“I brought two people who would like to apologize. Ellis and Billy, start talking,” Parker said, shoving his younger brothers toward me. I looked at the shorter, younger versions of Parker. Both blond and gray eyed, they shuffled their feet and chewed on their lips.
“We’re sorry we made the fake dating profile.”
“And tricked you.”
“We didn’t mean to.”
“You did mean to,” Parker chastised. “They’re on punishment,” he told me. “Do you have manual labor you need completed?”
“You guys could take out these trash bags,” I said, gesturing to the trash cans a few feet away.
Ellis and Billy hurried to gather the bags.
“Care for some authentic Southern food?” I asked Parker as I admired the strength of his jaw. I wondered what it would be like to kiss his neck, run my hands across those broad shoulders, feel his large hands against my—
“Biscuits.”
“What?” I said, flustered.
“What do you like between your biscuits?”
Cock.
“Uh—” I croaked.
Parker pointed at the sign. “The name of this food stand is Between Her Biscuits. I see you have fried chicken.”
“And sausage, country ham, eggs, cheese,” I said after taking a swallow of water. “You can put anything between a biscuit if you try hard enough.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Sausage,” I said automatically.
He quirked an eyebrow.
“With egg and cheese,” I added hastily. “It’s savory. Do you know what you want?”
“Surprise me. I’m taking food to my brothers. They’ve decided they’re starving to death. Though it might be because the entire place smells like fried chicken.”
“As God intended,” I said as I assembled the food.
“I’ll take your cherry too.”
Yes, please.
“Here?”
Parker cocked his head. “Cherry pie?” He pointed to the chalkboard menu. “Unless you’re out of the fried pies.”
“I still have the cherry,” I said.Unfortunately. “I also have some peach chutney if you want to try it,” I said as I grabbed a few jars. Jasmine and I had annual canning sessions, and it looked like I was going to sell out today. “I’ll throw some of those in.”
I turned and saw Parker had Ida’s jar of pumpkin lube open. He was sniffing it.
“That’s not the jam!” I yelled, sprinting to swipe it out of his hands.
“It smelled nice,” he said.
“It’s not for eating.”
