Bryan dumped his father’s bag on the sidewalk, and they all did that one-armed hug thing men do, with lots of back patting. Their obvious affection for one another, their ease, brought a lump to my throat. I sidled toward my car, feeling like an intruder, trying to get out of the way.
“Jo.” Eric’s voice tripped me up. I turned as the SUV pulled away, Bryan at the wheel. “Jo.” Eric took a step closer, his beautiful hazel eyes focused on me. Seeing me. “You look...”
I ducked my head self-consciously. “Scalped?”
“Ah, your hair.” He raised his hand. Just the touch of his hand on the ends of my hair electrified me. His smile started at the corner of his mouth and settled in his eyes. “No. You look... content. Your writing, your blog, it is going well?”
I swallowed. “Thanks to you.”Content. Content? Was that a compliment? “Half the comments are about you.”
He waved the acknowledgment away. “Nichts zu danken. You are a good writer. I saw Michael commented yesterday.”
A car honked behind me. “Who?” I asked.
“Michael Burdette. From Squeal.”
My breath rushed out. Burdette owned three renowned restaurants in North Carolina, including the pork-themed Squeal in Wilmington. “Wow. McSqueal is Michael Burdette? I didn’t know.”
“You should call him.”
“I’m not looking for a job.”
“About your cheese. He’s on the lookout for local suppliers.”
“Oh. Right. I will. Thank you.”
“Vivian, too.”
A security guard in an orange traffic vest approached. “Ma’am, I’ve got to ask you to move your truck.”
I ignored him. “VivianHoward?”
“The Chef and the Farmer.”
“I know who she is. You want me to callVivian Howard?”
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Connections. They are important, yeah?”
“Absolutely.” My eyes drank him in hungrily.
He hesitated for a second and then said, “You have time for a coffee?”
Yes. Anything.“I can’t leave the truck.”
“Of course,” he said politely. “You must go.”
“And you have a plane to catch,” I said.
“Yes.”
The guard was back. “Ma’am... Your truck.”
I clutched the keys in my hand. Eric was leaving. And I hadn’t said half of what I needed to say. “I’m sorry,” I blurted.
“I am sorry, too. I lost my temper with you.”
“I overreacted. I shouldn’t have run away.”
His eyes crinkled in that appealing half smile, his gaze clear and a little sad. “Maybe you run to something, not away, yeah?”
