Page 13 of Lessons in Lemonade

Meg: Keep your paws off my girl.

To which I reply: Volunteering?

Meg: *green puke face emoji*

Three weeks and counting till Thanksgiving. It can’t get here fast enough.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

I WOULD BE lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit excited about seeing Jack this weekend. When he finally confirmed he would be spending Thanksgiving at Zach’s, I may have sacrificed all holidays for the rest of the year to make sure Taylor and Lee, my sous chef, would cover for me on Black Friday. Yes, I know our morning rush gets a little crazy after the late-night shoppers, but when are we not crazy? Business has been good, real good, and I have complete confidence in my team.

Team . . . team makes me think of the Tarpons, and immediately my mind drifts back to Jack and the picture he posted last week. It’s one of him midair, at least three feet off the ground, and he’s catching the ball over his head. His long, lean body is stretched out, and his arms and hands seem to go on for days. It’s a great action shot of him, and he captioned it: Jack Attack.

I know that’s a nickname that has followed him for years, and I know that because I might have looked him up on the internet once or twice.

Name: John Robert “Jack” Willett

Birthdate: July 12

Astrological sign: Cancer

Profession: Wide receiver for the Tampa Tarpons

Height and weight: 6’2”, 221 pounds

History: Second-round draft pick from USC by the Denver Stallions, two years later traded to the Tarpons

College degree: Communications (This doesn’t surprise me—his personality is bright enough that he would make a great sportscaster one day.)

Family: Single, only child to General Mack Willett and Cindy Willett

Favorite candy: All, but primarily Swedish Fish

Least favorite food: Actually not a food, but a beverage—coffee (Tried his mother’s once and that was it. Never again.)

Favorite thing to do in the offseason: Golf with his dad and snowboard

I mean really I could go on and on. The information about him feels endless. There are pictures of him going back twenty years to when he played on a little league team, pictures of him with friends over the years, and even a picture of him in a suit standing next to his father, who’s in full military uniform, and it looks like they’re at a funeral. It’s like his whole life is showcased for the world to see, and I find it a little intimidating. I also hate to use the word starstruck, but in a way I am. I don’t know why; it’s just such a different life than I’ve known.

Winding through the mountain roads at the base of the Smoky Mountains, I roll down my window. There’s a hint of fall in the coolness of the air and on the leaves of the trees and bushes. Although it’s only a five-hour drive, I feel as if I’m somewhere completely different and far, far away from Charleston. The feeling is welcome, too, as I haven’t really taken any time off in months.

Excitement flutters in my stomach as I turn down the driveway of the winery and get my first glimpse in months. It’s so beautiful and rustic with its fairytale castle, and I’m continuously in awe that this is where Shelby lives now.

I park in the circle drive and breathe in deeply as I climb out of the car. Someone is already up and burning leaves, and the smoke smells so good. Carefully, in my new Prada heels, I walk on tiptoe across the gravel and to the front steps.

Helping myself, I walk through the front door of the winery then wander through the foyer and into the tasting room. It’s empty—obviously, since it’s a holiday and they are closed—and I call out, “Hello?”

“Back here,” a male voice answers from the west wing.

The door that leads toward Zach’s private part of the estate is open, so I head in that direction and spot Jack as he appears in the hallway just outside of what most would call a living room, even if the size is comparable to the square footage of my house.

As he approaches me with his signature grin, I can’t help but take him in, his long legs closing the distance between us. He’s wearing a thin ivory sweater with the sleeves pushed up that makes his dark features pop, a pair of worn-looking jeans that intimately hug his legs, and trendy brown boots that complete the look perfectly.

Cheese and crackers, I forgot how handsome he is in person. The photos online are incredible, but the real deal feels amplified by a thousand.

“Hello, Meg,” he says, coming to a stop in front of me. I’m hit with sandalwood and citrus, and it smells so good. He slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and his deep brown eyes sparkle as they peruse me from head to toe then land back on my face. I can feel heat climbing into my cheeks, and I remind myself that we are just friends—no matter how good-looking he is, no matter how attractive those dimples are, and definitely no matter how well he’s executing the smoldering look. We are just friends, and thanks to the promises I made to myself years ago, we will only ever be friends.

“Jack.” I smile back, the moment feeling a little surreal. This is the guy I’ve been bantering with online for months, almost like a pen pal, and now here he is, standing in front of me.