From Scratch (27 page)

There’s no more talking, only the sounds of our bodies moving together, his thrusts becoming harder and faster as my hips rise to match him. I lose myself in pure sensation—I’m so close, right on the edge. Nick shifts our position, and the change in angle causes me to gasp and arch off the bed. The heat building in my belly rushes down my spine and spreads out, exploding between my legs so hard I press my teeth into his shoulder to muffle my screams.

Nick swears and calls out my name, his voice deep and hoarse. His movements grow jagged and forceful, and then he lets go completely, coming inside me with a low groan, his fingers digging into my hips, his face buried in my neck. We cling to each other, our breaths short and frayed, as tiny tremors continue to pulse along our bodies like electrical shocks.

We stay entwined for several minutes before Nick pushes up onto his elbows and stares down at me, a cocky, crooked grin on his face.

“Game on, Turner,” he says, his words a hope and a promise.

EPILOGUE

IT’S THE NIGHT
before my father officially starts his retirement and the Spoons is packed with regulars, young and old, who have come to celebrate the end of an era. Bundles of balloons are tied to chairs, and a banner shouting
HOORAY FOR OLD MAN JACK! LONG LIVE THE LEGEND!
is draped across the ceiling.

I’m in the kitchen with Ernie, filling orders. I drop some battered okra into the fryer, toss a skillet of onions and bell peppers softening on the stove, and serve up a hearty portion of smothered pork chops over rice with a side of green beans. Placing the steaming plate in the window, I ring the delivery bell and wipe my hands on my apron. The fabric is splattered with grease and covered in food stains, and my back and feet ache from working eight hours without a break, but the familiar pulse and smells of the diner act like fuel to keep me energized.

Today’s menu is dedicated solely to my father’s favorite dishes—southern classics like chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and peppered cream gravy, barbecue spare ribs with collard greens and corn bread, and shrimp and grits. For dessert my father insisted on banana pudding, pecan pie, and, of course, peach cobbler. Items that are off-limits to him, but since it’s a special occasion, I agreed to allow him a small helping of meat loaf and macaroni and cheese as long as he first ate his weight in heart-healthy produce to balance everything out.

Right now my father is slumped on a stool at the counter, wearing a party hat and a frown, pushing steamed broccoli and asparagus around with a fork. I thought he would’ve consumed the vegetables quickly so he could move onto the good stuff, but perhaps parting with the diner, something that’s defined his existence for the past twenty-five years, has robbed him of his appetite. Even as patrons offer him their thanks and congratulations, my father only grunts and nods. Not that I blame him—I understand how difficult it is to let go. While I know he’s thrilled I’m back home running things, carrying on our family’s namesake, it’s going to take time before he fully adjusts to all the drastic changes in his life.

Above the din and cheerful chatter, I hear the slow opening chords of James Taylor’s “Something in the Way She Moves.” I glance over to where Nick is strumming a guitar on the small stage set up in front of the wall cluttered with rusted signs and my framed newspaper columns. As part of the evening’s festivities, Nick’s been shuffling through the list of my father’s favorite songs, though I know he chose this one specifically for me—it’s what he played the first time he claimed me as his, two teenagers tangled together in the bed of my truck surrounded by a canopy of oak trees.

Nick meets my gaze from across the room, his lips curling up into a mischievous grin, as he continues to pluck the guitar strings. Under the fluorescent lights, his eyes appear electric, a blue so vivid I could drown in it. My heartbeat speeds up in anticipation of later when I can be alone with him in the dark, those eyes and mouth and nimble fingers all over me. My expression must betray my thoughts, because Nick winks at me before he refocuses his attention on the music and starts singing.

While I was gawking at Nick, five new orders came in. I sprinkle an herb-spice rub liberally on both sides of some Texas catfish filets and combine melted butter, lemon juice, and garlic powder in a bowl to drizzle over the top. I’m popping the sheet tray with the fish into the oven when Wes pokes his head in through the kitchen window.

“Yo, Jelly Bean, I’m gonna need more of that pimento cheese.”

“Already?” I ask as I switch to whisking a beurre blanc sauce to keep it from separating.

He peers at the various pots and pans simmering away, a look of childlike glee on his face. “Blame Annabelle. She’s the one hoarding it.”

Wes returned from his father’s wedding emotionally exhausted but also hopeful. While I prepared the brisket and coleslaw I promised him for the football team, Wes told me about his trip, how he and his father finally got their issues out in the open, how he’s not sure if they can ever fully repair the rift between them but that he’s willing to try. As for the status of his relationship with Annabelle, they arrived at the diner tonight hand-in-hand, and Annabelle mentioned that Wes invited her to Thanksgiving supper at his mother’s house next week.

“I’m slammed right now, so you’ll need to get it yourself,” I say. “I made extra and put it in the walk-in fridge.”

“I’m on it,” Wes says, retreating to the back room. I check on the short ribs braising on the stove, tweaking the seasonings and adding more red wine.

The oven timer dings. Removing the fish, I spoon a generous amount of beurre blanc on the bottom of three plates, divide a medley of roasted vegetables equally among them, and place a catfish filet on top of each serving.

From my vantage point in the kitchen, I see Sullivan Grace wedge her way through the crowd, weaving around tables to the stainless steel counter. She reaches my father as Nick begins playing an acoustic version of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.”

“Jackson, enough of the sulking,” I hear her tell him. “Now be a proper gentleman and ask me to dance.”

My father mumbles something about being born with two left feet. For all his charm and wit, he really is the most unskilled dancer. My father often says bacon is like duct tape—it can cure almost anything. If only he could use it to cure this particular endearing flaw.

“Jackson.” Sullivan Grace puts her hands on her hips. “I’m shriveling into an old woman waiting for you.”

I hide a smile, watching in amusement as my father leads her to the makeshift dance floor and wraps his arms around her waist, swaying side to side like he’s in middle school. Sullivan Grace doesn’t seem to mind; she rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

I glance away, leaving them to their private moment, and get back to work. Later, after the rush has died down and my father has gone home, Nick sneaks into the kitchen and comes over to where I’m cleaning the flat-top grill.

“Want some help?” he asks.

“I’m just about done,” I say, pushing the scraper along the griddle, removing the last bits of food stuck to the surface.

He moves to stand behind me, his hands resting on my hips. “In that case,” he says, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear, “I need to show you something in the stockroom.” Warmth spreads like hot caramel through every inch of my body at the sudden roughness in his voice.

“We can’t. Ernie’s still here,” I say, though the words sound unconvincing even to my ears.

Placing openmouthed kisses against my neck, Nick pulls on the strings of my apron and slides a hand under my shirt, his palm splayed flat against my stomach. My muscles tighten beneath his touch. He turns me around, a lopsided grin stretching across his face as he tries to look innocent but fails miserably. “I swear my intentions are honorable.”

I laugh as Nick walks backward toward the stockroom, tugging me along with him. Here we are, at the start of a new journey together. There isn’t a recipe to guide us, and I don’t know what the future holds, but that’s the thrill of it. Life isn’t about perfect pielike pieces, with everything symmetrical, rigid, planned. We’ve experienced enough of that already. We’re some of the lucky ones who get a second chance.

I know it won’t always be easy. There’ll be times when he grips tighter than I do. Other times, it’ll be me carrying him through. None of that is important. All that matters is that we’re holding on.

Then again, isn’t that the whole point? To protect the good and fight together through the bad? To laugh and learn and refuse to surrender? To cherish the big and savor the small? Because even when life veers off course there’s a silver lining.

We can always build from scratch.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

TO MY AGENT,
Melissa Jeglinski, for being my cheerleader, advocate, and sounding board. For believing that a light contemporary romance could find a place in this crazy business called publishing. Thank you for your professionalism, protection, knowledge, and keen eye. You’re a rock star, and I’m so grateful to have you in my corner.

To my wonderfully patient and attentive editors, Micki Nuding and Marla Daniels, for molding
From Scratch
into the best book it could be, for loving Nick and Lillie’s story even on the twelfth read, and for giving them the perfect home. Thank you for making my first foray into traditional publishing straightforward and fun.

To the entire team at Pocket Star and Simon & Schuster for your enthusiasm toward this project, from copyediting and proofreading to the cover design to promotion and publicity. Thank you for embracing me with open arms.

To my parents and the rest of my family for encouraging my outlandish goals of becoming an author. There’s not a moment that passes that I don’t feel uplifted and loved by each of you.

To Amanda Alvarez, my critique partner, my brainstorming genie, my person, for everything you’ve done for me these past few years. You “get” me. This book would not have been possible without your support and guidance. Thank you for challenging me and forcing me to strengthen my writing, and thank you for your friendship.

To Mallory Braus for reading, offering your thoughtful insight, and being a kick-ass promoter. I am humbled by your generosity.

To the amazing teachers at the Writer’s Path at Southern Methodist University, especially Daniel J. Hale and Suzanne Frank, for your honest feedback, advice, and fostering the idea that I
could
create a book-shaped thing.

To my early readers and constant champions—Sarah Cox, Maggie Langston, Amanda Arista, Kelsey Macke, Megan Whitmer, Karma Brown, and Melissa Bielawski—for shining so bright when I needed light and for pulling me back from the edge of insanity.

To the staff of my neighborhood Starbucks for saving me the table by the window, for your abundance of tea, and for not shooting me weird looks when you see me talking to myself.

To Oliver Pancake and Rigby Peanut for the puppy snuggles, kisses, laughter, and perspective. It’s easy for me to take myself too seriously, but you both are a constant reminder about what’s important.

And to David, my best friend, my partner in crime, the best thing in my life, for loving me in extraordinary ways, for helping me keep my head above water, for all the responsibilities you have taken on so I could pursue this dream, and for dealing with Crazy Author Wife with more patience than I deserve. Thank you for all you do for me and our family and for being the witness to my life. I wish there were a thousand words for love . . .