Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Another chuckle. “Keep telling yourself that. Tomorrow at eleven. Bye, Eva.”

I tell him goodbye. My phone is warm in my hand when I pull it from my ear. I look up to see Mom setting the table, Alex spooning enormous portions of grits casserole onto our plates. She looks up and smiles.

“Aw, yeah. Y’all are gonna be swapping more than spit tomorrow.”

Mom shoots her a warning glare as she takes a seat.

“How nice that Ford has a boat!” mom says, clearly trying to change the subject.

“How much you wanna bet it’s, like, a yacht or something?” Alex sits and spreads her napkin across her lap. “I always knew that guy was a pimp.”

“He’s not a pimp. He’s a dad. He’s also just a friend.”

“Are you putting him in the ‘just a friend’ box for that reason? Because he’s a dad?”

“Well, yeah. And for lots of other reasons, too. Like he broke my heart a hundred years ago.”

Mom looks at me and nods, wearing that small smile. I have to give it to her and my dad. They’ve never given me shit for the choices I make, including the one not to have kids. My parents are many things—most good, some not so much—but they have never, ever judged me.

I’m shaking when I sit down beside my sister. But wolfing down one serving, then another, of Mom’s grits casserole, I start to feel better. Fortified. It’s out of this world delicious. Savory and filling. Satisfying. The kind of comfort food that sticks to your ribs and makes your pants feel so tight they hurt.

“This is really good, Mom,” I say when I’m on my third helping. “Thank you for making it for us. Today and all those bajillion other times, too.”

“Mom, you’re the best,” Alex adds.

“I know,” she replies with a saucy little shrug. “You two are lucky to have me.”

“We are. The luckiest.” I push my clean plate away from me and fall back into my chair with a pained sigh. I’m so full I feel like I’m about to burst. “Y’all. What the hell should I bring for lunch tomorrow? I keep thinking a tried and true recipe, but I’d like to at least attempt something new for the cookbook.”

Mom chews thoughtfully. Swallows. “What about tacos? We can make tortillas—I’ll help.”

“Oh!” Alex says, eyes lighting up. “You can make some fish tacos. I just got this incredible tilefish from Captain Beau the other day. Put it over a roasted cauliflower mash and topped it with a basil aioli. It was so freaking delicious even the grump ate it.”

I nod, the recipe taking shape inside my head. Mom’s tortillas, grilled fish, a tangy, creamy slaw. Maybe get some avocado in there somehow? But how to do that without the avocado going brown and mushy before we eat?

No clue, but I am feeling jazzed all of a sudden about figuring it all out.

I’m feeling inspired. Which hasn’t happened in a long, long time.

“I like it,” I say, my heart skipping. “I like it a lot.”Chapter TenFord“Y’all sure you really want to do this?” I ask Julia as I climb the steps onto the front porch. “Also, sorry I’m early. Guess I’m eager to get out on the water.”

Eager to see this girl I cannot for the life of me stop thinking about. One date, and I’m already jonesing for more of Eva.

Julia holds out her arms and smiles at Bryce. “Yes, we are absolutely sure. We’re so happy y’all are here.”

My daughter is perched, as usual, on my hip, her sparkly purple backpack—stuffed with toys, snacks, and an extra change of clothes—slung over my other shoulder.

For a second, I feel a pulse of guilt. Am I being a schmuck for handing her off half an hour early? Should I even be handing her off at all on a Sunday, one of only two days a week I get to spend more than a stolen few hours with her now that I’m working full time?

But then I remember how, well, refreshed I felt yesterday morning after hanging out with Eva Friday night. Slight hangover notwithstanding. I was tired, but I didn’t feel it. Not the way I usually do. I was more patient with Bryce. So much so that I set up easels for us both and allowed Bryce to make a mess of my kitchen with supposedly “washable” paint. Three hours later, she had a picture of a palm tree, and I had a washing machine full of brightly dyed kitchen towels.

Clearly hanging out with Eva—taking time to myself—is good for me, and good for Bryce, too. Even if it isn’t easy to leave her like this. She’s why I bought my boat in the first place. She loves it.

She also loves her new aunt.

So I hand my baby over, grinning when she gives Julia a big hug. Julia smiles. Bryce smiles. For a second, she looks so much like Rebecca—long, dark eyelashes, big, toothy smile—it takes my breath away.