“What?”
“I forgot to tell you breadcrumbs were on the list. Do I need to run back to the store?”
Sara didn’t even look up. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make my own.”
Of course you will, she thought. God forbid anything about this day be easy.
She started dinner like she was entering a cooking competition. Grits first—stone ground, soaking like they needed a spa day. Then came the ham—sliced and seared until the edges crisped just enough to curl. Potatoes, peeled and shaved thin as chips. And finally, the shrimp—peeled, deveined, and tossed in spices that made her eyes water.
“Girls,” she called out, “go ahead and get the table ready outside. The guys are bringing beer, just throw some ice over whatever’s in the cooler.”
“On it,” Macie said, grabbing silverware and napkins like they were about to serve royalty.
Sara stayed inside, focused. The oil was heating. The shrimp were coated. The grits were thickening just enough to look seductive.
She toasted bread slices until golden, tossed them in a blender, and smirked at her own problem-solving. Breadcrumbs: mastered.
Macie and Taylor wandered back in, eyes wide.
“Anything else we can do?”
“Nope. I’ve got it. Once the guys show up, I’ll start cooking.”
They nodded and headed back out, but Sara caught the look they gave each other—the damn she’s got it all under control look.
Except inside? She was spiraling just a little.
Ten minutes later, the beer arrived and the laughter started echoing through the kitchen window. Sara looked out and saw them—sun-kissed, barefoot, already buzzed.
They looked like they were in a movie.
She turned away from the window, wiped her hands, and muttered, “They look like they’re having fun... but honestly? I’d rather be doing this.”
She plated everything like a pro—creamy cheddar grits in white pasta bowls with seared ham slices and Cajun-dusted shrimp stacked on top. Potato chips, crisp and golden, added to the side like edible confetti.
Then she pulled the sheet pan out like she was running food in a five-star joint and marched that shit outside.
“Dinner is served,” she said, dropping bowls in front of each stunned face.
“Holy hell,” Trevor said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen grits look this good.”
“You’re damn right,” Carter added. “This looks like something you order with a wine list.”
“How the hell did you make grits gourmet?” Macie asked, fork halfway in her mouth.
Sara smiled, but didn’t sit yet. “It’s got a little kick. And when the shrimp runs out, use the chips. Cajun spoons. You’re welcome.”
They ate in reverent silence for a few minutes. Just chewing and groaning and making noises that probably violated noise ordinances.
Then the conversation turned.
“So wait,” Carter asked, licking hot sauce off his finger, “how did y’all end up here again?”
Taylor laughed. “Claire accidentally took the only set of house keys to Denver.”
There was a beat—then the guys erupted in laughter.
“Classic,” Trevor said.
