We Have Till Monday

“You got an email.”

I returned to the counter and handed one of the beers to him, then picked up my phone and frowned. The preview said something about an invitation.

I opened it and— “What the…”

“What?” Nicky asked.

I couldn’t answer yet.

You’re invited to a barbecue with August King!

As the Franklin Food Festival is right around the corner, August wishes to extend the invitation to join him for a barbecue on Friday night. Perhaps you’ve traveled a long way to Nashville and don’t feel like hunting down a place to grab dinner, or maybe you’re tired after enjoying the first day of the festival. Either way, you’re very welcome to stop by Littlefield Ranch for a small, casual barbecue.

When: 8 p.m.

Who: The participants of the August King Cooking Class (Spouses are welcome.)

Click the link below to RSVP, and we need your response by 11 a.m. on Friday.

We look forward to seeing you!

Best regards,

Clara Pierce

Discomfort tightened in my gut, and I briefly wondered what the fuck I was doing. All this started with a “Why not?” that I was now questioning a shitload. I wasn’t the type to enter contests and giveaways. I hadn’t considered actually winning. There’d been a post by a famous chef asking his followers what they’d last had for dinner, and I’d obviously seen the information for the giveaway. I remembered also thinking, “Huh, that’s the weekend before the music festival.” Then I’d entered my response with a shrug and a “Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

Well, this happened.

This shit was happening.

“Are you gonna tell me why you look like you wanna puke?” Nicky asked blandly.

I didn’t wanna puke. I didn’t know what I wanted. For fucking real? Me, at a barbecue with August King?

As if the cooking class weren’t weird enough.

I laughed, which caused Nicky’s forehead to crease.

“The chef hosting the cooking class at the festival invited the participants to a barbecue tomorrow,” I answered.

Nicky lifted his brows, probably stuck on my reaction. “Okay…? Isn’t that fun?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know a fucking thing.

But I did know how to make my brother understand what I was going through. “Imagine if I went to one of those speed dating events,” I said. “It’d be weird, right? Uncharacteristic. Awkward as shit.”

His eyebrows pinched together, and he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

“That’s how I feel about this too,” I said. “Leaving Brooklyn, attending some damn food festival on my own, and a fucking cooking class? This ain’t me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Understanding flashed in his eyes. A faint grin followed. “That’s part of tryin’ shit that’s outside your comfort zone, innit? I think it’s great you’re doin’ this.”

I guess I’d succeeded then, ’cause I wasn’t comfortable at all.

Nicky pointed to my phone. “You should go. If the cooking class feels awkward, I bet the barbecue will help. You’ll have a chance to talk to King—and the other participants.”

He had a point.

“And you know you can always call me, right?” he went on. “You could be in fuckin’ China for all I care. Call me if you need a pep talk.”

I exhaled a chuckle, finding him too sweet sometimes, and shook my head at myself. When did I turn into a coward? I hadn’t always been this unsure.

“Thanks, bambino.” I cleared my throat and opened the email again. “I’ll go to the barbecue.”

Chapter 3

Drive All Night

The growing crowd loved seeing my brother with a banjo, and he was a stellar entertainer.

He flirted with them using his skills and charisma.

I strummed on my electric and sang of needing a new path to go down, a new look, a new everything. The music had me in a tight grip, and I felt the buzz flowing through all of us, connecting us. Sylvia on the piano, Chris and Nicky moving to the beat, and Luiz showing off behind the drums.

We raised the roof with the last chorus, when Matthew led the choir.

Fourteen hours on the road had only one upside.

I was too exhausted to be nervous and worry about making a fool of myself.

I’d paused at a roadside motel for a few hours of bad sleep somewhere in Nowhere, Virginia, but that was it. Not counting quick breaks to buy coffee and gas.

Even though I knew exactly where I was, I felt utterly lost in my surroundings. The past hour or so, I’d seen nothing but ranches, never-ending pastures, and animals. Horses and cattle. I was officially in a state where plantations existed.

I might as well be on another planet.

Right next to the dirt road, framed by a white-painted wrought-iron gate welcoming me to the Littlefield Ranch, was a place to park, and I pulled in there just to grab a smoke and stretch my legs.

Four mailboxes were attached to the white fence that enclosed the King land.

The silence was something else. I’d never experienced anything like it.