To Catch A Player

Not now wasn’t not ever, so I took it as a good sign and stayed by her side until later came. If she wouldn’t accept my help, she’d have my support. All day long.ReeseDriving home alone after a victory was nowhere near as satisfying as it was with company—a thought that instantly made me think of Jackson. The jerk who’d showed up and helped me all day, even though I hadn’t asked him to, even though I hadn’t wanted him to, and even though I hadn’t made it easy on him. He’d stayed. And helped.

He made the whole day easier and far less stressful than it otherwise would have been. “Jackson,” I sighed and pulled out of the parking lot, which was thankfully emptying out at a pretty steady clip. If things kept up like this, I might make it home before midnight to enjoy a celebratory cocktail and more pork ribs than any one person should eat in a sitting.

I planned to do both. Netflix and chill all on my own, all night tonight and probably into tomorrow, as well. Maven had the restaurant under control, so I could sleep in and show up later in the day, refreshed and ready to put the cook-off behind me.

The drive was so long, I couldn’t help but wish for things I shouldn’t—things like Aunt Bette being at my side. Holding up the first-place ribbons for best pork ribs and best BBQ sauce with a proud smile and telling everyone who would listen that I was hers. But that was a useless wish, because it couldn’t happen. Not ever. I’d gotten Janey to snap a photo and promise to print it out, but it was pointless—it would mean no more to Aunt Bette than if a stranger had given it to her. Because, as far as she was concerned, a stranger had.

“No more sad thoughts.” I cranked up the music, picking up some old country station with a man with a deep baritone and impressive fingers, strumming a ballad about lost love. The song was sad but it was also beautiful and I listened to each and every word, absorbed the lyrics into my soul until the sadness was infused like a perfect sauce.

I understood the song well: falling for someone who was totally wrong for you and hoping for the best. It was the story of my life. I’d done it with Chad and Ricky, and now I’d done it with Jackson. If the universe had a heart, Jackson would roll out of town in the next few weeks.

Thankfully, the country station played enough sad songs to get me back to the restaurant, where I quickly unpacked everything and put each item where it belonged before I rushed out and headed home.

Aunt Bette’s home was mine now, she’d signed it over to me when we’d updated her living will and power of attorney, but today, it felt like mine. It felt like the life I lived here had happened to someone else a lifetime ago. It felt like it was someone else’s life. Someone else’s story.

But it wasn’t someone else’s story. It was mine. Reese St. James, chef and permanent orphan, destined to be alone forever. I couldn’t run from the story, and I no longer wanted to. That was progress, I supposed.

A hot shower fixed me up pretty good, washing off the smoky grill scent that wouldn’t go away completely for a few days at least. It wasn’t perfect, but the shower was the first step in soothing the aches that pained me on the outside and the inside.

I used the last of the body butter Aunt Bette had bought a couple Christmases ago. The stuff was thick and luxurious, expensive, so I’d used it sparingly—and now, it was all gone.

“Dramatic, much?” It was ridiculous. It was a small fling, and here I was acting like the greatest love story ever told when it never was. I had been silly enough to fall for a playboy. Again.

A sound came from downstairs, startling me, and I let out an annoyed groan. “Not tonight, bad guy,” I mumbled and made my way down to the kitchen, hoping to take out my anger on some unsuspecting burglar. Or worse. “I’m armed, and definitely in the mood to use it,” I called out, hoping there was steel in my voice rather than cotton candy.

The noises stopped, right along with my heart. “Yeah? What kind of weapon is it?”

“Jackson? It’s a machete. What are you doing inside my house?” I stepped inside the kitchen and froze.

“I was trying to go big, as they say. Too big?” Damn, he was cute when he was all sheepish and unsure of himself.

And I was really, really easy.

Apparently. “It’s… nice.” The kitchen counters were filled with flowers, tulips and daisies and roses and orchids. A vibrant rainbow of colors that tugged the corners of my mouth up into a smile. A bottle of Maker’s Mark sat inside an iceless ice bucket, and a romantic place setting covered the kitchen table. Between the nice plates and fancy champagne flutes was a pizza box, with two smaller boxes on top.