“Can’t wait,” I murmur.
CHAPTER 11
Sam
Clementine’s is theone place in Whynot that tries to be unlike Whynot. It has linen tablecloths, candlelight, and a live piano player who looks like he’s been here since the invention of jazz. It’s fancy, high-priced, and there’s not a single item on the menu that comes with French fries. Most town citizens can’t afford it, and I’m betting that most people are wondering how I can afford to bring Penny here on a bartender’s pay.
Well, that’s not the first thing they’ll be tittering about. The gossip mill fired up as soon as we walked in the door, me holding Penny’s hand. There’s no doubt in my mind texts went out and it’s already halfway around town, everyone curious if I’m courting the DC girl.
We’re shown to our table, and even though Penny squeezes my hand in quiet reassurance, my pulse still tap-dances in my ears. I’ve been on dates before—casual dinners, a few flings—but this is absolutely different. The kind of different that makes me straighten myshoulders and hope I don’t say something stupid. She’s all calm poise and effortless grace, while I’m trying to remember which fork you’re supposed to start with. Penny Pritchard does something to me, and it’s not just because she’s beautiful—it’s because she makes me want to be better at every little thing she notices.
She’s got this spark that makes you feel like you’re being seen and assessed, but in the best way. Like she’s taking stock of who you are so she can decide if you’re worth her attention—and God help me, I want to be.
I pull out her chair, admiring the forest-green dress that swishes around her knees when she walks. She has all that dark red hair pinned up with tendrils framing her face.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she says with an exaggerated batting of her eyelashes.
I know she expects me to quip back at her, but instead I bend down to whisper. My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You look incredible tonight.”
Her blush is evident, even in the candlelight.
When I sit down, she says, “You clean up damn good, too.”
“I had to dust off the sport coat. Didn’t want Clementine’s revoking my Southern gentleman card.”
She laughs softly, and that sound—that easy, unguarded joy—hits me like a balm.
I glance around and sure enough, several people arewatching us. I lean forward, my gaze meeting hers over the candle. “What do you think everyone makes of us?”
Penny’s regard roams the restaurant, and when they’re back on me, the corner of her mouth lifts. “That I’ve turned heathen seductress after my years in DC and I’m here to corrupt the town’s favorite son.”
I snort so hard, the couple next to us—Mr. Pellam, the local bank president, and his wife—shoot us a disapproving look.
Penny and I grin at each other and then the waitress shows up. It’s a rarity that I don’t know her, because it’s hard not to know everyone in such a small town. She’s polite and efficient, and although her accent is quite neutral, my guess is a northern transplant who came south for the weather. We’re told the specials, Penny orders a glass of wine, and I order an IPA on draft. Mrs. Pellam flattens her lips in disapproval when we clink our glasses across the table. Doesn’t bother me a bit if she’s a teetotaler. That’s part of the charm of Whynot.
Penny orders the salmon with a lemon cream sauce, and I go for the steak. We share the corn bread basket between us, and I can’t help noticing the way she tears hers into neat little pieces before she eats, like she’s savoring the ritual as much as the food.
“So,” she says between bites, “have you always known you’d stay in Whynot?”
I nod, setting my fork down. “Yeah. It’s home andalways will be. While I loved living in Chapel Hill while I was in college, I really missed this place.”
“What did you miss?” she prods, with obvious interest.
I have to think about it. “I like its rhythm. I like knowing every face that walks into Chesty’s or down Main Street. I like that if my truck breaks down, somebody’s gonna stop to help instead of drivin’ around me. It’s slow sometimes, and people can be… opinionated, but this town’s my compass. Keeps me grounded.”
Her smile is soft. “You make it sound like a love story.”
“It kind of is,” I admit. “I love this town even when it makes me crazy.”
She tilts her head. “So why hide your writing from it, then? Don’t you think they’ll come through for you?”
That question lands clean and sharp, and I can’t do anything but shrug. “Who knows, but people here like their boxes wrapped tightly. Sam-Pete—the bartender, the handyman, the local boy who never left—that’s the version they’re comfortable with. S. P. Rochelle, the guy who writes steamy romance novels? That’s a foreign creature I’m not sure they’d want to know.”
Penny folds her hands under her chin, studying me. “Maybe you’re underestimating them.”
I throw it back at her, because although she’s been gone for six years, she knows this town as well as I do. “You really believe that?”
She offers me a sheepish smile. “Probably not. At least not for a big chunk of the people. But you have some who will be thrilled for you. All the Mancinkus clan, Pap, Aunt Muriel, Sissy, Mary-Margaret. Hell, I know Floyd will probably offer to be security for you.”
