Page 30 of The Sweetness of Life

Fifteen minutes after we leave the farmers market, we reach downtown Asheville. Zach finds a parking spot about a block away from the restaurant, and I laugh at him as his stomach growls.

“What? It’s lunchtime.” He shrugs as we get out of the truck.

“Well, let’s go then.” I flash him a smile and dart across the street. I’m halfway to the other side when a gust of wind blows my skirt up. It isn’t much, but it is enough for me to throw my hands back and smooth it down. It’s also enough for me to realize I flashed Zach. Looking back, I find him wearing a slightly guilty, slightly pleased smile. Ass.

“Hi, welcome to Tupelo Honey,” says a very chipper hostess as we walk in, her eyes skipping from me to Zach and staying there. “Just the two of you today?”

“Yes, please,” I answer, understanding the effect he has on her. After all, he has the same effect on me—until he opens his mouth.

“All right, if you’ll follow me this way.” She grabs two menus, and we walk behind her to a small table near the front window. This place is exactly like I remembered it, and I’m so excited.

“Your server will be right with you.” She blushes as she glances at Zach one more time.

“Thank you.” His deep Southern voice causes her to stumble just a bit before she walks away. I shake my head.

Both of us sit, and I can’t help but take in every detail. I think there are very few people who enjoy eating out as much as I do.

Feeling Zach watching me, I drag my eyes away from the dining room and to him. He’s pulled his sunglasses off, and this is the first time I’ve seen his eyes today. Blue . . . so blue. Butterflies flutter and then take flight in my stomach. I know we’re not on a date, but sitting at this small table with him, it sure feels like it.

Since inviting him on this little trip with me, I’ve toyed with the idea of telling him about my blog. I know he doesn’t like critics, but I don’t think I’m an average one. I don’t usually tell anyone—I like the anonymity as much as possible—but we are working on this project together and I have nothing to hide. Additionally, I don’t want to keep secrets from him, even if this is a short-term project. It’s a part of me, and I’m proud of it.

Sucking in a deep breath, I decide to go for it.

“So, working as a chef isn’t the only thing I do.” His eyes narrow, but he leans forward to hear me better. “Aside from the restaurant with Meg, I also have a food blog I love. It’s how Food Network found me.”

Like most people, when you’re passionate about something and want to talk about it, you get excited. I’m excited, but as he sits back in his chair and grinds his teeth together, anger quickly rolls into his features and then rolls out, leaving his expression empty. My enthusiasm wavers, and I become self-conscious. Lowering my eyes, I grab my silverware, unroll the napkin, and place it on my lap.

“Have I heard of it?” His voice lacks inflection, and the blue in his eyes have sharpened and become icy. Once again, his mood shift confuses me, and I wish I understood better why he reacts this way.

“I doubt it.” I shake my head at him. It does have a lot of followers, but I can’t think of a reason why he would know of it. Then again, maybe he has; it’s been around for a while.

“What’s the name of it?” I can’t tell if he’s interested in hearing about this or not, but it’s clear he isn’t happy.

“Starving for Southern.”

His hands slide off the top of the table, grip the edge, and his eyes narrow. A strange feeling dips into my stomach . . . was he expecting me not to tell him or lie?

“Good afternoon, I’m Kelsey, and I’ll be your waitress today. What can I get y’all to drink?”

“Tea,” Zach and I both say at the same time, still staring at each other. No need to clarify what kind of tea; we’re in the South—it’ll be sweet.

“I’ll be right back.” She skips off, leaving the two of us in a face-off.

“I’ve heard of it,” he says in a flat tone. “What made you start it?” He picks up his sunglasses and tucks them into the neck of his T-shirt before folding his arms across his chest. His arms bulge under the sleeves, and I have a strange urge to reach out and squeeze them.

“Meg and I were never into the party scene. Fun for us was finding new and exciting places to eat. We visited so many different restaurants, I decided to write about our favorite ones. It was easy to find something amazing at almost every place we went, so we posted a lot, and I think that was the main reason the blog did so well. Also, I rarely posted anything negative.”

“And you don’t write about places anymore?” He tilts his head to the side, studying me.

“Not so much, only every now and then. Since opening OBA, our adventures have slowed down significantly, but that’s okay. We’re in a different place in life now. Instead, we’ve grown it substantially by developing fun new recipes. We’ve been approached about a cookbook.”

“All righty, here we go.” The waitress sets down the two teas. “Did y’all decide what you’d like?” She opens her notepad and pulls a pen out of her ponytail.

“She’ll order for us,” Zach says, charming her with his smile. “This outing was her idea.” The waitress blinks at him and then turns to me expectantly.

Quickly, I scan the menu, barely seeing the words since I already know what I want to order. He didn’t even look at it. Is he making assumptions about me because of the blog or because I’ve eaten here before?

“We’ll have the farmers market pickled plate, the fried green tomatoes, and the fried chicken sandwich.”