Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Eli grins, taking a sip from the flask before tucking it into his pocket. He glances at the table. At the long line of people waiting, plates in hand. “From what Ford tells me, you’re gonna be just fine. Few people know food—and hospitality—like that guy. You’re in good hands, Eva.”

He grabs a plate and heads to the back of the line.

Fortified by the bourbon, I turn back to the table and smile when I see Ford and Bryce at the front of the line.

“Someone insisted she be the first to try the famous author’s famous food,” Ford explains. Bryce watches intently as he spoons mac ’n cheese onto her plate. “If you can’t tell, we are very excited.”

“I love macaroni,” Bryce says, and sticks her finger into the pile on her plate. Ford tries to swat away her hand, but she manages to pop a cheesy pasta shell into her mouth.

I lean down. “That’s my mom’s recipe. It was my favorite when I was little, too.”

“I’ve made food before. Cookies, mostly.” She chews. Reaches for another shell, but this time Ford catches her. “Miss Eva, this is so delicious. Will you show me how to make your food?”

“I’d love to,” I say, and I glance up at Ford.

My stomach dips at the funny look on his face. His eyes are kind but hot, too.

I don’t know what to do with a look like that.

I do know that seeing Bryce enjoy my mac ’n cheese makes me think that, for this cookbook, I should continue to focus on recipes that are family friendly. Crowd pleasers. Food that everyone, kids included, can enjoy.

Who knew four year olds could be a source of inspiration? Kinda cool.

And terrifying.

But cool nonetheless.

The line moves quickly. I answer questions, tell stories. Point out my mom when she approaches wearing a proud grin. She’s chatting with Eliza, practically buzzing with excitement.

My family always got along with Ford’s. I used to think it was because his was so great. But now, filled to the brim with inspiration and gratitude and the realization that I wouldn’t be here making this food—food I’m so damn proud of—without my parents, I think it’s because my family is pretty damn great, too, despite their faults. They love and support me unconditionally, and maybe that’s all I need. Not their approval. Not their personal happiness.

Just their love.

The last person loads up their plate. I make myself one, even though I’m still too nervous to eat, and take a seat between Alex and Ford—our families have camped out together at a table near the barn door.

“Wow,” Monty groans, shoveling a huge forkful of arroz con pollo into his mouth. “Just—wow, Eva, this is incredible.”

“So good,” Alex agrees around a mouthful of grits.

I curl my arm around Mom’s shoulders and pull her in for a hug. “Thanks for thirty years of meals, Mom. You’re the one who inspired all this.”

“And you’re the one making it happen.” She hugs me back. “Congrats, mija. This next book is going to be a huge success, I just know it.”

“Agreed,” Ford says. “Eva, everything is seriously delicious. You done good.”

Bryce, who is doing a little happy dance in Ford’s lap while she eats her mac ’n cheese, nods, a piece of pineapple glitter falling from her hair. “You done very good, Miss Eva.”

“Is that the best macaroni you’ve ever had?” Mom asks.

Bryce nods. “Oh yeah. Daddy makes the kind from the box—”

“I deserve the father of the year award, I know,” Ford says with a groan, and we all laugh.

“Which is good. But this is good too.”

Mom and Bryce go on to have a conversation about cheese and how it’s one of their favorite things. Mom is beaming. Bryce is laughing.

Their obvious joy wraps around me like a hug.

And Ford—Ford is in his element. Cleaning his plate, he gets up and makes the rounds. He’s laughing and talking, lit up as he moves from table to table, checking in on everyone. I do the same, getting some amazing feedback on the food. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt prouder.

Bryce joins me. Quietly holding my hand while I chat with fans, friends, and family. Then the two of us sit at a table together and spend time making animal shapes out of the pineapple glitter pieces. I make Bryce giggle with my terrible cow; she makes me smile with her “doggie wearing a bow”.

Every so often, Ford and I meet eyes across the room. And every time, my heart and my stomach and basically the rest of my organs do this delicious little dip.

I want to be with this man. Which means I’m going to need to make a choice.

A really big choice.

I just hope that, by considering the whole kid thing, I’m being brave and taking a chance. Not succumbing to societal pressure, or trying to fit a round peg into a square hole, convincing myself that the predominant cultural narrative of love, marriage, baby carriage is the right narrative for me.