The Accidental Honeymoon (Wildflower Lane #1)

Chapter 20

twenty

CALLA

Today, we’re visiting someplace that I happen to be really excited about. I skip to the car, making Jay raise his eyebrows. “Waffle House?” he asks. “That’s what it takes to get your engine revving?”

“Umm yeah . Waffle House went from a little diner in our very own Avondale Estates neighborhood to a franchise with thousands of locations throughout the country. It’s a cultural touchstone . Eggs, bacon, waffles… what more could a person ask for? So yes, I am really excited to go to a museum devoted to Waffle House.”

He laughs. “Wow! So much passion over some waffles.”

“That’s the understatement of the century. Waffle House is everywhere. It’s open every single day of the year, every hour of the day, offering a hot meal at an affordable price to patrons from all walks of life. Waffle House doesn’t discriminate about who they hire or who they seat at the restaurants. They just want to serve good food.” I stop to draw in a much-needed breath. “Welcome to my TED talk. I am delighted that we’re going to a museum about an institution I can really get behind.”

“Love the excitement. Save some for when the camera is on, okay?”

I scrunch my nose up and nod. When I was a kid, Waffle House was a special treat usually reserved for Sundays after my father forced my whole family to sit through church. In my mind, Waffle House occupies a prized space that’s normally reserved for my favorite cake recipes and Oprah Winfrey quotes.

When we get out of the car in the museum’s parking lot, I already have a grin plastered on my face. The Waffle House Museum is a two-room shrine to all things greasy and glorious. Yellow-tiled and chrome-bright, it has the nostalgic sheen of a 1950s diner set piece.

Jay holds open the door for me. A bell jingles as we step inside. The smell of syrup and coffee hits me like a warm hug.

Something in my brain chemistry reacts to the faux-diner setup with glowing positivity. I feel like I’ve just had a big hit of an illicit substance. I suck in a breath and reach my hands toward the sky.

"Can you believe this place?" Jay says, his eyes sparkling with genuine delight. It's infectious, that sparkle. Dangerous.

"It's amazing,” I say with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m not living out my dreams right now or anything."

“Noted.” Jay’s expression is one of amusement. “Shall we?”

A woman in a Waffle House apron greets us and hands us a sample waffle on a paper plate. "Enjoy, y'all!"

We walk around the diner. There are informational displays scattered about, and small clusters of museum visitors talking to employees.

I grab the waffle from Jay’s hand and tear off a chuck. I pop it into my mouth, mmming as the buttery, carby flavor hits my taste buds. "So good," I moan, offering Jay the plate. "You have to try it."

He takes the smallest piece of waffle imaginable and pops it in his mouth. He nods. “It’s good.”

“That’s all you have to say?” I ask. “Good lord.”

“We’ve been through this. I’m just not a big dessert-for-breakfast fan.”

“You’re crazy. This is not just breakfast.”

I focus on the exhibits: old menus, vintage uniforms, a timeline of Waffle House milestones. It's charming, in a low-rent kind of way. Like a yard sale curated by someone's grandmother.

One display catches my eye: a laminated list of "short order slang." I read it aloud, testing the words on my tongue. "Scattered, smothered, and covered. Top it. Wind the clock.” I arch a brow at Jay. “Do I sound cool?”

“The coolest,” he assures me. "You thinking of a career change?"

"Just getting into character," I say. I clear my throat and adopt my best short-order cook voice. " I'll take a Wind the Clock with a Double Bubble, lasso the hog, and, uh, Chicken in the Coop, on the fly!" I throw in a dramatic flourish, waving an imaginary spatula.

He laughs, the sound warm and rich. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," I say, smirking. For some reason, my cheeks flush. I’m having too much fun vibing with my fake husband.

Before I can dig deeper into this roleplay, a woman in a Waffle House apron approaches us with a clipboard. "Y'all want to try your hand at makin' a waffle? We got a station set up in the back."

“I defer to the Waffle House fan girl. What do you think?” Jay asks me, but I’m already rushing to follow the woman. Jay pulls out his phone and starts filming. I shoot him a sour look. He’s always after content, even when I am genuinely having a moment over here.

The station is a small kitchenette with a waffle iron and a griddle. The woman hands us each an apron and gives us a quick rundown on how to pour the batter in the griddle and close it, flipping the whole thing in the process.

Jay ties his apron with a flourish, but fumbles making the first waffle.

“Whoa!” I step in, gently touching his hand to correct him. “You need more batter.”

With my help, he pours the second waffle with more success. He catches my eye and grins. I stick my tongue out at him. He grabs me by the waist and hauls me against his body. “If this is what it takes to make you playful, I’ll get a waffle maker at home,” he promises. “I love seeing your devilish side.”

I blush scarlet when I realize that he’s filming this. He dips me back and ravishes me with a kiss that goes on too long. By the end, I’m breathing hard. “You’re a beast,” I tell him.

“Only for you,” he says. “I’m well-behaved for every other girl in the world.”

I enjoy clinging to his chest for another moment before reluctantly letting go. Today, I’m excited. And Jay is only amplifying my good mood.

We’ve always had chemistry but today is like we have achieved nuclear fission.

We make a decent-looking waffle and cut it in half. I haphazardly drizzle my half with syrup, and a little spills onto my hand. Before I can reach for a napkin, Jay takes my hand in his.

The world slows. Our eyes lock. I see something raw and unguarded in his eyes. He lifts my hand. For a heart-stopping moment I think he's going to kiss it.

Instead, he pops my fingers into his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine.

A soft sigh leaves me, unbidden. I know just what Jay can do with that mouth of his.

He sucks the syrup off my hand, leaving me winded. "All clean."

I swallow hard. "Thanks."

Jay has the audacity to wink at me. It only makes me more tongue-tied.

We finish our waffles and tour the remainder of the room. There are charts showing how many eggs, strips of bacon, and waffles have been served since the restaurant’s inception in 1955. I point at the next display and gasp. “This is crazy! It says that each Waffle House has an extensive disaster management plan. In times of emergency, every Waffle House has an on-site generator so that operations can continue without the power grid. There are emergency “jump teams” of staff and supplies that can be brought into areas affected by natural disasters.” I scan the rest of the display and gasp again. “Listen to this. The ability of a Waffle House to remain open after a natural disaster is called the Waffle House Index. It’s used by FEMA as a measure of disaster recovery.”

I turn, open-mouthed, to find that Jay isn’t really paying attention. I hit him gently on the arm. His head snaps up. “What? Did I miss something?”

“I’m trying to tell you how important Waffle House is to America. Pay attention!”

“I am!” he protests. He pulls his phone out and starts to film. “Say it again, wife. Why is Waffle House so important?”

I roll my eyes but repeat the information for his followers, hoping that a few will absorb the gist. Probably not, but who knows.

His phone beeps and as he glances at it, I use the distraction to take a deep breath. I’m being too intense about today. I know it.

"You have to see this," Jay says, showing me the screen. It's one of the selfies of us he posted to his Instagram. The comments are a mix of swooning and envious. Every single one is centered on how much chemistry we have.

"Looks like your fans approve," I say, my cheeks burning.

He shrugs, but there's a mischievous glint in his eye. "They're usually pretty spot-on." He pauses, then adds, "So, what do you think? About us?"

I don't answer. I can't. The truth is, I don't know what to think. He's nothing like I imagined. That scares me more than if he were exactly as I expected.

He saves me from having to respond. “My suggestion would be practice.”

“What does that mean?” I slide him a skeptical look.

“You know what they say… practice makes perfect… And I want to spend some time making sure that we’ve got every detail right.” He smirks.

I smile and shake my head. It’s hard to take him seriously. But if he insists on practicing… I’m more than willing to put in the effort.