Bailey Owens is a fucking apparition. I watched her all afternoon charm the guests with her quick wit and dry humor. Her knowledge of Alpine Falls is impressive—including every damn tree, flower, speck of dust on the path, everything—there was nothing she couldn’t name. I’m in awe of her. I loved seeing how relaxed she was even after confessing this was part of the job she didn’t enjoy as much because she’s not a ‘people person.’ You’d never tell. The guests loved her and went away raving. I can honestly say today was one of the best days I’ve ever lived.
“If you’d allow me to make you dinner sometime, I’d be honored,” I say as we’re packing up.
She raises an eyebrow. “You really cook?”
That only makes me laugh. “Yes. I wasn’t kidding about that. Groundbreaking, huh?”
Her lips twitch. “Do men really talk like that in Nashville?”
“Like what?” I laugh again. I can’t help it around her.
“You’d be honored?”
“Men from the south talk like that. Well, some men, anyway.”
“Fine. Tonight suit you? I’m famished.” I grin. “Of course, I’ll need to use your kitchen if you say yes, if that’s okay? My digs don’t have an oven or any cooking equipment.”
“Yes, I’d like that…” She raises a brow. “Any clues on what you’re cooking?”
I tap my nose. “Grandma knows best. Do you like surprises?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who likes surprises?” she throws back.
Touche.
“It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“If it includes that mud cake you keep bragging about, then count me in.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Does seven work for you?” I know she gets up early, so any later is probably pushing it.
“That works for me. The doors are unlocked, help yourself, I’ve got some paperwork to take care of here for a while. I take it you know your way to the grocery store?”
I nod. “I do. I’ll see you later.”
Bailey trusting me to enter her house makes my heart skip a beat. After today, she deserves a nice, home-cooked meal, especially after she told me she eats a lot of frozen meals because cooking for one is boring and pointless.
I check with Jed if there’s any more jobs to do, but he just grins and tells me to get going. He must have a sixth sense that I’ve got somewhere to be—Bailey’s place.
I grab all the ingredients as fast as I can. My favorite home-cooked meal recipes I know off the top of my head, I also make sure I have everything I need for the mud cake. Some people may be surprised to find that I love to cook, but it’s like therapy for me. I’ve baked my way into a frenzy over the holidays, giving cookies to friends as gifts because it’s how I show people I care. Money can buy lots of stuff, but it can’t buy the hearts of the people who I want in my life. I have plenty of money, but Iquickly learned that using it to buy stuff only gets you so far. Yeah, it’s nice to get a fancy house, car, boat, whatever, but that too only lasts for so long if you don’t have good people in your life to share moments with. Real moments. I spent so many years of my life keeping up with the Joneses when I made my first million dollars, but it was tiring because I wasn’t being my authentic self. I didn’t want staff, or someone making my food, or doing my housework—not that I’m complaining, I still hire a cleaner to deep clean every few months—but the real nitty-gritty things like gardening, riding, and getting my hands dirty, all of that had gone by the wayside. People treated me differently, yet I was still the same person. The money, prestige, fame, none of it went to my head because my parents raised me right. They didn’t let me get too big for my boots. When I got home from being away, they made sure I didn’t have a big head. It was good for me. So many people in the industry lose themselves, and they didn’t want that for me. I owe everything I have to them, because I know how greedy and manipulative some parents can be. Mine, thank God, are normal and only wanted what was best for me.
I cook up Nashville chicken, which is roasted with buttermilk, served on white bread with pickles. I don’t make it really spicy because I don’t know how hot Bailey likes her food. In between, I begin the process for the cake, but it takes several steps because you don’t want to dry it out. Grandma taught me to bake when I was just a kid. My sister and I, along with our cousins, loved watching her make food every Sunday morning when we’d all pile over there for a meal and a catch up. I have the best memories. There was always a wonderful feeling at her place when everyone got together, so food has been a big part of our family gatherings.
When I glance up at the clock on the wall, it’s just after seven. I realize I don’t even have Bailey’s number, but a few moments later, I hear her truck pulling up to the side of the house.
I bought a couple of cheap candles for the middle of her wooden table. It’s quaint and barely big enough to hold the food, but it’ll work.
When she comes through the front door, the first thing she says is, “Something smells good.” With a dishrag over my shoulder, I glance up just as I’m taking the pie from the oven. “I hope you’re hungry, Bailey Owens, because I made a meal Grandma would be proud of.”
She takes off her tool belt and hangs it up on the hook, then kicks off her shoes. “Do I have time for a quick shower?”
“Of course.”
She peers over the counter, but the chicken is covered, along with the pie. “What did you make?”
I tap my nose. “I know you don’t like surprises, but I think you’re gonna like this.”
“Then I’ll be super quick.”
