With that, Buddy retreats into the kitchen.
“You could have gotten me the coffee first,” Ian says loudly.
“No, I couldn’t,” Buddy calls back.
I kind of love this town already.
“Hey, Ian, can I borrow your kitchen to make my dessert for the recipe contest?” I ask, giving him a hopefully charming smile. “How stocked is your kitchen, by the way?”
“You entered the recipe contest? Everyone knows Miss Bettie wins that every year.”
“I don’t care if I win or not. I just want to have fun.”
“That’s the spirit,” Lucy says. “Show ‘em your balls!”
“What? Like…metaphorically?” Ian asks.
I try not to laugh. “She means my bourbon balls,” I say. “That’s the dessert I’m entering.”
“Jesus.” Ian stands up. “I really need some damn coffee. And yes, you can use my kitchen.”
He starts around the counter.
“Get out,” Buddy roars instantly.
He appears from the back in less time than it took me to blink.
“I need coffee,” Ian argues. “Now.”
Buddy blocks Ian’s entrance behind the counter. He pours him a coffee in a to-go cup. “No fried egg.”
Ian’s eyes narrow. But he just grabs the coffee being shoved at him and takes an enormous sip. “Fuck,” he says. “That’s hot.”
“It’s coffee, city boy.”
After taking an enormous sip of my water, Ian rolls his eyes and heads toward the front door. “That is why you should think twice before entering that recipe contest, Winnie. This town holds a grudge.”
“But I’m not grumpy like you,” I tell him, smiling sweetly. “I’m a joiner.”
“I’m not grumpy!” Ian complains, very grumpily. He throws his arm up in the air and shoves the diner open with way more force than is necessary.
“Men,” Lucy says. “Can’t live with them, can’t get fucked without them.”
I choke on my lemon water.
Chapter Seven
Ian
I think there is probably a country song—or twelve—about a woman wrecking a man’s bed.
There’s a reason they don’t write any about destroying his kitchen.
“I’m speechless,” I tell Winnie as I take in the disaster in front of me. “Truly speechless.”
“I know, I know!” she says. “Just don’t look! I’ll clean this all up after the festival.”
“So…tomorrow?” The thought of this mess existing in my home for thirty-six hours is enough to make me tense up and start sweating.
