Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Marsha’s expression lights up. She taps her finger to her lips. “We’ve got just the thing! I don’t know how many you’re looking for, but we’ve got several gorgeous antique pairs in the back.”
I follow her and snap some pictures, which I send to Coop, Goldie, and Marianne. I wonder if I should send them to Lu too—Marianne did say she was the one to mention the hurricanes—but decide against it.
Like Tuck so kindly said, I came out swinging with that confession this morning. I want to let Lu know I’m interested, but I also don’t want to send her running for the hills.
Pumping the brakes is the right call here.
Also, who knows if she still has the same number?
But on my way out of the store, I do swipe a coconut scented candle from the display by the register.
Lu clearly still loves coconut. So do I. I’ll light if—when—she spends the night.
It’s a literal shot in the dark.
But it’s one I’m taking.
twelve
Louise
Tug of War
I give the shrimp in the cast iron skillet a toss, then lean in to give them a sniff. The tang of the barbecue sauce floods my senses, along with the briny scent of the shrimp.
The knot in my throat loosens ever so slightly for the first time since I ran off Dolly like she was on fire earlier today.
“Think the shrimp still needs more butter,” I say.
Aunt Lady, who’s refilling my water glass beside the stove, leans over to take a peek. “Yep. A tablespoon or three oughta do it.”
“More butter is always a good idea.” Mom empties a bottle of Chardonnay into her glass. “So is more wine.”
Aunt Lady bends down to dig another bottle out of the wine fridge. “Cheers to that. How nice is it, us ladies back in the kitchen again together?”
“We’re just missing Granny.” I stir in the butter, which immediately melts in the pan to create this delicious, creamy sauce that will be perfect for dipping.
Speaking of dipping—I take a French baguette out of the oven, which smells divine. Lady carefully slices it while I give the kale salad one final toss, deciding at the last minute it needs one more handful of freshly grated Manchego cheese.
I also made a pot of grits (I added several handfuls of that Manchego to this as well) and an icebox pie for dessert.
Surveying the spread, Mom lets out a low whistle. “Louise, you really outdid yourself.”
Cooking has always been a form of self-care for me. It’s where I feel most connected to myself, and to my friends and family. Especially when I’m cooking something delicious and carb-heavy. Feels nice to return to the recipes I haven’t made in a while.
It’s also a really great distraction. Goldie did a good job of keeping me busy today, but we ended up cutting our errands short when she ran out of energy around four o’clock. I found myself back at the house, exhausted but unable to rest, thanks to Riley fucking Dixon.
What the hell kind of game is he playing? On the one hand, he was the grade-A asshole who promised to love me for as long as he was alive, but then dumped me without warning when he confessed to being unfaithful.
Lest we forget, I never heard from him again. No explanation. No apology.
And then he tells me out of the blue that everything he’s done—the money he’s made, the restaurant he’s opened, the life he’s built—has all been part of a plan to win me back.
I don’t believe him. If any of that’s true, why I haven’t I heard a word from him in ten years? He’s had plenty of opportunity to make things right, and he hasn’t.
But the intensity in his eyes when he said I did it all for you, I did it to be worthy of you, Lu Wade, haunts me. I can’t shake the feeling that the story he’s telling isn’t all bullshit.
But I have to keep reminding myself that Riley is an excellent liar. He fucked me over once. I refuse to let him do it again.
Still. While spending the rest of the day in the kitchen has been a great distraction from thinking about Riley and his arms and why he suddenly put himself out there the way he did, making all this food has me thinking about that damn cookbook.
The one I dreamed up with Riley that summer ten years ago.
Giving up that dream hurt at first. But after a couple years, working at my family’s firm, The Gibbes Group, felt normal. It felt right, especially after Pa introduced me to Patrick and we began dating. We bonded over our dedication to our corporate jobs and the lifestyle that came with them. Yes, the hours were long. But the vacations we were able to take were awesome. We bought a house. Ate out often.