The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Read online

  Those dinners were my favorite growing up. It was the only time my dad slowed down enough to sit and talk with us.

  “That sounds really nice,” she responds, smiling along with him.

  “It is. If you’re ever out this way when they’re back you should come, I’m sure she’d love to meet you,” he says.

  Shelby glances at me, and when she doesn’t get a reaction out of me, she shrugs. Neither one of us has any interest in continuing this forced arrangement after she leaves. I think this might be the first thing that we both agree on, but in the meantime . . . stick to the plan.

  “I think I’ll go with you tomorrow. What time were you thinking?” I ask her.

  She blinks a few times and her forehead wrinkles a bit before a sly grin that I don’t understand flits across her face, “How about nine thirty?”

  “Sure. I’ll be ready.” I return her grin with a cautious one and say, “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

  “I have some ideas already, but I need to see what’s available at the farmers’ market first. Lightning will strike and the creativity will rain down, I know it.”

  Lightning.

  There’s only one thing, well one place that comes to mind; I hesitate and think, why not.

  “I want to show you something,” my voice trails off, as I almost regret asking, but the invite is out now. “Were you wanting to head to the cottage after this or are you good to go for a ride?”

  She glances at Michelle, and the two of them trade a look of surprise and curiosity. “A ride sounds fun.” Her voice is cautious, so I give her a reassuring smile. This girl never backs down from a challenge.

  Reaching over the bar, I grab the bottle of sauvignon blanc and two glasses. I can feel Kyle and Michelle looking at me suspiciously, and for some reason I suddenly feel guilty. I shouldn’t. They know what the plan is, and it’s not as if I’m trying to get under her dress, I just think she’ll like where I want to take her.

  She follows close behind as I lead her out of the manor, the soft click of her heels on the floor keeping time with the muted thud of my work boots. I head toward the golf carts, and pack the bottle and glasses in a bag that’s hooked on the back of the closest one. She climbs into the passenger side and tucks the sides of her skirt under her legs.

  The air is cool tonight, but not cold. The humidity has held off, and I think I’m going to time this perfectly. Five minutes later, we pull up to the cave. Again, Shelby follows me as I start walking up the dirt path in the opposite direction of the cave.

  “Where are we going?” she calls out from behind me.

  “You’ll see.” I smile to myself, eager to see her reaction.

  The path isn’t too long, maybe a tenth of a mile or so, but it is uphill, and it suddenly occurs to me she isn’t wearing the best shoes for this.

  “Are you doing okay?” I turn around and point to her shoes just as she wobbles. Reaching out I grab her hand to steady her, and she smiles at me in appreciation.

  Damn smile. I’m not supposed to like it either, or her.

  “I am, but I think I’ll take them off. I don’t want the heels to get ruined.” She doesn’t let go of my hand as she slips her shoes from her feet and then dangles them loosely from her fingertips. She shrinks a good four inches, and now I feel like I’m towering over her.

  “All right, let’s go. It looks like the sun is going to set soon, and I want to see what it is you’re trying to show me,” she says, pulling on my hand. Leave it to this girl to hike up a hill barefoot in a dress. I shake my head at her and at myself for finding her charming.

  Side by side, we finish the trail and step out onto a rock overhang that gives us a spectacular view of the winery as well as a few others. I’m still holding her hand, and she’s still holding mine. I don’t know why, I just know I’m not ready to let it go.

  “Wow, it’s so beautiful.” The wonder in her voice wraps around us along with the wind leaving its mark on my skin. I’m elated by the inspired and awestruck look on her face. Her hand tightens around mine, and I watch as she breathes in the earthy clean smell of the air. I want to respond that it is, but deep down, I know I wouldn’t be talking about the view in front of us.

  For some reason, up here, by ourselves and away from the world, it feels different, she suddenly feels different. It’s like she’s someone else, or maybe it’s just me.

  “My father first brought me here on my tenth birthday. I was so proud that he wanted to spend time with me to show me something he loved. He said until then, he thought I was too young and worried that I would fall over the edge, but at ten, he trusted me. I’ve never forgotten that day, and I don’t know why I just told you that, but this is my favorite spot. I’ve come here a lot over the years.”

  “Are you close with your parents?” she asks.

  “More so with my mother. My father, he ah, he worked a lot. How about you?”

  “No, I’m not,” she whispers, and then closes the subject. “Thank you for bringing me,” she mumbles, her gaze still enchanted by the view.

  I watch her face as she stares out toward the horizon. The sun is about to dip down below the peaks of the hills and everything around us is bathed in a golden light.

  “I wasn’t sure if I was going to or not,” I confess, wondering if I should keep this tidbit to myself.

  “Why not?” She turns to look at me and our eyes meet.

  “Because . . . I’ve never brought anyone here before, it’s my place.” My eyes scan her face, and I hate how my stomach tightens. Why is it that when we’re in front of other people I want to strangle her, but when we’re alone, I forget what she does and who she is, and I kind of enjoy her company?

  “Really?” Her eyebrows rise in question. If I would have brought someone, it would have been Elaine, but she was always way more interested in our city life than coming here to the farm.

  “Nope. But when you mentioned lightning, I thought of it. In the summer, on the horizon there’s a lot of heat lightning. I’ve always liked to watch the storms off in the distance.”

  “Sounds beautiful and I love it here.” She breaks eye contact and nods toward the bag I brought. “What’s in there? Did you pack us a snack?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “The golf cart we took is mine. The bag stays on the back and holds things that occasionally I need.”

  Letting go of her hand, I put the bag down and pull out a blanket.

  “You need a blanket?” She watches me as I throw it out for us to sit on.

  “You’d be surprised how much time I spend up here.” I gesture for her to sit, and she moves onto the blanket.

  “What do you do up here?” She looks at me as I sit next to her, stretch out my legs, cross them at the ankle, and lean back onto my hands.

  “Think.”

  After the last injury, I knew my football career was done. I woke up in the hospital to the familiar sounds of the machines, and I kept my eyes shut to allow the reality of my situation to sink in. It was there in that bed that I brought myself here and stayed. Even after I got home, I came up here, pitched a tent, and grieved for the loss of something I loved.

  Sensing I need a topic change, Shelby reaches over and pulls the wine and two glasses out of the bag. She pours for us and hands one to me.

  “What do you think of this sauvignon blanc?” I ask her as she takes a sip.

  “I like it. I think it’s tart, green apple tart.” She holds the glass up and looks at the wine. The sun reflecting through it gives it more of a golden color, and then she smiles at me before taking another sip.

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect from the person the magazine was sending. They mentioned a chef, but not whether that person would be versed in wines or not. You don’t know a lot about wine, do you?”

  “No, but I know enough,” she says, lowering her glass. “Also, my palate is refined enough to be able to denote the different flavors and nuances, and I greatly appreciate the work that goes into
each bottle.”

  Shifting, she crosses her legs and folds them under the skirt of her dress. I like watching her, maybe a little too much.

  “So, which of your wines is your favorite?” she asks me.

  “By taste, or in general?” I get asked this question a lot, but this is the first time I’ve asked someone to clarify.

  She tilts her head as she mulls over my question. “I guess in general, which is kind of broad, so maybe favorite grape.”

  This answer is easy.

  “It would have to be the cabernet. The grape has thick skin, so it’s durable to most of the elements and can be grown pretty much anywhere. I appreciate strength in all things.”

  “You said that earlier, too, about the pinot gris.” I think back to our conversation and she’s right.

  “I’m not a fan of weakness.” And that’s when it dawns on me that Shelby isn’t weak. She’s strong, independent, and has her shit together. She isn’t relying on anyone to make her dreams come true, she’s doing it on her own. A fissure of admiration disrupts the shell of usual dislike I have for this girl, and I’m not sure I like it.

  “I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up here. Do you have any siblings?” Her attention is again fixed on the horizon as she asks.

  “Nope, it’s just me, and it was amazing.” It really was. Most assume that because I am an only child I was bored often or lonely, but that was never the case. I loved it here.

  Silence settles over us as we gaze out at the sun, watching it slowly sink and disappear behind the hills. Above us, the sprinkling of the stars begins to emerge as the orange glow of daylight fades.

  “Can we stay here a little bit longer?” she whispers, scooting a little closer to me until her thigh lightly presses against mine. I don’t even think she realizes how close we are, and I should shift away from her, but I don’t.

  “Sure.”

  I don’t have it in me to tell her no.

  Southern Chicken Salad

  Zach is standing in the doorway looking at his phone when I pull up to the manor. Like the day I arrived, he’s wearing another winery T-shirt with a pair of jeans, flip-flops, a baseball hat, and a pair of black Ray-ban sunglasses. He looks good, too good.

  He hears the car, and his head pops up to watch me drive around the circular driveway. With that confident swagger of his, he strolls down the stairs, over to my car and climbs in.

  Just him being in my space causes my heart rate to pick up, and I’m surrounded by the smell of him: warm sun, sage, and something earthy that’s manly and completely him.

  “Hey,” he says, turning and stretching his arm out across the back of my seat. His fingers graze the hair on the back of my neck and goose bumps break out across my skin, causing an involuntary shiver. He notices but doesn’t say anything, and even though his sunglasses block his eyes, I can feel them as they take in my every detail right down to the blush burning my cheeks. For someone who’s just accommodating me, he sure seems to look at me a lot.

  “Hey,” I answer him, not knowing what else to say. I’m tongue-tied by his presence, and after how sweet he was last night, I’m having a hard time trying to remind myself why I shouldn’t like him or really even care. I’m here for the assignment and the exposure it’s going to bring me.

  Focus, Shelby. Focus.

  He clears his throat and turns to look straight out the windshield as I take off down the driveway.

  “Where are we headed?” he asks as he tries to stretch his legs a bit more.

  “A restaurant called Tupelo Honey.” I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling.

  “I’ve heard of it. Wait—” His head whips toward me. “Isn’t that in Asheville?” His eyebrows rise above the glasses.

  “Yep, have you eaten there?” I grin to myself. I knew last night I wanted to drive there this morning, but if I had told him, he might not have come. I really wanted him to—not because I’m interested in him but because I find him interesting. Kind of like a human-interest piece. The way he talks about his family and the winery, I can tell his background is definitely different than where I come from, his lifetime of football, and I’m curious to know why he’s such good friends with Lexi.

  He pinches his lips into a thin line and shifts in his seat. “No. So, we’re going to Asheville?” His voice is a little growly.

  “Yes, but we have one stop to make first.” When I glance his way, his jaw is tight and the hand on his lap is balled into a fist.

  “How long do you plan on being gone today?” he asks, shifting to pull his phone out of his back pocket and looking at what I assume is his calendar.

  “Just through lunch, and then we’ll drive back. Why, do you need to stay?” I ask innocently, already knowing he won’t back out.

  “No, it’s fine, I can go. But if we’re going for that long of a drive, we’re taking my truck.”

  I look over at him, and his face is stern. There’ll be no negotiation.

  “Fine by me.” I turn the car around and head back to the manor. I don’t mind driving, but if he’s offering, that’s even better. Plus, his truck puts more space between us.

  “So, why are we going to Tupelo Honey?” he asks once we set off again.

  “Meg and I first stumbled upon it years ago and the food was really good. They’ve expanded and opened a few more locations across the south, and I think it’ll be a great addition to the recommendations article that I’m also writing for the magazine.”

  “If you’ve already been there, why are we going now?”

  “Well, I have to make sure that it’s still just as good. Sometimes the smallest things can change the quality of the food from a vendor, to a chef, or new buying manager. I can’t endorse something on a past experience, it needs to be current.”

  His hands tighten around the base of the steering wheel. “You sound like a critic,” he says without glancing at me. I’m slightly alarmed by how forceful his words came out and angle in my seat to get a better look at him.

  “Do you have a problem with critics?” I’m suddenly nervous about his answer. The blog is such a huge part of who I am, and the thought of having someone disapprove leaves me feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

  Does he know I’m a critic? Did Lexi tell him? I mean, I know over the years Starving for Southern has become well known, but anyone who’s been to the blog, and read it, knows that the summaries of places I give are just my viewpoint on things.

  His eyes quickly shift my way behind the glasses, his lips press together, and he wastes no time thinking about his answer. “Yes.”

  Huh.

  My heart sinks a little bit. Maybe this reaction is because of the review he received last fall. I don’t know, but now I feel anxious and let out a deep breath hoping that takes with it my disappointment.

  “Well, no worries, there’s no critiquing today. Just shopping, eating, and having a nice lunch.”

  “Shopping?” he glances at me.

  “Oh yeah.” I grin back and then help myself to punching the address into his GPS. He doesn’t say anything. He just readjusts his hat and gives me his signature scowl.

  The two and a half hour ride to Asheville is strangely peaceful. I quickly learn that Zach can’t stand clutter, which is why the inside of his truck is spotless, and he loves country music. With the windows down and a little Will Ashton band on the radio, Zach is beginning to feel more like an acquaintance than an enemy.

  “What made you want to own a restaurant?” he asks out of nowhere.

  “Technically, OBA is Meg’s restaurant, but I do own a small percentage of it. When we graduated from culinary school, her aunt handed her a check and said, “Go make me proud.” I chipped in the little savings that I had to help her, but she knows that my ultimate end goal is to work for Food Network.”

  He pauses as he considers my response.

  “So, she doesn’t mind when you take off like this?”

  “No. Our arrangement works out pretty well.
I help her when I’m in town and not off writing, and any money I get from the freelance jobs, I turn around and put straight back into the restaurant. Steadily, it’s been growing, and Meg has really put herself on the map.”

  “Hmm,” he mutters, obviously lost in thought. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but then again, maybe I don’t.

  A few minutes later, we pull off the expressway and into our first stop.

  “What are we doing here?” He looks at me confused.

  “Shopping.” I’m grinning from ear to ear and feel like a kid who’s about to be unleashed in a candy shop.

  “Here?” He turns around and looks at the buildings.

  “Yes. Come on, Wolff, get out of the truck, or don’t . . . I’m going in.” I grab my bag and hop out of the truck.

  The Western North Carolina Farmers’ Market is one of the best farmers’ markets in the southeast. The atmosphere, the variety of local vendors for consumers, and the overall freshness of the produce is something that brings me back here every time I’m up this way. I’m giddy with excitement, and hearing Zach’s truck door slam, I smile to myself, knowing he’s following me.

  “What are we doing here again?” he grumbles as he steps next to me and takes in the market.

  “You’ll see.” I grab his arm and drag him between two of the buildings to the entrance. Hanging a left, I find my favorite place, throw my arms out in a look-at-all-this-good-stuff gesture, and grin at him.

  His eyes scan over the hundreds of jars of pickled vegetables, jellies, jams, and honey. He doesn’t seem impressed. Undeterred, I grab a tasting stick, stick it into the first open jar I see, and then taste the delicious flavor. So good.

  “All of this is over honey?” He’s standing there, statue still, with his arms crossed over his chest and clear irritation in his voice.

  “Not just any honey. This place has the best honey for miles and miles around.” I twirl around, and my skirt flairs out.

  Zach’s face is priceless. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or intrigued, and I don’t really care. I’m that happy being here.

  “Years ago, when Meg and I first had the idea of opening a restaurant together, we were standing on Orange Blossom Avenue and that’s how it got its name. It really was that simple, and it just so happens that we also love orange blossom honey. Well, any honey actually, but orange blossom honey and lavender honey are two of my favorites. Keeping with the honey theme, we have a bookshelf full of honey for guests to pick and choose from when they come in to dine.”