Page 32 of Happily Ever After

A car door closed outside. That had to be Joe. She glanced at the clock. Yep. Right on time.

Purse in hand, she stepped out onto the front porch just as Joe walked up the path to her door. He looked relaxed and very handsome, sunglasses perched on his head, keys in hand, a bright Tommy Bahama shirt accenting his tan shorts.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she replied, smiling. “You didn’t have to pick me up.”

“That’s what a good boyfriend does,” he said, a curious smile bending his mouth.

Her heart did a little flutter. “Is that what you are? My boyfriend?”

“I am, if that’s all right with you.” He came up the steps to stand right in front of her.

She felt breathless and giddy, which was about as far from her usual as she could get. “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s all right with me.”

He planted a gentle kiss on her mouth. “You look really fantastic, by the way. Hungry?” He took her hand.

Had anyone ever said she looked really fantastic before? Anyone who also called himself her boyfriend? She didn’t think so. Smiling, she nodded. “Starving.”

They headed down the steps toward his car.

“Good,” he said. “This place has the most amazing key lime-stuffed French toast you’ve ever had.”

“Well, I’ve never had any, so the bar is low, but it sounds pretty good.”

“By the way, the podcast was amazing.”

Her smile widened. “Thank you.”

The resort that housed the restaurant, Pomelo, sat just off the main stretch of Beechwood. The grand hotel was all pale stone and shaded arches, the kind of place that smelled faintly of citrus and more strongly of money.

The valet greeted Joe by name, which Cece tucked away without comment, and handed him a claim ticket with a practiced smile.

As they walked in, Joe whispered, “I did his sister’s divorce.”

“And very well, apparently.”

Inside, the lobby was cool and hushed, the air carrying the low murmur of voices and the soft clink of glassware from somewhere beyond. Cece adjusted her purse on her shoulder and took it in. She was glad she’d worn a dress.

From the polished marble floors and the floral arrangements that somehow looked professional and effortless, to the slow, antique ceiling fans turning overhead, and the light scent of flowers and something green, the hotel dripped old money. No wonder it was considered the nicest place to stay in Beechwood.

“This is tres chic,” she said.

Joe smiled. “Thought you might like it.”

He offered her his arm and escorted her to the dining room. There, the hostess checked Joe’s reservation, and led them through the dining room to a table near the windows that overlooked the beach. Sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains and fell across the crisp white linens.

Chairs were pulled out for them. Menus appeared in their hands almost immediately. Crystal and gleaming silver on the table caught the light.

A young man, their server, stopped by, a pitcher of water in his hand. “Good morning. Can I start you with something to drink? Coffee, mimosas, fresh juice?”

“Water and coffee for me,” Cece said.

Joe nodded. “Same.”

The server filled their water glasses and said, “I’ll be right back with those coffees.”

Cece opened her menu, scanning it with an eye for that key lime-stuffed French toast. Everything sounded good. And everything was described in just enough detail to make choosing difficult.