Across the Horizon

by Aly Martinez

  “You have a hammock out back?”

  There was a delay in her response, which was followed by a subtle kiss of her lips on what I assumed was a wine glass. “Don’t knock it until you try it. It’s one of the most underrated luxuries in outdoor furniture.”

  “Oh, I’m not knocking anything. Rope or quilted?”

  “Mayan, actually.”

  “Oh, sweet heavenly baby Jesus, she’s beautiful and knows her hammocks. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.”

  She giggled, pausing for another sip. “You know, if you leaked this hammock fetish to the press, you could probably increase demand by five million percent and singlehandedly lower the country’s unemployment rate.”

  Okay, so at some point during the day, she’d figured out who I was.

  But! Even with this knowledge, she was trying to avoid a date with me and was not elbow-deep in planning our televised wedding. This was a definite plus in my book.

  “Yeah, but then, when I talked to beautiful women like yourself, I’d have no idea if the hammock was your idea or a ploy to impress me.”

  “Jeez, that’s sad, Tanner,” she said, her sweet Southern accent like a wave rolling over my name.

  I’d meant it as a joke, but it was the absolute truth when it came to dating. Once early on in my career, I’d done a rapid-fire interview about my personal life. One of the questions had been: What would your ideal woman order on the first date? Truth be told, the only thing I hoped my ideal woman would order was something she wanted. I didn’t factor into that. But I’d been on my last question in my last interview of the last day of a month-long press tour. My face had hurt from fake smiling, I’d been in desperate need of a shower, a smoke, and sleep, and my mind had been mush, so I’d prattled off the first thing that had come to mind: shrimp and grits.

  That one little answer somehow made it onto my Wiki page, and after that, every woman I’d taken out ordered shrimp and grits. One of them even had a shellfish allergy and nearly ended up in the hospital. And this insanity was not limited to women outside of the spotlight.

  I’d once gone on a date with America’s princess of pop, Levee Williams. We’d hit it off at a charity event. For one of the most famous women in the world, she was a surprisingly nice girl, gorgeous, and funny as all get out. But the first time I took her out? One guess what she ordered.

  I was at the end of my rope with dating and lost my freaking mind before storming out like an asshole. That night, as I was reporting shrimp and fucking grits as an error to Wiki, I noticed that her page listed it as her favorite food. I’d never had the balls to contact her again, and I once hid behind a palm tree on Rodeo Drive when I heard the clamoring of paparazzi calling her name. But that’s neither here nor there.

  In short, while finding a woman was all too easy, dating was hard.

  But that wasn’t about to stop me from trying with Rita.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You know what else is sad? Having to beg a woman for her address so you can pick her up and take her to Lenox Circle Station.”

  “Shut the front door,” she breathed.

  Warmth filled my chest as I smiled. “I will not. Then we wouldn’t be able to get to Lenox.”

  The Porterhouse was one of the most sought-after restaurants in Atlanta. We were always packed, and The Tannerhouse hadn’t even opened yet and it was booked a year out. But Lenox Circle Station was where Atlanta royalty dined. And I happened to have a huge in—like, say, my best friend being the chef and him owing me so many favors because his wife loved me that I was practically drowning in them. It wasn’t usually my scene, what with my neck being allergic to ties and all. But it’s not like I could have taken a woman like Rita, who wore a little black dress and pearls to a kids’ carnival, anywhere else for our first date. I’d considered cooking her a private dinner at The Tannerhouse but decided against it on the off chance that she asked me to make shrimp and grits and I was forced to throw myself into the oven.

  “Holy shit. You got us reservations at Lenox? I heard they turned Beyoncé away last month.”

  I barked a laugh. “Did I mention I got the chef’s table in the kitchen for us?”

  “Oh. My. God. Shut the front door!” she exclaimed in a high-pitch squeal. “Is this your idea of foreplay? Because I am so okay with it.”

  “Imagine how I felt with all the hammock talk.”

  She didn’t just laugh—she laughed. Rich and melodic, filled with honest-to-God amusement that couldn’t be faked. And in a world where everything was faked for my benefit, it was the most intoxicating sound I’d ever heard.

  I passed the first exit for Buckhead and instead headed toward The Commons, which were anything but common. They were lush houses on Lake Oconee. If she had a hammock out back, I was banking on the fact that there was something in her backyard that she wanted to overlook. At least that’s why I lounged on my balcony.

  “Say yes,” I urged.

  “I don’t know, Tanner.”

  “Rita. Stop thinking and say yes. It’s dinner. Just dinner.”

  She let out a resigned sigh that shot intoxicating victory through my veins. “What time do we have to be there?” she asked. “Because it’s going to take me a solid six hours to get ready for Lenox.”

  I flicked my gaze to the clock; it was now eight thirty. “Eight. But as long as we’re there by nine, it should be fine.”

  “No!” she cried. “I’m in yoga pants and a tank top. I’ll never be ready in time.”

  “I guess I could try to reschedule,” I quasi-lied. Kevin wasn’t going to turn me away—ever—so there would be no trying about it. But I really didn’t want to reschedule.

  “I’m warning you. It’s not going to be pretty, Tanner. But no way I’m passing up an opportunity to sit at the chef’s table at Lenox.”

  “Or a date with me, right?” I teased.

  “Yeah. Sure. That too.”

  My face split into an epic grin.

  She let out a huff. “Okay, I live in The Commons at Buckhead.” Bingo. “Three Fifty-One Stony Bridge Drive. How long do you think it will take you to get here from your house?”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I turned into her neighborhood. “My house? Like maybe…twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. It’s going to be touch and go, but I’ll do my best. See you soon.”

  She had no idea just how soon that really was.

  I could have driven around, giving her time to get dressed. But then I would have missed seeing her life-altering ass in yoga pants. I didn’t know Rita well, but I had enough experience with women to know she would probably kill me for showing up early.

  Meh. Worth it.

  Two minutes later, I was laughing to myself as I walked up to the navy-blue door of her brick two-story home. It was nice, in the newer part of The Commons right on the lake. Clearly, Greg did well for himself.

  I did better.

  After straightening my skinny baby-blue tie and buttoning my gray Dior Homme jacket, I cracked my neck, shoved one hand into my pocket, and knocked.

  She opened the door in the next beat.

  I blinked.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Thrice.

  If I’d wanted a show, that was exactly what I was getting.

  My mouth fell open as I gave her a very slow head-to-toe—then back again. “What the hell kind of witch-craftery is this?”

  Note to self: Not the best way to greet a woman I’d like to potentially see naked one day.

  Her green eyes glittered like emeralds as she smoothed her hands over the shallow curves at her hips. “What? What’s wrong with it?”

  Nothing. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it.

  She looked spectacular. And that was what was wrong with it. It was like she’d walked out of hair and makeup on the set of a classic Hollywood film. Every one of her short hairs were in place, curling at her chin as if they too were drawn to her plump, crescent lips. Her eye makeup was subtle, bu
t her pink cheeks and long lashes carried all the drama. She was just as classic and gorgeous as she had been at the Fling. Maybe more so in that ruby-red strapless dress. It was simple in the way that allowed her body to be the star. It hugged her large breasts before flaring out at the bottom, the pleated hem flirting with her shins.

  My mouth dried as my gaze made it down to black, mile-high, strappy heels, which still left her several inches shorter than I was.

  I was usually an ass man. Though I could understand the appeal of a nice set of legs.

  But, on this woman, while all of that was spot-on, it was the idea of tracing my tongue over her exposed collarbone and up her delicate neck that forced me to distract myself by mentally converting grams to ounces.

  Just kidding. I hadn’t measured anything since culinary school. But you get the point.

  “Holy fuck, you look incredible,” I told her.

  A bright white smile split her lips. “I could say the same about you. But I won’t because I think you already know.”

  I scowled teasingly. “You said you were wearing yoga pants and a tank top.”

  She shrugged, tipping her head to the side. “And you said you were twenty minutes away.”

  “Did you willingly start our soul-searing, blazing-romance-of-the-ages with a lie?”

  She lifted a single manicured nail in the air. “Whoa, easy there, Nicholas Sparks. First of all, we are just going to dinner at Lenox. I’m going to need you to tuck that soul searing in your back pocket for a while. This is not a date, remember? Secondly.” She turned her finger toward her face. “This is today’s makeup and hair and I literally just stepped into the dress and shoes one minute ago. So no lying involved.” She cocked her head to the side. “At least not on my side.”

  I stepped toward her, not even waiting for her to invite me in.

  Her body got tight and she inhaled sharply when my hands landed on her hips. For the briefest second, I couldn’t decide if this reaction was in surprise or discomfort. We’d had more physical contact earlier in the day, but the last thing I wanted was to misread the situation.

  “Rita,” I whispered.

  Her head tipped back, the color of her cheeks now matching her dress. “Yeah.”

  It was a thoughtless response and an answer to my unspoken question. In the next blink, she swayed into me, her hands resting on my pecs.

  Oh. Hell. Yes.

  I dipped low, and sweeping my lips across her cheek, softly stated, “I wasn’t lying. I was just hoping to catch you in yoga pants. It sounded sexy, but I have to say… This dress and those heels… Mmm. They are definitely better.”

  Her fingers spasmed, digging into my chest, and the breath she’d drawn in exited her lungs on a sweet sigh. “Okay, but I need ten minutes to touch up my makeup.”

  I leaned away so I could see her face again, my eyes going straight to her mouth as I rasped, “Okay then. Point me to the hammock.”

  * * *

  I could do this.

  I could so do this.

  At least that’s what I was chanting to myself less than an hour later, while sitting at the chef’s table at the Lenox Circle Station with Tanner Reese, trying not to freak out.

  This was after Tanner Reese had spent fifteen minutes chilling in my hammock before kissing me on the cheek and telling me I looked gorgeous, then guiding me to his Mercedes with his large hand gently resting on the small of my back, opening the door for me, rounding the hood while digging the keys from his pocket thus giving me a David Beckham worthy side profile of his ass in that suit, and then folding in to drive me to said chef’s table at the Lenox Circle Station.

  It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to text that enormously long run-on sentence to every person in my phone, including Greg and Tammy.

  Instead, I took a sip of wine.

  Adrenaline and excitement had long since burned off the bottle I’d consumed with Sidney, causing a breach in my alcohol-induced armor and allowing my nerves free reign on my date.

  Holy shit. I was on a date. I’d made him promise that it wasn’t a date, but we both knew it was.

  With Tanner Reese.

  I took another long sip of wine and glanced around. Our table for two that evening was tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. The space was small, only a short counter, a four-burner gas stovetop, and an oven were across from us so we could watch the chef cook, something that I assumed was more for my benefit than Tanner’s. He was probably more accustomed to being the one doing the cooking rather than watching.

  There was a flurry of activity happening around the corner in the long galley kitchen we’d walked through when we’d arrived. It was very much what I’d assumed the back of a restaurant would be like, the sounds of metal clanging, people calling out orders, the occasional shout. But in our little nook in the back, we were secluded from the action. Tanner had asked me if the table was okay, stating that he’d specially requested for the chef’s table to be moved so we could have some privacy without all the heat and noise. And knowing that Tanner wanted said privacy with me, I thought it was better than okay.

  Our waiter and wine steward had stopped by several times in the few minutes since we’d arrived, but I’d yet to meet the chef.

  “You like wine,” Tanner said with a devilish smirk from across the small table.

  I set the stem of my glass on the crisp, white tablecloth. “I haven’t met a wine I didn’t like.”

  He chuckled, quieting when Kevin Story—another man who was double-name worthy—came strolling over in a pair of chef whites, wiping his hand on a towel at his hip before extending it for a shake.

  “Mr. Ab-tastic, so glad you could finally join us.”

  Tanner rose from his seat and clasped his hand. “Mr. One Beer Too Many, I’d apologize for being late, but I was busy denying your wife’s request for naked selfies again.” His playful, blue eyes flicked to mine. “I’m kidding. I’d never send naked selfies. Partially because I’m a man of morals, and partially because I don’t want to be the one who clues Jade in on the fact that real men have two balls unlike her husband here.”

  Quietly laughing, I stood up as Tanner waved a finger between us.

  “Rita, this is Kevin Story, my mortal enemy or best friend depending on the day you ask me. Kevin, this gorgeous woman is Rita Laughlin. Please keep the drool in your mouth. Even if you weren’t married to a woman you don’t deserve, Rita would be completely out of your league.”

  Kevin chuckled and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Rita Laughlin.”

  I flinched at the use of Greg’s last name, but no way I was wading into the mess that was my life in front of Tanner’s friend to explain that, as soon as I could get a judge to recognize my divorce, I was changing my name back to Hartley.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I replied. “I’ve heard such amazing things about your restaurant.”

  “They’re all lies,” Tanner hissed. “This place should be condemned.”

  Kevin boomed a loud laugh that echoed off the stainless-steel equipment. “How does a woman like you put up with this asshole?”

  “I… Uh, well, this is our first date. So I’m not sure yet.”

  “Oh, so it’s a date now?” Tanner smarted.

  I rolled my eyes. “We both know it’s a date.”

  Mischief lit his face. “Yeah, I know. I just really enjoyed hearing you say it.”

  Kevin’s handsome, but aging, face crinkled at all the corners. “Your first date?” He swung a disbelieving gaze to Tanner. “And you brought her here? So I could witness this?”

  “Kev, don’t,” he groaned.

  “Don’t what?” I asked, flicking my gaze back and forth between the two men.

  Suddenly, Kevin lifted his hand up to his ear, pressing two fingers against the shell as if he were wearing an earpiece. “Oh, wait. I think someone in the kitchen is trying to reach me. What’s that you say? We have an unexpected menu change tonight?”

  Tanner’s head
fell back between his shoulders as he stared up at the ceiling. “Dammit, Kev, stop. I actually like this one.”

  Warmth settled in my stomach. He actually liked this one. This one being me.

  Kevin’s only acknowledgement was to use his other hand to pat Tanner on his toned stomach as he kept talking to no one. “Yes, okay, I can hear you. Go ahead. So, in addition to the chef’s menu tonight, we are adding shrimp and grits as an entrée. Did I hear that correctly?”

  “You are such a prick,” Tanner muttered.

  “Okay, I got it.” Kevin dropped his hand, disconnecting the imaginary call he’d been on, and asked, “So, Rita, any interest in shrimp and black truffle grits tonight? Mine are world famous.”

  Tanner’s head snapped up, those Caribbean-blue eyes landing on me with a tangible weight that sent a chill down my spine. For the first time since I’d met him, the happy-go lucky guy with an arsenal of wit and humor was gone. Honestly, he looked nervous.

  And it made me nervous.

  His brows drew together as he held my stare. The palpable tension in the air was lost on his friend, smiling at me like a used car salesman.

  Four eyes, all of them blue, two of them heart-stopping, bored into me as I tried to figure out the answer to a question that I somehow knew was far bigger than what I would be eating for dinner.

  Greg loved shrimp and grits, so I’d cooked them a lot. And through the years, I’d gotten quite good at it. I imagined Kevin Story’s would be better, but regardless of why this question was so important, there was only one answer.

  “Thank you, but I don’t like grits. I know. I know. How does a woman born and raised in the great state of Georgia not like grits? And I honestly don’t know. My mother spent a lot of years attempting to sway me, but it never took. Now, if you manage to master the art of shrimp and black truffle Cream of Wheat, I’d be interested in getting the recipe.”

  Kevin’s smile grew exponentially, but Tanner just stood there staring at me, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

  Shit.

  Clearly, I’d made the wrong choice. “Look, I—”

  “Marry her,” Kevin said without tearing his eyes off me.