you’re passionate about something and want to talk about it, you get excited. I’m excited. But as he sits back in his chair and grinds his teeth together, anger quickly rolls in over his features and then rolls out, leaving his expression empty. My enthusiasm wavers, and I become self-conscious. Lowering my eyes, I grab my silverware, unroll the napkin, and place it on my lap.
“Have I heard of it?” His voice lacks inflection, and the blue in his eyes have sharpened and become icy. Once again, his mood shift confuses me, and I wish I understood better why he reacts this way.
“I doubt it.” I shake my head at him. It does have a lot of followers, but I can’t think of a reason why he would know of it, but then again maybe he has. It’s been around for a while.
“What’s the name of it?” I can’t tell if he’s interested in hearing about this or not, but it’s clear that he isn’t happy.
“Starving for Southern.”
His hands slide off the top of the table, grip the edge, and his eyes narrow. A strange feeling dips into my stomach . . . was he expecting me not to tell him or lie?
“Good afternoon, I’m Kelsey and I’ll be your waitress today. What can I get y’all to drink?”
“Tea,” Zach and I both say at the same time, still staring at each other. No need to clarify what kind of tea, we’re in the South—it’ll be sweet.
“I’ll be right back.” And she skips off, leaving the two of us in a face off.
“I’ve heard of it,” he says in a flat tone. “What made you start it?” He picks up his sunglasses and tucks them into the neck of his T-shirt before folding his arms across his chest. His arms bulge under the sleeves, and I have a strange urge to reach out and squeeze them.
“Meg and I were never into the party scene. Fun for us was finding new and exciting places to eat. We visited so many different restaurants, I decided to write about all of our favorite ones. It was easy to find something amazing at almost every place we went, so we posted a lot and I think that was the main reason why the blog did so well. Also, I rarely posted anything negative.”
“And you don’t write about places anymore?” He tilts his head to the side studying me.
“Not so much; only every now and then. Since opening OBA, our adventures have slowed down significantly, but that’s okay, we’re in a different place in life now. Instead, we’ve grown it substantially in developing fun new recipes. We’ve been approached about a cookbook.”
“All righty, here we go.” The waitress sets down the two teas. “Did y’all decide what you’d like?” She opens her notepad and pulls a pen out of the ponytail.
“She’ll order for us,” Zach says, charming her with his smile. “This outing was her idea.” The waitress blinks at him and then turns to me expectantly.
Quickly, I scan the menu, barely seeing the words since I already know what I want to order. He didn’t even look at it. Is he making assumptions about me for having the blog or because I’ve eaten here before?
“We’ll have the farmers’ market pickled plate, the fried green tomatoes, and the fried chicken sandwich.”
“Okie dokie, are y’all going to split it all?”
“That’s the plan,” he says flatly, and she falters again with her pen.
“I’ll get that going, and it’ll be out shortly.” She gives us both a small smile, takes the menus, and le
aves.
His attention swings back to me, and I wish it hadn’t. Part of me feels like shrinking and the other part of me wants to punch him in the throat. And now that I know he doesn’t like critics, I’m almost scared to find out which version of Zach I’m going to have to spend the rest of the afternoon with.
“So let me get this straight, you write a blog, you’re somewhat of a critic, you freelance for Food Network, you co-own a restaurant, and you’re working on a cookbook?” His face is blank but his voice drips with disdain.
“Yes. It sounds like a lot more than what it is, but I love my career and all the different sides to it. I would do more if I could.”
He frowns as the thinks about my answer and then surprises me when he asks, “Have you ever written about this place?”
“I have. But, like I said, it was a while ago.”
“What did you say about it?” This isn’t the direction I thought the conversation was going to go. Honestly, I don’t really remember what I wrote, but I do remember how this place made me feel the first time I walked into it, so I start there.
“Take a look around and tell me what you see.”
His eyes narrow in defiance, so I urge him along. “Humor me.”
After a huff, he gives in, and pauses before he slowly looks around the dining room. “I see people, lots of them, and in a small space. I see large plates of food, and a shop in the back to buy stuff.”
“Boring . . .” I fake like I’m yawning.
He snorts at me and shifts in his chair.
Leaning closer to him, I ask, “Do you feel the energy of this place?”
His eyes wander around the room, and his frown deepens. “I suppose, it just seems crowded to me.”
“But that’s the point. Sometimes the draw to a place is more than just the food.”
The people at the table next to us start laughing, and I can’t help but to smile with them.
“Here’s the thing about being a critic, I know you said you don’t like them, but everyone is one. It’s a subjective opinion that one can agree with or not. Most critics are known for immediately walking into a place and looking for errors, but I think that’s the wrong way to do it. I love to look for the good. To me, it’s about more than the food. It’s people laughing, families eating together, celebrations, memories, and traditions. I love to feel the energy and the sense of belonging. It’s a time when people talk to one another and that time becomes sacred. Everything that happens around the table is sacred. Who knows, maybe that is why so many people subscribe to my blog, maybe they’re looking for the same thing . . . something good.”
He leans back in his chair, picks up his glass, and takes a swallow of the tea. “Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess. That’s definitely a different approach to it.”
“Maybe, but it’s my approach, and that’s all that matters.” I hate that he’s making me feel defensive.
“Do you ever get criticized for not telling the truth?”
“I am telling the truth. What I write about is all true to me. Every experience is my experience.” My voice rises just a bit, and the people at the table next to us glance our way.
“What about people who disagree with your truth? Do you ever give them an opportunity to change your opinion? Seems to me like a blog like yours has influence.”
“No one has ever asked for me to reconsider my opinion. I’m a straightforward person. I leave my reviews open for the readers to decide, but skeptically I guess I would if the situation arose.”
“Why do you say you are skeptical?” He crosses his arms over his chest and his brows furrow, which I find annoying. Why is he looking at me as if he’s silently judging me, and why does he want to know these things?
“Why is anyone the way they are? Individual life experiences, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, finger the napkin in my lap, and look down at the table as I think about my parents. More than anyone realizes, except for Meg, I’m an extremely skeptical person. People are always fueled by motive, and most of the time it’s glaringly obvious.
He takes another sip of his drink and my eyes find his. The blue has softened, removing the edge from them, and his gaze becomes thoughtful as he considers me.
“How did you meet Meg?” he asks, changing the subject.
“We met the weekend before our freshman year of college. We were standing in line at Starbucks, and there was one blueberry muffin left behind the counter. Both of us wanted it, and in the end, we agreed to split it. We’ve been best friends ever since.” I remember that day as if it were yesterday.
“And Lexi? How did you meet her?” He tilts his head.
“In culinary school. She sat down next to Meg and me, and the rest is history. Second semester she moved in with us, and for two years, the three of us were inseparable.”
He pauses and bites down on his lower lip.
A waitress swoops by and drops off a plate.
“Biscuits. Yum.” Snatching one, I drop the subject, slather on some butter and blackberry jam, and then put half on a plate for me and the other half on a plate for him. I push it toward his side of the table. He looks at me as if I’m crazy but pulls it in front of him. With each bite he takes, I can feel a little more of the previous tension melt away.
“You win, that’s tasty.” He licks his fingers, and I’m suddenly mesmerized by his hands. “Do you have a biscuit recipe you could use for us?”
Us.
I pause before answering him, and he looks at me funny.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I also spotted some strawberries out behind the cottage that are ready to be picked, so I’ll make a jam for them.”
“Can we make this tomorrow?” He cracks a lopsided grin at me.
“I don’t see why not,” I say and then lick my lips. I can still taste the jam and butter from my own biscuit. Zach’s eyes drop to my mouth as he watches me and then they cut left to something over my shoulder. I swear this guy gives me whiplash.
“So, how did you become friends with Lexi?” I ask.
“I played football with her brother in college.” He answers between bites.
“I know that, but she didn’t go to college with him, and from what I know, she barely made it to any of his games.”
“No, she only came to two that I know of, but everyone knew who Lexi was, he talked about her all the time. I invited him up for a visit one summer, and she tagged along. We’ve been friends ever since.”
Eventually our food comes, and most of our conversation halts. The food is as good as I remembered it, and Zach agrees with me that this restaurant is a good choice for the recommendation section of the article. We purchase a Tupelo Honey cookbook, and with our stomachs full, we head back to the truck.
“So, are you glad you came with me?” I ask, looking for an opportunity to gloat and rub it in that the drive was worth it.
Zach, who doesn’t appear to have heard me, sways in front of me and grabs the back of his neck.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
He again doesn’t answer, but glances my way as I catch up to him and his steps slow down.
“You do that a lot,” I say as we walk to the passenger side of the truck.
He leans against the door, takes off his sunglasses, and looks at me—his crushingly beautiful blue eyes are slightly glazed. “Do what?”
“Rub your neck.” Concern begins to set in as I watch this large, incredibly masculine guy begin to fade and withdraw right in front of me. Somewhere in the background, I hear a horn honk and people laugh, but all I see is him. His skin turns pale, his lips dry out, and it’s like instant bruising forms under his eyes.
For the first time since I met him, he’s looking at me, I’m looking at him, and neither one of us knows what to do or say next.
Fearing that he may fall over, I take a step toward him at the same time as he reaches for me—one hand on the truck and one hand on my arm. My hands land on his hips to steady him as he looks down at me helplessly.
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“Suppose I do.” He swallows. “I get headaches pretty easily, sometimes quickly, and one just set in.” Not even hesitating, he leans forward, pulls off his hat, rests his forehead on my shoulder, and rubs his stomach. “Shit,” he mumbles.
I’m stunned by not only his nearness but also how he’s folded into me for support. Me. This person he’s tolerating but doesn’t really like. This isn’t just out of character for him—this is alarming.
“Why?” I ask quietly, holding on to him.
He turns his head so his cheek is resting on me, and he breathes right into my neck. The warmth of the air dissolves into my skin, my heart rate involuntarily picks up, and chills race over my body. “I don’t know what brings them on. I’m susceptible to getting them, and lately, I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s a trigger for them, but I can’t seem to find any connections.”
Triggers. I think back over our meal. It wasn’t loaded with sugar and the caffeine in the tea is supposed to help headaches not cause them.
“Did you know it was coming? We could have left sooner?”
“No, this one just hit me. Blindsided.” He groans and rubs his forehead back and forth across my shoulder and massages the back of his neck.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I rub my hand across his lower back, and he leans farther into me, his weight pressing me down.
Minutes pass as he takes one breath after another, a few getting caught in his throat. Eventually, he pulls away but still grabs on to my arm for balance. “Drive fast?” He digs in his pocket and holds out his hand with his keys in it, the pain so evident on his handsome face I feel nauseous for him.
“Wow, I didn’t think guys liked to have their trucks driven,” I say softly, trying to lighten the mood while hitting the unlock button and opening the door for him.
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 10
