Page 28 of The Sweetness of Life

“Where are we headed?” he asks as he tries to stretch his legs a bit more.

“A restaurant called Tupelo Honey.” I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling.

“I’ve heard of it. Wait—” His head whips toward me. “Isn’t that in Asheville?” His eyebrows rise above the glasses.

“Yep. Have you eaten there?” I grin to myself. I knew last night I wanted to drive there this morning, but if I had told him, he might not have come. I really wanted him to—not because I’m interested in him, but because I find him interesting. Kind of like a human-interest piece. The way he talks about his family and the winery, I can tell his background is definitely different than where I come from. Plus there’s his lifetime of football, and I’m curious to know why he’s such good friends with Lexi.

He pinches his lips into a thin line and shifts in his seat. “No. So, we’re going to Asheville?” His voice is a little growly.

“Yes, but we have one stop to make first.” When I glance his way, his jaw is tight and the hand on his lap is balled into a fist.

“How long do you plan on being gone today?” he asks, shifting to pull his phone out of his back pocket and looking at what I assume is his calendar.

“Just through lunch, and then we’ll drive back. Why, do you need to stay?” I ask innocently, already knowing he won’t back out.

“No, it’s fine. I can go, but if we’re going for that long of a drive, we’re taking my truck.”

I look over at him, and his face is stern. There’ll be no negotiation.

“Fine by me.” I turn the car around and head back to the manor. I don’t mind driving, but if he’s offering, that’s even better. Plus, his truck puts more space between us.

“So, why are we going to Tupelo Honey?” he asks once we set off again.

“Meg and I first stumbled upon it years ago and the food was really good. They’ve expanded and opened a few more locations across the south, and I think it’ll be a great addition to the recommendations article I’m also writing for the magazine.”

“If you’ve already been there, why are we going now?”

“Well, I have to make sure it’s still just as good. Sometimes the smallest things can change the quality of the food, from a vendor to a chef or a new buying manager. I can’t endorse something on a past experience—it needs to be current.”

His hands tighten around the base of the steering wheel. “You sound like a critic,” he says without glancing at me. I’m slightly alarmed by how forceful his words come out and angle in my seat to get a better look at him.

“Do you have a problem with critics?” I’m suddenly nervous about his answer. The blog is such a huge part of who I am, and the thought of having someone disapprove leaves me feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

Does he know I’m a critic? Did Lexi tell him? I mean, I know over the years Starving for Southern has become well known, but anyone who’s been to the blog and read it knows the summaries of places I give are just my viewpoint on things.

His eyes quickly shift my way behind the glasses, his lips press together, and he wastes no time thinking about his answer. “Yes.”

Huh.

My heart sinks a little bit. Maybe this reaction is because of the review he received last fall. I don’t know, but now I feel anxious and let out a deep breath hoping it takes my disappointment away with it.

“Well, no worries, there’s no critiquing today. Just shopping, eating, and having a nice lunch.”

“Shopping?” He glances at me.

“Oh yeah.” I grin back and then help myself to punching the address into his GPS. He doesn’t say anything, just readjusts his hat and gives me his signature scowl.

The two and a half hour ride to Asheville is strangely peaceful. I quickly learn that Zach can’t stand clutter, hence the interior of his truck being spotless, and he loves country music. With the windows down and a little Will Ashton on the radio, Zach is beginning to feel more like an acquaintance than an enemy.

“What made you want to own a restaurant?” he asks out of nowhere.

“Technically, OBA is Meg’s restaurant, but I do own a small percentage of it. When we graduated from culinary school, her aunt handed her a check and said, ‘Go make me proud.’ I chipped in the little savings I had to help her, but she knows my ultimate end goal is to work for Food Network.”

He pauses as he considers my response.

“So, she doesn’t mind when you take off like this?”

“No. Our arrangement works out pretty well. I help her when I’m in town and not off writing, and any money I get from the freelance jobs, I turn around and put straight back into the restaurant. Steadily, it’s been growing, and Meg has really put herself on the map.”