Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

To be honest, I was just going to grab something at the coffee shop down the street so I could put up a blog post and do some work on my cookbook this morning.

With my deadline looming, I really have to get going on the thing. Over the past week alone, I’ve gotten a dozen emails from readers asking when it’s coming out. My gut contracted reading each one. I tell them that, as of now, we’re hoping to publish the book this time next year, if not sooner.

But Mom sounds like she’s bumming. Plus I’m still starving and slightly hungover. Now that I’m in my thirties, three or four drinks will do that sometimes. How sad is that?

I’m confused, too. Last night with Ford, and that kiss—

Ugh, it’s making me feel weird and achy and lonely. I could use some comfort. And some food.

Some comfort food.

Luckily, I’m in the same city as the woman who does comfort food best.

Mom is in the kitchen when I let myself into my parents’ house. I texted Alex, too, and she’s already here, making nuclear-grade coffee in a moka pot on the stove. The smell hits me head on. I want to weep with relief.

Gratitude, too. This is the kind of stuff I really missed living far away.

I wrap Mom in a hug.

“What time did Dad leave this morning?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Before seven,” she replies.

I squeeze her a little tighter. She squeezes back, furrowing her brow when she pulls away.

“Everything okay? You look a little tired,” she asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a late one last night.”

“Get into anything good?” Alex asks, grabbing me a mug.

“Nah,” I say, careful to keep my eyes glued to the mug as she fills it with coffee. “Hung out with an old friend. Nothing crazy.”

“Old friend.” Alex fills her own mug and picks it up, holding it to her lips. “Does that friend happen to be Ford Montgomery?”

My stomach dips.

“Um,” I say.

“Ford Montgomery?” Mom says, mouth curling into a small, surprised smile. “Second time in as many weeks that I’ve heard that name.”

I cut Alex a look. “How’d you put those pieces together?”

“Easy.” She shrugs. “You hosted that shower for Julia recently. Grey was going to be there, and I figured there was a good chance his brother and business partner would be, too. Did y’all, like, make out at a bar or something? You and Ford, I mean. The two of you always had such insane chemistry. I don’t blame you. He’s so ho—”

“We—no, Alex, we did not make out at a bar.”

We made out in the street. Because we’re classy like that.

“You’re smiling,” Alex says. “Aw, yeah, y’all definitely swapped some spit, didn’t you?”

“Alex,” Mom says, a warning. But her eyes are bright with curiosity. “What would you two like me to make for breakfast? Sounds like we have quite a lot to talk about today, so we’ll need some good food to keep us going.”

“Good food for good conversation,” I say. “I like that, mom.”

“Polite conversation,” she says, giving Alex a look.

My sister holds up her hands. “I’m out, then. I’ve been hanging around gorgeous grump too much—he’s rubbed off on me, and now I’m clinically incapable of kindness or patience.”

“Speaking of swapping spit,” I say. “You do know that you and this gorgeous grump are headed in that direction, right?”

“Food, y’all,” Mom says wearily. “Let’s focus on the food.”

I set down my mug. “Right. What about migas, or a frittata, grits…”

“I say grits!” Alex replies, heading for the pantry.

“Oooh!” I say, remembering Ford’s comment about the grits casserole mom used to make. “What about that grits casserole, Mom? The one with the sausage and cheese and mushrooms we used to have for brunch? Totally terrible for you, and totally delicious.”

My stomach grumbles at the memory. My dad is the celebrated chef in the family. But Mom was the one who did the cooking in our house. She made a variety of things, from Mexican recipes passed down from her mother to American and Lowcountry classics my sister and I devoured as kids.

She did this day in and day out. More than thirty years—and counting—of cooking for us. Just like she’s cooking for us this morning.

My throat thickens. Damn it, since when do hangovers make me emotional?

“I haven’t made that in forever,” Mom says. “It’s just been your father and I for so long—”

“Will you show us? How to make the casserole?” I say, mentally kicking myself for not asking sooner. I can tell you exactly how long to smoke pork butt, how to alter your rub so it best compliments your turkey or brisket or chicken. The best combo of wood chips to achieve maximum flavor and moistness. Best smokers for home chefs.

But I have no idea how to make any of my mom’s recipes. With the exception of her arroz con pollo—that I had her give me a lesson on because I love it so much. Otherwise, though, I know next to nothing about the meals that literally kept me alive and allowed me to grow into the semi-functional adult I am today.