Wild and Free (The Wilder Brothers)

I reached out and took her hand, stroking my thumb softly across the top of her skin.

“I’m about to tell you that you look beautiful tonight with the sun setting in your eyes, and that I have no issues taking the reins if that’s what you wish of me.”

Her eyes grew big and her stare grew innocent. She was by far the sexiest woman I’d ever laid my eyes on. Her hand gripped mine as we sat there, allowing the sweet southern air to waft over our bodies as we gazed into each other’s eyes. I could’ve died like that. Right there, encompassed by her hand and her perfume and her gaze.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Jessica asked.

“Anything,” I said.

“I sort of don’t want to be a dental hygienist anymore.”

“Oh really?” I asked as my curiosity piqued. “Then what is it you want to be, gorgeous?”

“I kind of want to open my own restaurant one day.”

“And what would this restaurant entail?”

“I love barbecue. I mean, fresh, fall off the bone, smoked out back barbecue. Shredded and diced and crispy and smooth. I make a lot of sauces myself whenever I get barbecue out.”

“So, you enjoy cooking.”

“I do. I don’t get to do it nearly as much as I wished because it’s utterly depressing cooking for two.”

“You don’t cook for your roommate?”

“She survives on Chinese takeout and pizza. As well as the appetizers from the tavern.”

“So, you want to open your own barbecue joint. Do you want a drive-thru place or a sit-down restaurant?”

“A restaurant, definitely. There aren’t many of them around the Charleston area. At least, none that I feel are up to par with what barbecue should be.”

“Those sound like fightin’ words,” I said, grinning.

“Don’t get me wrong, their barbecue is incredible. It’s just not true barbecue.”

“And what is ‘true barbecue,’ might I ask?”

“It’s not a sauce or a flavor. You can’t bottle it up or anything like that. It’s the state of the meat. It’s how you cook it. How you marinade it. How long you smoke it and how tender it is. That’s barbecue. Not something you dip chicken into or pour over your green beans.”

“You put barbecue sauce on your green beans?”

“Honey, I put barbecue sauce on everything. But that don’t make it barbecue.”

We shared a laugh and the more I learned about her, the more impressed I became. She was a vibrant, vivacious, funny, kind, intelligent woman with aspirations beyond her wildest dreams. She regaled me with how she would outfit her restaurant and all the things she would serve. It made my stomach growl just to listen to it. The moon slowly rose in the sky as the sun quickly set, and the twinkle of the Charleston skyline settled in her eyes as our food was set in front of us.

“There you go, guys. Anything else?” the waitress asked.

“More sweet tea,” we said in unison.

She ended up setting our own little pitcher on the table and Jessica’s giggle was incessant. And oh, how it lit up her features. Her smile grew wide and her cheeks grew red. The apples of their peaks glistened in the moonlight as we dug into our food. She had a hearty appetite to match that hearty restaurant dream of hers, and I was mesmerized by her. The petite little body she housed put away just as much food as I did.

“Maybe I could cook for you sometime,” I said.

“You cook?” she asked.

“Probably not as good as you, but I get by. My brothers love my chicken alfredo and my sausage and gravy biscuits.”

“Hmm, funny you should mention a breakfast item,” she said coyly.