“I can tell you what we ate—steak and chicken off the grill. I cook for the two of you at least five nights a week.”
Zach starts chuckling. “Oh yeah, that’s right! Maybe your job responsibilities are changing then.”
Kyle huffs but smiles back.
“What I can’t tear my eyes off is that dessert over there. Did you get some ice cream, too?” Michelle asks.
All four of us glance at the pie.
“I might have, but it isn’t needed for this one.”
“Banana pudding is hands down one of my favorites,” Zach chimes in.
“You should try Lexi’s pecan pie, it’s to die for. Meg and I don’t even attempt to make it, we buy them from her and stock them at the restaurant.”
“She ships pies?” he asks, his fingers falling under the weight of my hair and onto the back of my neck.
“Oh, yeah. How do you not know this? She’s world famous for her pies.”
“I know she is the for fillings, I guess I’ve never thought about her shipping whole pies. We’ll have to stock them here, too.”
“What’s so good about them?” Michelle asks, watching us.
“Oh, just about everything. Her pecan pie is lick-the-plate-in-public worthy.”
Everyone laughs, and I blink quickly, trying to take in as many details that I can.
“Do you like owning a restaurant?” This comes from Michelle, but the both guys look at me, waiting for my answer.
“I do, but it’s really my best friend Meg’s. She owns the majority of it and pours endless amounts of blood, sweat, and tears into making it what it is today. All I’ve ever wanted is to work for Food Network.” Zach’s fingers dip under the edge of my shirt at my neck, I love that he’s found some way all night to be touching me.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Yes, I guess so. This is more of a one-time assignment. Currently, I’m a freelance writer for them, but in the perfect world, where dreams come true, I’d like to work for them permanently. I’ve always wanted my own show.” Hesitating, I look away from them and drain my glass. Other than Meg and Lexi, no one else knows about these dreams or what I’ve been doing to make them happen. “Actually, I recently interviewed for a host position on a new show. Obviously it’s not my own, but it would be one foot in the door and one step closer to that dream. I’m a candidate in the final round and waiting to hear from them.”
Michelle claps her hands together. “You would be perfect on television!”
“Thank you.” I grin at her.
“Is this job in Charleston?” Zach asks.
I turn to face him and instead of finding his expression curious or excited for me, he’s frowning. “No, it’s in New York City.”
“So, you’d be moving there?” His hand slides off my neck, leaving traces of an imprint, and he returns it to his lap.
“Yes, if I got the job.”
The table falls silent, all three of us staring at Zach. Reaching for his glass, he takes a swallow, clears his throat and smiles at me. “Well, good luck then.”
Why is it that his good luck feels more like he’s saying goodbye? And why does this leave this me feeling oddly unsettled? This would be a huge step toward my dream job, one that no one is getting in the way of.
Plastering on my fakest smile, I tell him thanks and turn to Michelle. “What about you? What dreams do you have?”
Taking a deep breath, she glances over to Zach, Kyle, and then back to me.
“Well, since Zach took over, I’ve learned a lot more about the wines and what it takes to make them. I don’t see myself ever leaving the area, and I love it here, so I’d like to become a winemaker. I’ve found different colleges and organizations that offer online classes in enology and viticulture, and I’m registered to start in the fall.”
Zach sits straight, and pulls his hand from the glass to his lap. “Michelle, that’s fantastic,” he praises, making her visibly relax. Not only is it easy to see how she wants his approval and support but also it’s easy to see he’s pleased and proud of her. “I didn’t know this was something you wanted to do.”
“I like it here, and I want to be more than just the girl who pours wine,” she says earnestly.
Leaning forward, Zach puts his elbows on the table. “Come talk to me next Monday, once this magazine project is over. We can brainstorm about a career path for you and how I can help.”
“I’d appreciate that, a lot. Thank you.” She reaches for her wine glass to try to hide her enthusiasm, but she’s so happy, she’s glowing.
“Wait!” Kyle waves his hands in the air. “You once told me that you dreamed of living somewhere different. Moving to a big city.” Whereas Zach is excited over Michelle’s confession, Kyle is clearly confused.
“Yeah, I do have that dream, but doesn’t everyone?” She looks to me for confirmation, and I shrug.
“I’d love to live in a big city: New York City, Seattle, or even Chicago.” I’ve always said this. Doesn’t mean I will, but cities are amazing.
“See,” she says, challenging him.
“But . . .” He pinches his lips and looks around the table at the three of us before slouching back in his chair and running his hand through his hair.
“But what?” she asks.
He lets out a deep sigh and lifts his eyes to hers.
“All this time.” He shakes his head, and the two of them share a moment filled with a heaviness of misunderstanding and opportunity.
Time stalls as Zach watches them and I watch Zach, who has a small, satisfied smile on his face. Seems I was right, he suspected their hidden interest in each other, too.
Lifting my wine glass, I take a sip. Kyle sees the movement and he lets out a deep breath.
“I think . . .” He looks between each of us before directing the rest of his statement to Michelle. “We need to go.” Abruptly, he stands and reaches for Michelle’s hand to pull her with him. “Thank you, Shelby, for dinner. It was delicious.”
“You’re welcome, I’m glad you guys enjoyed it.”
Michelle gives me a small wave and an apologetic smile over her shoulder as she scrambles to keep up with Kyle. Without a word, they head out the side gate and disappear into the night.
Chicken and “Dumplins”
Once again, Shelby outdid herself. I would never tell my mother this, but Shelby’s food is some of the best I’ve ever eaten. And that banana pudding pie, wow, I don’t even think she realizes how good her food is.
“Thank you for helping me clean up,” she says, loading the last of the dishes in the dishwasher.
“Of course. You cook; I clean. Those were my mother’s rules, and they kind of stuck.” I shut off the faucet to the sink and wipe my hands dry.
She smiles appreciatively and then holds up another bottle. “Do you want some more?”
“Sure.” I pull two new glasses and watch as she pulls the cork and pours the wine before we move to the couch. I wait for her to sit first, and after she’s tucked into the corner by the armrest, I take a seat right next to her. After pulling her feet onto my lap, I unfasten the tiny buckle on the cork heels she likes so much. Her shoes drop to the floor, she wiggles her toes, and groans as I begin massaging the cramps out of them.
“Have you been wearing these all day?” There are strap lines indented in her skin.
“Yep. Before I saw you at the manor this morning I ran to the grocery store to get a few things I needed for dinner. All I did was change clothes before everyone got here.”
“I don’t know how you do it, there’s no way I could walk around in shoes like these for eight to ten hours a day.”
She giggles. “Meg, Lexi, and I once ran a stiletto run in New York City.”
“Why?” Just the thought is appalling, then again, I look at and admire her spectacular legs. Rocking heels all day has left them toned and solid.
“Why not? The race raises money for ovarian cancer, and we made
it a girl’s weekend.”
“At least it was for a good cause.” I grin at her.
Dragging my thumb across the arch of her foot, she sinks farther into the couch. As I continue to press into her feet and up her calves, her head falls to my shoulder, and she lets out a low hum every so often on a tender spot.
“When I leave here, I’m gonna have to go on a diet. I’m so full.” She rubs her stomach, looking as if she wants to curl up and go to sleep.
My mind sticks on her words leave here, I didn’t know she was looking to move away from Charleston, but then again, I guess I don’t really know much about her at all.
“How do you do a diet working in the food industry? You cook food all day long.” I tickle the bottom of one foot, which makes her giggle and jerk her leg, giving me the perfect view up the skirt of her dress.
“Not nice.” Her blue eyes shine at me knowingly, but she slowly returns her leg to my lap. Much to my pleasure, her dress stays pushed back. It’s too tempting not to touch, so I run my hand up and down her leg once. She doesn’t stop me, and she doesn’t take her eyes from mine.
“We do cook all day, but I’m not eating it. Sure we taste as we go, but we don’t eat big meals, and we never have food lying around like I’ve had here.”
“Well, I second that. We usually don’t have food like yours lying around, either. We’ve really enjoyed it.”
“Thank you, that means a lot,” she whispers.
I nod and look at her feet, admiring her pink painted toenails.
“Tell me about the video. What happened to you that day?” She props her elbow up on the back of the couch and leans her head against her hand to watch me.
“Most of the game was played under the shadow of the clouds, and the clock was ticking down on the third quarter. The quarterback from the other team lined up behind his center and shifted to lean on his left leg and wiggle his fingers. He scanned the defensive line, and his eyes narrowed at how we were aligned with his team, and he called out, ‘Set!’ It was the way he said it, there was a slight dip in his voice, and if I hadn’t been paying attention, I would have missed it because it was that quick. His linemen dropped into their stances, and all of his teammates gave a slight turn of their head to hear the call—a call they should have already known from the huddle. That was when I knew. The bastard was calling an audible.
“Everyone has a tell, and I’m good at recognizing them. Hell, the guys have been joking around with me for years that I should head to Vegas and clean house, but gambling isn’t my thing. Anyway, I knew what was happening, so I kept my eyes on their quarterback, and I watched every breath he took, and every twitch he made.
“‘Green twenty-two,’ he called out, shifting his weight over and slightly back to the left leg, freeing his anchor foot. ‘Green sixteen,’ his elbows lifted out from his rib cage opening his frame. When he remained tight, they ran the ball up the middle. When he was loose, he was planning for a first down pass. But this, the open frame, it only means one thing and adrenaline spiked through me. ‘Hut hut,’ he called, rocked forward on his toes, and quickly reached for the ball. He was going to sprint backward and pass the ball. And not just any pass . . . Hail Mary style.”
“Isn’t that risky?”
“It is, but they didn’t really have another choice at that point. Prior to this play, he’d attempted four other passes to the same running back, but they were desperate to put some points on the board.”
“So, you guys were winning?”
“We were.”
“What happened next?”
“I watched him and went after the guy I figured he would most likely pass to. I took off, and just as I was closing in on him, he turned and looked for the ball. I remember feeling the guy coming up behind me, but that’s it. What you see in the video, I don’t remember. I woke in the hospital nine days later.”
A sharp inhale comes from Shelby, and I leave the game in my head and focus on her. Wide eyes meet mine, and I briefly wonder what it would have been like to wake from that coma to her beautiful face.
“The theory is that I already had a slight concussion going into the play, making this one amplified times ten.”
“You didn’t know you had a concussion?” She frowns at me, concern etched across her face.
“I suspected, but when you’re in the game, headaches can come from a lot of things, and there’s just no time to think about them. Plus, we’re conditioned to suck it up and play through it. The phrase, ‘Are you injured, or are you hurt?’ is thrown around a lot, and when you’re being paid to perform, this is the law when it comes to pain. On average, there are one and a half concussions per NFL game. They happen, we deal with them.”
“Really? I’m not sure how I feel about that. Aren’t there long-term problems with concussions?” She frowns.
“There are, and unfortunately, a lot of players are suffering long-term consequences because of them. The league has tightened its view on concussions, and they are taken a lot more seriously now than they were even five years ago. I’m still experiencing what they call Post-Concussion Syndrome, which is nothing compared to what some other ex-players deal with. The severity of the injury could have been much worse considering the impact. I do have some attention difficulties, but mostly I suffer from migraines. They told me that the symptoms would be gone by now, but they aren’t. I haven’t figured out what sets them off, but damn if they aren’t debilitating.”
“How often do you get them?” She pushes her hair off her face and then stretches her arm out reaching for my hand.
“At least once a week, sometimes twice. You’ve seen two since you’ve been here, plus I had one the day you arrived.” I weave my fingers in between hers and rub the inside palm of her hand with my thumb.
Her frown deepens. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, I thought I’d have a much longer career than I did. I really love the game.” And I do. People play for a lot of different reasons, but me, I loved everything about it: from being a part of a team, the strategy, even the travel. And there’s nothing like winning.
“But you love this, too, right?” she asks, curling her fingers around mine.
“I do. And I was always set on buying my dad out and taking over, but what guy doesn’t have dreams about winning the Super Bowl and the hall of fame? Especially when you get as far into the game as I did.”
She gives me a small smile and nods her head in understanding.
“What about you, has your dream always been to cook?”
“Yes, but a little bit more than that. I told you when I was a kid that I watched a lot of the Food Network Channel, but like I mentioned at dinner, my dream has always been to have my own show.” She breaks eye contact with me like this admission is hard to say.
“So, you really want to be on television?” I don’t know why this surprises me, it shouldn’t. She’s gorgeous, everyone loves her, and she makes amazing food. Maybe it’s the thought of having to share her with the world, but that would be dumb because she isn’t mine to share.
“Yes, but not just any television, I’ve always wanted to be a part of the Food Network family. More than you can even imagine. I was a communications major in college and then I went to culinary school. I’ve set myself on this path to build a strong case for myself. That’s why this project is just as important to me as it is to you. It’s just one more thing that puts me one step closer.”
I didn’t think it was possible for her to get any sexier, but I was wrong. Part of me is torn loathing the idea of her being a workaholic, but the other part of me admires her dedication to what she ultimately wants. Listening to her and hearing the drive in her voice . . . such a huge turn on.
“Tell me about where you came from. Tell me about your parents.”
She pulls her hand from mine and shifts so she’s sitting a little taller. Walls just went up around her, as she tries to throw off an air of indifference.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she s
hrugs, but I can tell there is.. “I grew up in a small town in South Carolina where traditions and stereotypes seem to be one in the same.”
“What do you mean?” I resume rubbing her feet, and her shoulders drop just a little.
“Well, every Sunday, we showed our faces at church like the happy little family, but Monday through Saturday the whole town knew my father was having an affair with my mother’s best friend. Who, by the way, would also attend Sunday service and kiss my mother on the cheek in greeting.”
“You’re joking?” I frown. “Didn’t your mother know?”
“I don’t know. She claimed she didn’t, but looking back, I don’t see how that’s possible. She had to have known. But where my mom turned a blind eye, the husband of the woman didn’t approve. The whole mess got pretty ugly, and in the end, my father claimed he only married my mother to get closer to my grandfather, who was the town mayor, and that he never wanted kids.”
I try to imagine what it would be like to hear my own father say this, and I can’t. Maybe this drive in her comes from a deeper place than I thought.
“What an asshole.” Fury slides into my veins at the life she was raised in.
“Yep. My grandfather didn’t take too lightly to the situation, either. He fired my father, who was the police chief, and ruined any possibility of a political career for him. My father divorced my mother, my mother’s perfect little Southern stepford life imploded, and she ended up having to find a job. Needless to say, we were never the same.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.” She looks away from me and reaches for her wine glass, clearly trying to shut down the conversation.
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I really know to say.
“Don’t be. It’s shaped me into who I am, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. What I’ve learned and what I value above all in people are character and honesty. She was fake, he was fake, they used each other, and he lied. I have no place in my life—ever—for any of that.”
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 20
