Chapter 39 #2
Her nose wrinkles. “Not like that. He has twin boys, and their mom is from my hometown. My town. The town where I live. The one I claim now as my home. Anyway, Simon’s ex, his boys’ mom, had to move home to take care of her mom this summer, so he got a house there to be close to the boys and help out too, and his boys—they’re thirteen—booked Bea’s bus for a party without telling him, so when she rolled up to the estate and got through the gate with a code the grown-ups didn’t think she was supposed to have, security freaked out and had her arrested for trespassing.
Even though she was supposed to be there. ”
My lips part, but I don’t have a quick response this time.
Daph grins again. “Bea made Simon take her on a date to apologize.”
“Because he’s her favorite actor?”
“No, she hates the show he’s famous for.
Her ex, Jake, loved it so much that he made her watch it all the time, and it truly is kind of awful.
I think that’s why it’s popular. The train wreck effect.
But anyway—Bea made Simon take her on a date where they crashed Jake’s restaurant’s grand opening.
And it. Was. So. Epic. Like, waaaay better than I could’ve expected.
Simon’s lactose intolerant, and the whole tasting menu was basically cheese, and then Bea got stuck in the bathroom and Simon broke the door down and carried her out, and—”
She sighs happily. “It was so romantic. And Simon got a crush on Bea and spent the whole summer talking her into dating him. And kind of talking himself into it too. He’s the most unexpected celebrity you’d ever meet, and the two of them together are perfect.”
“Is this another one of your stories like the one about being put in third-grade jail?”
“Excuse you, that story is real.”
Our server appears with an overflowing tray and deposits eight plates on the table while we watch. Good thing too, because I’m enjoying Daphne’s stories entirely too much now, and I need a little distraction to get myself back on even ground.
Wait.
Did I say eight plates?
Make that five plates and three bowls, plus smaller bowls with dipping sauces.
“Fried okra, french fries, cheese grits, chitlins, coleslaw, collard greens, and two tater tots,” the older lady says. Then she adds dryly, “Save room for dessert.”
“We should probably order one of every dessert to go right now,” Daphne replies.
The older woman gives us a look I’m beginning to recognize well.
It’s the you got money to pay for this? look.
“And thank you,” Daphne says.
Our server strides away.
“You’re gonna have to pay for the whole restaurant,” Daph whispers to me while she takes a tater tot right off the plate and dips it in cheese.
“After they check and make sure my money isn’t counterfeit.”
“Yeah, they’ll do that too.” She giggles, making me momentarily forget I ever disliked her for how happy I am that she seems like herself again.
Is this what relaxing feels like? What being a normal, anonymous person in a small town in the middle of nowhere feels like?
If so, I think I like it.
“So where’s home?” I ask.
She eyes me, almost like the question is startling, while she chews her food.
Or possibly like she doesn’t know if it’s safe to answer.
“You ever hear of Austen & Lovelace College?” she finally says.
I nod. I don’t know it well, but it’s not an unfamiliar name.
“It’s in a little town upstate called Athena’s Rest. Bea’s mom taught there, so Bea got free classes. That’s where we met. It was my last school before—well, before.”
“You’re happy there? In the town? Truly happy?”
“I made a new family there after they kicked me out and my parents did what they did,” she says around another tater tot.
I reach for my glass but sit there with my hand resting on it instead of taking a drink. “I—my ultimate goal when I left on Saturday was to eventually settle in a small town and find a boring wife and have boring children and do boring things.”
She cringes a little, but she doesn’t apologize again for calling me boring.
Not Daphne.
She takes a different route. “Hate to break it to you, but there’s rarely anything boring about small towns. At least, in my experience. Honestly, I’m not sure there’s anyplace that’s truly boring unless you let it be.”
“When you start your life going to third-grade jail…”
She nods very seriously. “I definitely took the more adventurous path. Here. Try the okra.”
She leans across the table with a small fried nugget in hand and holds it to my lips.
My stupid cock decides having a woman holding food to my mouth is the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced, and he springs to full-mast without warning.
And not for the first time today.
Maybe I don’t like this part of relaxing.
“Or feed yourself, whatever,” Daphne mutters.
Probably because I’m grimacing at the pull in my gut from popping a boner so fast.
“I’ve never had fried okra.” Pitiful attempt at giving a lame excuse as I snatch it from her fingers.
I pop it in my mouth, and—
Once again, I’m a little lost on how I feel.
But I know I need a gulp of water.
Daphne’s smile is half-powered. “Try it with ranch next.”
“Is it supposed to be slimy?”
“Yep.” She drags another tater tot through the melted orange goo that I’ve been assuming is cheese. “You should try one with ranch dressing. Or cheese. Or hot sauce. Or plain ketchup.”
“Why aren’t you eating the okra?”
“I’m having a clandestine love affair with tater tots first.”
Clandestine love affair does nothing to cool the blood pumping through my dick.
Did I get struck by lightning?
Is that why everything looks different on this side of the road trip?
Or was shutting off the GPS and saying forget the plans what I needed?
Freedom doesn’t come with plans. Maybe that’s what’s making it all click into place.
“If you don’t want more okra, try the fries. Those are my favorite kind of fries ever. Shoestrings are unmatched, and I won’t hear otherwise. The grits have to be amazing too. No one does grits like the South does grits.”
“You’ve spent time in the South?”
“Vanderbilt was the first university I was kicked out of.”
She says it so easily, so nonchalantly, that I frown.
No one can honestly feel that carefree about being kicked out of a college, can they?
“It wasn’t a big deal.” She unwraps silverware from a white paper napkin and dips her spoon into the bowl of grits. “Just part of my story to get where I am today. Here. Try these.”
She holds the spoon to my mouth, my dick throws a party, and this time, I lean in and taste the food she’s offering.
Like this is normal.
Like it’s not making me sweat to let Daphne feed me as if we’re—something.
But then the flavor of the grits takes over, and my eyes slide shut, and a rumble of pure happiness takes over.
They’re creamy and buttery and cheesy, and it’s like tasting fast-food fried fish all over again.
My shoulders sag in utter bliss.
If this is what’s hiding in a nondescript diner somewhere in—actually, I don’t know what state we’re in—then what else do I still have to discover?
I blink my eyes open and find Daphne staring at me with darkened eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
She visibly swallows and drops the spoon, then turns her attention back to the tater tots. “Bowl’s all yours, big guy.”
She doesn’t have to offer twice.
In no small part because I appreciate the opportunity to distract myself with my face over a bowl of food so I don’t have to look at her.
It’s not how I was raised to eat, but again—screw how I was raised.
I want to be more like Daphne.
Relaxed.
Owning my life.
Talking with my mouth full.
Trying things I never would’ve considered off a menu in a strange place where I don’t have an assistant or life manager calling ahead to order for me so that I don’t have to waste energy making one more decision in the day.
And it was like that even before I took over as CEO.
I was trained from an early age on how to channel my focus on what mattered and pay other people—or let my parents pay other people—to take care of the minute details that didn’t matter.
It’s why I was able to complete a double bachelor’s degree program in four years and then finish my master’s in a year.
How I was able to dig in so deeply at M2G when my father assigned me the dual roles of senior logistics director and assistant to the chief of staff, and also have time left in the day to date Margot, who was also basically hand-selected for me without me having to make any decisions.
My father’s ego might have been his downfall, but the man knows how to squeeze the most out of every day.
For work and appearances.
Not for living.
Though Margot was a good choice.
We were happy together.
Until I was thrust headfirst into the deep end of a situation that rapidly demonstrated for me that I wasn’t living the right life for me.
I’ve finished the grits and am discovering the okra grows on you when you have it with ranch dressing, that collard greens are not my thing, and that this coleslaw is magical, when our server arrives with the rest of our dinner.
Meatloaf and chicken-fried steak and a cheeseburger and fried chicken legs and shrimp and grits—yes, more grits—and fried catfish.
“That must be one hell of a cheeseburger if it’s in her top favorites,” Daphne murmurs after our server has departed again with a request for two sweet teas. “I expected the chicken and dumplings.”
I grab the shrimp and grits without offering to share.
She laughs at me. “I’ll call Bea and ask if her dad had a secret recipe for grits. Kinda doubt it, but I’ll ask.”
“We need salads tomorrow. And more farmer stands with fruit.”
She smiles at me again.
My already full stomach flips over, and my dick strains harder again.
Hindenburg—fuck.
I’d say I’m suffering from Stockholm syndrome, but I don’t think I’m suffering.
I think I’m glad for the company.
And glad my company is Daphne.
Two days ago—hell, even yesterday—that would’ve been the worst thought I could’ve possibly had.
Today?
Today, I’m glad that she’s here.