Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

I hear his laugh, and my heart skips a beat again when I glance over my shoulder and see him helping my dad set out the food on two long tables at the front of the barn. Dad unwraps a big bowl of brisket, orange, and jicama salad, which I dressed in this deliciously tangy, peppery vinaigrette. Ford gently tugs the tablecloth back into place, then smooths it out with the flat of his palm.

I feel that tug in my chest. The movement of his palm over my skin. I suck in a breath.

Why why why does he have to be so excellent?

“Eva! Hey!” I turn to see Gracie beside me, lit up and smiling.

I reach out and wrap her in a tight hug. “Hi friend. Thank you so much for letting us do this. Really means a lot.”

We both laugh when Bryce wraps her arms around our waists, joining the hug.

“Girl power,” she whispers.

“Always,” I whisper back, and she smiles.

My God, is she a heartbreaker when she wants to be. Just like her daddy.

“And are you kidding?” Gracie says, pulling back. “We are the ones who should be thanking you! Luke and I are so damn honored you chose us to host your tasting. When Ford called asking if we could do it, I literally jumped up and down with excitement.”

“I hear your food is good, girl,” Luke says, sidling up to our little circle. “Y’all know I’m gonna be fatter than a pig on Sunday after this brunch.”

His thick southern accent gives me all the feels. Now my smile is so big and so painful my eyes have started to water.

“Miss Eva.” Bryce is tugging on my hand. “I have another surprise to show you. It was daddy’s idea, but I helped him set it up.”

Exchanging a glance with Gracie, I let Bryce lead me to a small table tucked beside the food. It’s set with a pretty floral tablecloth and several copies of my first cookbook, Smokin’ In the Girls’ Room, arranged in slightly mismatched stacks.

Bryce picks up a handful of sharpies and hands them to me. “For you to sign your books. The books will go in the goodie bags, because you can’t have a party without those.”

Taking in her smile, the sharpies, the books—I’m overwhelmed.

Oh yeah. This has Ford written all over it.

I glance over my shoulder, and like he knows I’m looking for him, Ford meets my eyes from across the room. He saunters over, all shoulders and sweetness, and grins shyly, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his shorts.

“What?” he says. “You can’t have a party without goodie bags.”

“That’s what I said!” Bryce adds. She looks up at me. “Miss Eva, we know how to do parties right. I’ve had four birthdays and so has daddy. We are real experts.”

Ford looks at me, too. “We sure are.”

The softness in his eyes—all this happy attention—

Lord have mercy.

“Thank you,” is all I can manage.

Ford ducks his head. “I’m rooting for you, E.”

Now I’m really going to cry. Because this is all so wonderful. But also because I’m not so sure I deserve that wonderfulness. I’m trying my best to keep expectations clear between Ford and I. He knows exactly where I stand; he knows why we have to keep it at just fun for now.

But it’s becoming more and more obvious that what’s going on here is so much more than that.

That the connection we share transcends the boundaries of fun or fuck buddy. And yet here I am, accepting Ford’s generosity, his kindness and his encouragement, anyway. Knowing full well I may never be able to give him what he’s looking for. I’m trying to figure out how I feel. Trying to figure out what I want. I hate stringing Ford along, but I need time. If I’m going to jump in, I want to do it with both feet. And I know that level of certainty isn’t going to come easy.

The thought makes my chest hurt.

Luckily Ford’s parents burst into the barn at that moment, arms laden with flowers that provide the perfect distraction. The arrangements are simple but gorgeous: Mason jars filled with green hydrangea, white peonies, and big, glossy magnolia leaves.

I give Monty and Eliza each a hug, and help them set the jars out on the table.

“Y’all really didn’t have to do this,” I say.

Eliza just smiles, nudging a jar into place beside a dish of my twist on Mom’s mac ’n cheese.

“Of course we did,” she replies. “You’re like family to us, Eva. Always will be. Monty and I couldn’t help but notice our son’s had a bit more pep in his step since you’ve been in town. I’m not one to pry—”

“Uh, yes you are,” Ford says in passing, a big box of God knows what cradled in his hands. “Mom, please be cool. Please?”