The Bad In Each Other 664f2x

The Bad In Each Other

A Small Town Romance

Tasha L. Harrison

BRYANT STREET PUBLISHING

The Bad In Each Other Copyright © May 2020 by Tasha L. Harrison

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Tasha L. Harrison

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

“Cooking is like love: It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”

Harriet Van Horne

Chapter One

Saxon

Holding up her skirts and her thighs while trying to balance her ass on the stack of Carolina Gold Rice was a feat, but as far as I was concerned, it was well worth it. All of the satin and itchy tulle bunched around her waist were a secondary thought as I thrust into her slick depths. I couldn’t get enough of the sounds she made as I fucked her in her fancy ball gown. Yeah, I should be ashamed of being this specific kind of monster at this stage of my life. But what was I supposed to do when she stormed into my kitchen with her cute lil’ button nose turned up, demanding to know why the servers were so slow with the champagne and why there were so few canapés? She was clearly someone of import, storming in that way, but I couldn’t place her face. Either way, I knew it was just an excuse to get me alone. The canapés were good, but nothing special; smoked salmon and pea, pea and prawn, beetroot with garlicky mushrooms. If she was really looking to complain about the food, she should have said something about the deviled eggs. Still drunk from last night, I’d slept in and left the sous chef with my recipe — one that had received high praise when I made them for a White House function a few years ago. But he’d left out a key ingredient, and I could taste the hole in the flavors. Hell, anyone with a tongue could taste the damn hole in the flavors. But she wasn’t concerned with the canapés or the deviled eggs. And I wasn’t either. “Oh, god,” she moaned loudly, her southern drawl bleeding into those two words to draw them out long and twangy like the Lowcountry accents I grew up with but hadn’t heard in years. “Shh…” I said, covering her mouth. “You don’t want someone to overhear us, do you?” With her free hand, she snatched mine away from her mouth. “I don’t fucking care! Your dick is as good as everyone said it was. Jesus-fucking-christ!”

I leaned back and took a good look at her; took in her flushed cheeks and big brown eyes. She was classically beautiful. The sort of girl who would age into a well-heeled southern woman who took no shit. But that didn’t explain her comment about my dick. Had I seen this woman before? Fucked one of her friends? And how was I supposed to feel about that comment? Was it a compliment? Was I uncomfortable with being called a whore amongst her friends or— “Oh, fuck. I’m gonna come,” she moaned loudly. I grinned and grasped both of her hips to hold her steady. If I couldn’t shut her up, I might as well get in a decent nut before we were discovered. We filled the quiet of the dry goods room with the obscene, wet sound of our bodies slapping against each other as I grunted and groaned my way toward a climax that felt like a moving target. It was my own damn fault. All the drinking I’d done in the last few days has resulted in a case of whiskey dick— hard as a rock all the damn time, but I couldn’t come for shit. “Oh, shit….oh, shit…” she chanted, and I felt her come around me, and my own body followed like a pavlovian response. “Ahh…fuck!” I cursed, realizing that we sounded like amateur porn stars. Still, I let those satisfied, bullish groans spill out of me as I chased every bit of that pleasure, thrusting my quickly softening dick into her. This shit wasn’t sexy, but I didn’t really give a fuck because I finally found it. The release valve on the tension I’d felt for the last week while filming my food and travel show in Charleston, my hometown, surrounded by all the things I’d left here trying to escape, had finally popped. “Miranda?” a very surprised, very male voice said from behind me. I cursed under my breath and bent to pull up my pants. If that was her man at the door, I wanted to at least put my dick away before it was time to throw hands. “Charlie!” the woman I’d just fucked said, a wide-eyed look of surprise on her face. A face that now seemed a bit more familiar. I turned to the door. My suspicions were confirmed when I met the furious gaze of Charlie Benjamin Cartwright, the newlywed husband of Miranda Dunlevy,

daughter of Governor Dunlevy of the great state of South Carolina. I held my hands up in a defenseless posture. “Listen, man. I didn’t know—” “You didn’t know?” Charlie interrupted. “Are you about to say that you didn’t know that this was my wife of six fucking days? You were the chef at our wedding reception!” I frowned. Oh, yeah. I did cater their wedding. The Governor flew me in early for that exact purpose. That day was so chaotic that I never really got a good look at the bride, which was why I didn’t recognize her. Slowly but surely, the drunken haze in my brain was penetrated by the realization that my reckless dick may have finally cost me my career. “Charlie,” I said, painting on my most benign smile. Or at least I hope it looked benign. “I’m really drunk, and so is Miranda here. I’m sure that if either of us had been sober, I never would have fucked your wife—” Those were the wrong words to say. Charlie’s face went two shades redder if that was even possible. “Well, I hope it was good for you because your career is over, you piece of shit.” I glance at the now sobbing Miranda. She was yanking down her skirts to cover the pussy that would possibly ruin my life. “It wasn’t really career-ending pussy, to be honest,” I slurred. “You son of a bitch!” “Did I say that out loud?” Charlie’s fist met my face, and the rest of me met the cement floor of the dry goods room.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Paula said as she smashed a bag of ice into my swollen face. Either the Governor’s son-in-law had a mean right hook, or I was so drunk that I

didn’t even get a lick in because I was waking up in the production van outside of the mansion. “Of all the people in this entire ball, you decide to fuck Miranda-fuckingDunlevy. Were there no other prospects, or are you just that fucking fatalistic?” “To be honest…I didn’t even see who else was in the room. I was too drunk for that. How bad is the black eye? I think I can still land a decent lay before we go. Put me back in the game, coach.” “This isn’t a fucking joke,” Paula hissed. “Marty is trying to sweet-talk the Governor, but he wants your head, and he’s making all sorts of threats.” She tipped her chin in their direction, and I looked in that direction. Marty’s body language told me that he was trying his damndest to get the situation under control, but the Governor was just glaring at me. Silent and stone-faced, like he wouldn’t be deterred. At that moment, I realized that my wayward dick hadn’t just ruined my life, but it could possibly ruin the lives of seven people who made my pretentious travel and food show happen. It was born from a letter I wrote to the editor of a popular food magazine. Written when I was half drunk, it was a dressing down of the elite in my industry and an accurate portrayal of my life as a line cook. It wasn’t meant to be anything serious. Just my opinions without much deep consideration. That letter to the editor became a monthly thing, and then a weekly column, and not long after that, Paula talked me into pitching a show. We were dating at the time and traveling all over Europe and the Far East. I wrote about our adventures and sold those flowery missives to other magazines and blogs. Gradually, I grew a reputation that ed her idea. I still believe she got that yes out of me in bed, but here we were. With two other crew , we had traveled from Europe all the way to the tiniest island in Indonesia—not Bali. Goddamn, laptop entrepreneurs were destroying Bali, and I refused to add my trash ass narrative to that, but we traveled all over the eastern continents, eating our way through every village and sprawling metropolis we could in the last four years. Somewhere along the way, someone suggested that it was time to head home, to do the same thing in the US, Canada, Central, and South America. I thought it was a good idea. Then they suggested Charleston, my hometown, as the start of the tour. If I had

any good sense about me, I would’ve said no, but heh...no one has ever accused me of having good sense. I pushed up in my seat and tried to get a good look at the Governor and Marty, but my head swam, and all the bad decisions I made earlier threatened to empty my stomach all over my chef’s coat. I lay back down. “What did Marty say when he found out?” I asked, putting the bag of ice over my eye again. “He couldn’t make words for a solid minute, and then he told me to get you out of here. He’s really pissed, Sax.” “Well...what are you waiting for?” I asked. “Get me out of here.”

Production had rented a house on Folly Beach, so that was where Paula took me. Back to the place where I could smell the salt air and hear the waves and maybe figure out a way to spin this whole debacle into something debauched yet charming. Paula went straight to the liquor cabinet when we came in. Her phone would be glued to her hand for the next few hours — cleaning up my mess. . I would have to figure out a way to make it up to her. . I went upstairs and into the master bedroom, closing the double doors behind me. After stripping down and changing into a pair of swim trunks, I grabbed a bag of weed, some rolling papers and went out onto the balcony. Sea air greeted me when I opened the door, and I closed my eyes to take it in. Charleston, my hometown. The place where my father would catch wind of my fuck-ups and add them to the long list of “Things Saxon Has Done to Disappoint Me.” I wasn’t sure what volume he was on, but it had to be a library’s worth of ways he could condemn me by now. To be honest, my bad boy persona was wearing thin. That was part of the reason why we came here. Everyone thought that starting the new season with some good wholesome content featuring Saxon Turner, the down-home southern boy, would sell well to network bosses. I tried to tell them it was a horrible idea. I had too many secrets here. Too many ghosts were waiting to rise up and consume me. I was probably headed for that mediocre fuck with Miranda Dunlevy the moment that my plane touched down at Charleston International. There was no avoiding it. I haven’t been home in six years, and this was the reason why. I couldn’t be in this city without getting drunk. Too many memories get in. Hell, the last time I was in Chucktown, I’d basically linked arms with the devil and partnered up with him to ruin my own life. At the time, I had everything I wanted — everything I’d ever strived for. I managed to fuck it all away, much like I did today. I guess this was just a case of history repeating. I flopped onto a lounge chair and plucked two papers out of the box to roll a nice fat t. If I’d really and truly blown up my life, I didn’t want to be sober for the aftermath. Paula must have moved to the porch because broken strands of her

conversation wafted up to me. “…Yes, he was drunk. He’s been drunk since we got here…we were supposed to go up to N. Charleston to get some shots of him in his old neighborhood…I’m not sure. Maybe? If we had a few days, we could…yeah, I understand.” It sounded like Paula was trying to negotiate a few days off so that I could hide away and let the rumors die down. Part of me hoped that our network bosses didn’t agree to it. I wanted to get the fuck out of here. I’ve been traveling for the better part of six years, living out of hotels and a rucksack packed so tight that it was a wonder I managed to shoulder it half the time. But I’d sleep in the Mumbai airport if it meant I was getting the fuck out of here. I heard Paula’s flip-flopped feet as she crossed my bedroom to the open patio door. “Hey,” she said softly. “Can I you, or do you want to be alone?” I gestured to the lounge chair next to mine. She handed me a bottle of water and sat down next to me. I opened it and ed her the t, and she pulled smoke into her lungs without her usual prissy posturing. “What set you off this time, huh?” Paula asked. “You were doing so good when you left Costa Rica. You were tanned and relaxed. You’d spent enough time there to sweat out all the liquor and traded whiskey for weed. Then we land here and—” “It all goes to shit,” I finished for her. I took a big pull on the t and held the smoke in my lungs until it burned. “I told you that I didn’t want to come back here.” “Yeah, you did. But you didn’t say why.” “And you never bothered to ask,” I countered. “That’s fair.” Paula reached for the t, and I ed it back to her. She another took a long pull. “So what’s the verdict? Have I finally fucked it up beyond repair?”

She sighed, a plume of smoke seeping from her nostrils and between her lips. “Marty’s flying back to New York to work on it. The team is scouring social media and all of the gossip sites to make sure nothing gets leaked and planning what to do when and if that happens. Steve is willing to give you a few days. Let the Governor cool down before he approaches him to do damage control.” Steve was our producer, and he’d never done anything more than tolerate me over the last few years. “So, I still have a job?” “For now.” “For now,” I huffed, then brought the t to my lips again. “We’re going out to North Charleston to film the segment with Myles Lawson tomorrow. After that…we’re gonna take a few days. Give you a chance to your head together so we can finish recording and get the fuck out of this town.” I nodded. The weed was doing its job now. Loosening my limbs, quieting my stomach, and letting the fucked up events of the day seep from my brain like the smoke leaving my lungs. North Charleston… that was the last place I needed to go, but my friend would know that I needed somewhere to hide out. Myles was probably the only person in my life who wouldn’t judge me too harshly for the mistakes I’d made in the last six years. I was just worried that I might tarnish his reputation by mere association.

Chapter Two

Saxon

Before I ran away to the Culinary Arts Institute in New York, I spent my summer nights and weekends washing dishes in the back of Big Lawson's BBQ. That was where I met Myles Lawson. Me and Myles came from the same North Charleston neighborhood, except his family wasn't dirt poor. When we were in grade school, he took pity on me when I got jumped by a group of older boys. And from that day on, everyone knew that if they wanted to pound on the skinny white kid, they would have to go through Myles first. And Myles was a big motherfucker. Just being seen with him saved my ass on more than one occasion. Maybe he could find a way to help me save it again. Myles's father had owned Big Lawson's BBQ since the eighties, and someone in his family had run it since the day they opened back in 1969. It was even older than that if I considered the number of years his great grandmother, Big Mama Lawson, ran it out of her own house—selling plates from a Dutch door on her front porch. When his father ed, he used the life insurance money to renovate and reinvent the place while adhering to the same smokehouse methods and recipes that made the place a North Charleston institution. Skillet cornbread, hash and rice, collard greens, and baked mac-n-cheese were paired with enough smoked meat to give you a case of the meat sweats in one sitting. This was the food that made me feel at home. And after yesterday's drunken escapades, it would be the hangover cure my body needed. Especially since we were up at the asscrack of dawn to film his segment. "Big sexy!" I called out as I made my way across the back lot of the restaurant to the smokehouse.

"Is that white chocolate!" Myles called out from inside. The door to the smokehouse banged open like someone had kicked it. A bluish plume of smoke escaped, and Myles ducked through the doorway and stepped out into the morning air wearing an enormous grin. "Saxon-fucking-Turner!" he bellowed. "Holy shit. You weren't kidding," Brett, my cameraman, muttered. "He really is big." "And sexy," Myles said, posing like a GQ model and giving the camera his most stunning grin. At six foot five, Myles Lawson was a good four and a half inches taller than me, twice as broad and solid as fuck. I felt that brute strength as he pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. "My god, you're scrawny, boy!" he exclaimed when he finally released me. "They don't feed me good pit barbecue or southern food too often," I said with a sheepish shrug. "Am I really that skinny, though? I'm not pulling off the old, fit, but trendy hipster look?" "Well, first off, you ain't old because I ain't old. And second, if you came home more often, you'd look like someone loved you at least a little bit. Eating nothing but raw fish and white rice won't put any weight on you. But you know that. We'll whip you into shape!" "I'm only here for ten days." "Well, we better start eating then." "A'ight, but first show me what's going on in the smokehouse." My friend's pride was evident as he showed me around his smokehouse. I knew how much it took to make this place over, and I felt proud of him and of being associated with the place — even if it was just peripherally. He threw me an apron, and I jumped right in to help him. "What we do here is real southern barbecue. The kind you don't see anymore," Myles explained.

"Because it's brutal," I added. "Whole hog and beef barbecue, slow and low all night long." "All night long," Myles echoed, adding some suggestive gyrations. I cringed at his bad dad joke, and we both laughed. "I your dad camping out here. A cooler full of beer. A boombox tuned to the oldies." "Some fine young thang on his lap," Myles added. "Yeah, those were good times." Memories of hanging with Big Lawson on the backlot, gorging ourselves on beer and barbecue straight from the pit overcame me. I got my first blow job on one of those nights. Learned how to dance, bumping and grinding to slow jams on The Quiet Storm. Hm. Maybe all the memories weren't so bad. "So why haven't you been home in so long, man?" Myles asked when we were finally sitting across from each other. "You know how it is. You just get busy living, you know?" I had a bowl of grits and beef brisket in front of me, and I would much rather dig into that than answer his question. "Yeah, I get it." Myles leaned back in his chair and pushed his ball cap back on his head. "I got married, you know?" "I saw that. Congratulations, man. I'm sorry I couldn't make it —" "I know. I got the email and the gift." Myles gestured toward the camera. "You said you were filming in — what was it? Tanzania?" Now I was acutely aware of the camera and that my crew was capturing this exchange. An exchange that should be a private moment between me and my friend. It might have been six years since I last saw Myles, but I could tell when my friend was about to discuss something that's been bothering him. "Listen, I can't wait to see your wife," I said and waggled my eyebrows, hoping that he would latch onto the joke.

He barked out a surprised laugh that startled Paula. "Man, you oughta know better. Ain't no woman willing to give up all of this big sexy blackness to get with your scrawny ass." I nearly sighed with relief. "We'll see about that," I said before spooning a generous helping of beef brisket and grits into my mouth. He took the bait, but I knew this conversation needed to happen before the night was out. We spent the entire day at Big Lawson's BBQ. I helped serve regulars whose faces I ed like they were family. Ate as much mac-n-cheese as I made. Took pictures with some patrons who came in just to try the huge pulled pork sandwich with four different cuts of meat piled on a King's Hawaiian bun. I bet a girl who'd ordered it that she couldn't finish the whole thing on her own, and my ass left fifty bucks lighter than I came in. At the end of the day, I smelled like the sweat, hard work, and the sweet wood they used in the smoker. The camera crew sat in the van reviewing footage while Myles and I closed up shop. "Who's gonna run the smoker tonight? I thought we might grab a bottle of whiskey, hang out…talk." Myles grunted. "I got no problem with that, but me and my lady got this pact. I gotta be home for dinner and help her put the kid down before —" "Hold on," I interrupted. "Kid? You have a kid?" My friend shook his head as he made his way back through the kitchen. "Yeah, man. I guess you didn't see the baby shower invitation, the gender reveal, the birth announcement…" Guilt swamped me. "I'm not really on social media, and I don't check my own emails anymore—" "You're just ready with the excuses, ain't you?" I looked around. I knew we were alone, but I wanted to be sure of it if Myles was about to go in on me. Not that I didn't deserve it, but with the drama I'd created since landing in South Carolina, I didn't know if I could stand another verbal lashing.

"You're right. Ain't no good excuse for missing all of those big events in your life, man." Myles sucked his teeth and flicked off the lights. "You must really be on drugs if you think that apology is gonna cut it." Fear crept up my spine in the darkness of the kitchen. Myles was my lifeline. If he didn't accept my apology— "Cracka, is you coming or not? I'm not gonna stand in this doorway all night. Didn't you hear me say my wife was waiting for me?" Suppressing a laugh, I made my way to where Myles stood, holding the door to the back lot open for me. The moment I stepped out into the dark, humid night, he tossed me his keys. "You're driving. I've been up for a full twenty-four. I ain't trying to end up in a ditch." I sent a text to Paula telling her to follow us, then climbed into an old Ford pickup truck that used to belong to Big Lawson. "I can't believe you still have this truck," I said. "Why not? It still runs, and I use it to haul wood from the lumber yard." "You're still doing that yourself?" Myles shrugged. "It's one of the few things I haven't delegated. And I don't really want to. There's still some shit I just like to do myself, you know?" "I don't actually," I muttered, cranking the engine. It came to life with a roar, and I pumped the gas to keep the engine from sputtering out like Big Lawson taught me. I learned to drive in this truck. I expected a lecture, but we barely talked outside of the directions he gave me and rapping along to songs from our childhood on the old dial radio in the Ford's dash. Myles and his little family had a spot not too far from the old neighborhood on a street we would ride our bikes down, imagining that we lived there.

"It's that one right there," Myles said, pointing to a ranch home with a manicured front lawn and two palmetto trees anchoring the corners. The front door opened as I put the truck in park, and the woman I saw standing in the doorway made my mouth drop open. "Holy shit! You married LaKeisha Pitman?" Myles gave me a startled look. "Are you seriously telling me that you didn't know who I married until this moment?" "I…no. I know that's un-fucking-acceptable, but let me have this moment. You married Keisha! You've had a crush on that girl since you got your first hardon!" "Shhh! Goddamn, Sax! You can't be saying shit like that. I gotta keep the upper hand in this shit." "You ain't got the upper hand and have never had it. I know all about your crush on me. I was there, ? Now get out of the truck," Keisha called from the front step, balancing a babbling baby on her hip. "The windows were open, huh?" I said, stating the obvious. Myles huffed and rolled his eyes. "Get ya stupid ass out the truck. Damn!" "Oh, you ain't got to tell me twice." For once, being lighter and faster worked in my favor. I was out of the truck and hugging Keisha before even opened his door. "Saxon-fucking-Turner," Keisha said, echoing the greeting Myles had given me earlier today. "It's been a long time since we've seen your pretty ass around here." I turned to Myles, who had just made his way up the sidewalk. "You heard that? She just called me pretty." "Anybody can see that your red-headed ass is pretty. Shut the fuck up." He shoved me out of the way like I was a small child and scooped both his wife and baby up with one arm. Keisha giggled and then moaned a little when he kissed

her. "Welcome home, daddy." "Mmm, missed you, mama," he said, kissing her again. "A'ight," I groaned. "I get it. You love each other. Let me see this little one, though." Myles smiled down at his baby. "Come here, little girl." The baby giggled and bounced in Keisha's arms and reached for her father with fat grabby hands. Myles gathered her in his arms and turned to me. "This is Olivia. Olivia, this is your Uncle Saxon." Something in my chest clenched. I haven't seen these people in years, and Myles thought I deserved that title? I deserved to be introduced to his brand new baby girl as family? It took two hard swallows to get the lump of emotion in my throat down before I could speak. "Hi, Olivia," I finally managed to croak. "Hi!" she said cheerily and gave me an upside-down wave with one of her chubby hands. Holy shit. This was what people meant when they said they “killed by the cute.” With those dimples and that toothless grin, this tiny human was literally murdering me with her cuteness. "Oh, my god, Saxon! Are you crying?" Paula exclaimed. "What the fuck?" I barked, startled to see my crew standing quietly on the lawn, capturing this whole thing. "No! I'm not crying. It's this fucking ragweed. Let's get inside before the mosquitos nibble on Olivia's little chubby arms." "Saxon, you are really too old to still be pretending like you don't have feelings. Men cry sometimes. Hell, Myles cries at least once a day when he looks at Livie." Keisha scoffed and led the way inside. Myles cut a look at me as I followed him over the threshold. "I don't be crying

like that. She trippin'." "Obviously. She can't tell a tear from eyes watering because of hay fever," I agreed. The crew followed in behind me. Now it was my turn to cut a look at Paula. "Y'all ain't using none of that." "No way. We're using every minute of it. Don't you want to repair your reputation?" Paula asked. "Repair your reputation?" Keisha parroted. "Is your reputation in disrepair?" she asked. I glanced at Myles, hoping that he would save me, but he gave me the same expectant look that his wife wore on her face. Hell, even baby Olivia had perfected the Lawson eyebrow raise. "Uhh… that's a conversation for when the camera's gone." "Damn, that bad, huh?" Keisha asked. "Yeah…" I said with a nod. "That bad." "Whew, boy. That pretty face is still getting you in trouble, ain't it?" Keisha said, shaking her head. "Hold on now," Myles said, turning to his wife. "That's the second time you've called him pretty." "I mean, look at him. Ole Prince Harry looking ass. Wait, nah. Not Prince Harry. That ain't right. He's too young. To fresh looking. Who's that other guy they say he looks like?" Keisha asked, looking past me to Paula. "Damian West?" Paula volunteered "The guy who plays—" "Brody on Homeland. Close but not him either. The other guy… played in that movie where he was a sex addict or something like that?" "Michael Fassbender?" I suggested. "Yasss, Michael Fassbender! But with a top knot! And prettier!" she exclaimed.

"Have you been drinking already?" Myles asked, his voice suddenly very serious. "I mean, I only ask because you just said this scrawny, red-headed fucker looks like the dude that plays Magneto, and I think you must be drunk!" The evening went on like that. Myles and I drank while Keisha nursed Olivia before finally heading to bed. The crew was getting some candid shots of us sitting out on the deck with a liter of whiskey between us when things got serious again. Sensing that, Paula told everyone to pack up. "Hey, so we're gonna head out. Are you coming back to Folly with us or —" "Nah," Myles said, answering for me. He dropped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it hard. "We got a guest bedroom. This fool is staying the night. We gotta lot of shit to talk about." My back was to the door, but I felt Paula lingering there. "Go'n head, Paula. I'll call you in the morning if I need you." "Are you sure? I can leave one of the guys here, and the rest of us can get an Uber—" "Close the door. You're letting mosquitos in," I said dismissively. "Nah," Myles grunted and grabbed the bottle of whiskey and brought it to his lips. "We spray for mosquitos. You don't have to worry about them. But the flying roaches? That's another story." "Sonofabitch," Paula cursed softly just before closing the patio door abruptly. We laughed as he ed the whiskey bottle to me. "How'd you know the flying cockroaches would get her?" "With that accent? She's clearly from the Northeast." "Good guess. She's from the Bronx." "That little brunette is from the Bronx? I'd’ve never guessed that." "Don't underestimate her. She's a beast at handling all of my private affairs."

"Of which there are apparently many." "I've had my fair share," I said, putting on my best roguish smile. I took a deep swallow from the bottle and ed it back to him. "And she's one of them." It wasn't a question, but I felt compelled to respond to it. "What makes you think I slept with her?" "That woman stared at you all day like Chris Rock longing after one rib. You definitely fucked her." I snorted and sputtered, choking on the whiskey I'd attempted to swallow down. "Okay, so you're not wrong," I agreed. "Was she the one with you in Costa Rica?" "Nah, I went alone," I said with a shake of my head. "I needed to be alone." "Did you find what you needed down there?" Did I? When I booked the trip to Costa Rica there had only been one thought in my head. Away. Away, away, away. I needed to get the fuck away from everything and everyone. Soak my head in saltwater until I felt human again. And it had worked…for the most part. But that tension had returned the moment the production team suggested that we start the US version of the show in Charleston. Bring the good ole boy home from overseas and drop him right back into his hometown. "Nah…I don't know what I need or what to even look for, so…no. I didn't find it," I itted, finally then held my breath, waiting for his judgment. "You want to talk about it?" I thought about the things that happened in the last twenty-four hours. "I can't seem to stop fucking up. I think it might have really fucked up my career this time."

"Your wayward dick again?" he asked, and I let out a sardonic chuckle. The last time I was home, my wayward dick had gotten me fired from a job at the Culinary Institute of Charleston. "Yes," I said with a nod. "It was my wayward dick again," I told him about what happened at the Magnolia Ball. How I'd fucked the Governor's daughter mere days after preparing the food at her wedding reception. "Jesus Christ, Saxon," Myles said softly. "I know. Paula is working on it, but I'm not certain I'll have a job after today." "Will they still use the footage from today?" "Absolutely. The first six episodes are scheduled and paid for. After that?" I shrugged. "Maybe it's for the best." "Fuck you, Myles. I'm good at this job." "O' course, you're good at this job. It lets you indulge in all your hedonistic urges. You eat, drink, sleep and fuck like that's literally the only thing to live for." I scoffed. "Is there something more?" Myles leveled a look at me over the rim of the bottle. "You know there is." Yeah, I knew, but it was obvious which one of us was entitled to that something more. "Have you been out to see your Pops since you been here?" Dark feelings engulfed me as thoughts of the tiny two-bedroom bungalow not too far from here where my father still lived. It took Herculean effort and two big swallows of whiskey to push them back. "No. And I'm not going to," I said, voice rough from the burn of the amber liquid.

Myles grunted in that way that was neither a sound of agreement or disagreement and took the bottle from me, re-corked it. "I'll never understand y'all's relationship, but the answer isn't in the bottom of this bottle," he said with finality before standing up to head inside. "I'm gonna head to bed. You should go too." "Nah, Imma stay up awhile." "A'ight. Love you, man." "Love you, too," I grunted. I wish I'd gone to bed when Myles suggested it, but the contrarian in me retrieved that bottle from the bar inside, drank, and buried myself in my morose thoughts. I stayed up well past mid-dark. Until the mosquitos Myles said he sprayed for attacked my bare forearms and made a feast of me. Until the whiskey made mush of my resolve and allowed the things that I didn't want to think and feel in. Thoughts of the mother I never met. Red hair like a flame. My father. Hard faced and immovable. And the girl… The girl I ruined. The girl that ruined me.

Chapter Three

Birdie

The sun was barely up, but when I stepped out of the shower, I smelled freshly brewed coffee and knew that my sister Soni was up and moving around. Both of us were early risers, but she was up especially early this morning to see me off. Still wrapped in my towel, I went into my closet to pull out the chef’s coat and pants that I’d ironed last night. As I took it off the hanger, a wave of nerves washed over me. Today was the first day of the rest of my life. Okay, that was a little inaccurate and a tad bit of an exaggeration, but it was the first day of The Taste of the Upstate, my hometown’s foodie competition. This was my first time participating. If I won — when I won — the fifty thousand dollar cash prize would give me the capital I needed to start my own catering company. To say that I needed this win was an understatement. If I were a weaker woman, I would have given up by now. I’d been fired from three sous chef jobs this year because I refused to bend to the will of the arrogant head chefs I worked under. But I’d finally crossed the wrong one when I got fired from my last job, and now I was blacklisted. No one would hire me except Mr. Kemp, an old friend of my father’s who ran Kinfolks Diner, a meat-n-three type of place in the village of West Greenville. A line cook, even a head line cook, didn’t pay nearly as much as a sous chef. That pay cut meant that I had to give up my apartment and move in with my recently divorced sister Sonja. I was thankful that she let me and my daughter live with her rent free. But I couldn’t help feeling like this was yet another failure on the books for me. Every step I’d taking toward repairing my reputation after getting kicked out of Culinary School had been thrown out the window.

Someone might say that I should just give up. Clearly, I wasn’t suited for this profession. In fact, the last chef who fired me had said exactly those words. “Get a different job. Your attitude is not suited to this profession.” And you know what? He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t have the right attitude for working under an arrogant, chauvinistic pig, with too little talent, but I belonged in the kitchen. And what was I supposed to do? Quit? Absolutely not. I’m a Malone woman, and there ain’t no quit in me. Buttoning my chef coat, I made my way down the hallway to the bedroom my daughter Amara shared with my niece at the top of the stairs. I slipped in as quietly as I could and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Mama?” she said sleepily, barely opening her eyes. “Yes, Mara. It’s mama. I was just kissing you goodbye. Go back to sleep.” “Are you going to do your cooking show today?” I laughed softly and readjusted her bonnet. “Yes, baby girl.” Amara sat up in bed. I turned to her and couldn’t help but smile. My little girl was beautiful, but she looked nothing like me. With her light skin, freckled nose, and afro puffs the color of raw saffron, she barely looked like she could be mine. If it weren’t for the shape of her lips and the kink of her hair, I would have sworn someone swapped my child for someone else’s in the hospital nursery. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. I knew who gave my darling girl those features, but like the snake faced villain in all of those wizarding movies, his name was never to be uttered. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked, a crinkle between her brows. “Yes, Amara,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

She shrugged and yawned. “No, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just kinda… boring. Why don’t you wear one of your pretty coats, mama?” “Because I want to look professional. I want the judges to take me seriously.” “And your pretty coats aren’t professional?” “No, they aren’t. Scoot down so I can tuck you back in.” My daughter yawned again and obeyed. I pulled the covers up to her chin. “Sleep. You have a few more hours until it’s time for you to get up.” “Okay. Mama?” “Yes, darling girl.” “Make sure you win all of the monies so we can buy our restaurant, okay?” My stomach clenched. I was carrying more than just my own hopes into this competition. I was carrying Amara’s too. “I’m gonna do my best, baby girl,” I promised. “Okay. I’ll watch you on the TV later. Love you!” My daughter rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. I kissed her on the temple one last time and went downstairs. The kitchen was quiet and dark except for the light over the stove where my sister Sonja leaned with a cup of coffee in one hand and her cellphone in the other—probably scrolling through the orders that came in overnight from her online store. It was so strange to see her this way. Less than a year ago, she was my ethereal big sister; stay at home mom, garden witch, and devoted wife. Now she was a divorced, boss ass bitch, with a boyfriend ten years younger than her and a flourishing online apothecary business. I ired her. If anyone was an example of how you can get your whole life together in a short amount of time, she was it. I only hope that I could change my life the same way she did. “Morning, sissy!” I chirped, trying to sound more chipper than I felt. “Hey, baby Bird!” she said with a big smile and set her phone aside to give me

her full attention. “Are you ready to own the fuck out of this competition?” “I guess,” I said with a shrug. “You guess?” she echoed with a frown. My sister put her coffee cup down and opened the kitchen cabinet to grab me one. “What’s going on in that head?” she asked. “Are you second-guessing yourself or your decision to compete?” I shrugged. “Do we have to do this?” “Yes. Answer the question, Birdie. Are you second-guessing yourself?” “Kinda? The last time I competed like this was in Culinary school…that was six years ago. And I don’t know if—” “You have the skill,” Sonja interrupted before I could give those negative thoughts breath. “You’ve kept those skills sharp by working in various kitchens and catering dinner parties for all the nice white ladies I know. And don’t forget that they chose your audition tape out of the hundreds of home chefs and amateurs that submitted. You were invited to compete.” “Yeah, but there’s gonna be a lot of people in the room. How do I stand out?” A grin spread across my sister’s face. “Funny you should ask. Stay right there.” Soni set down her phone and practically ran back down the hall to her bedroom. My sister has been so ive through this whole thing — my whole family has been, but especially Soni. She’s always been a sister, a best friend, and a stand-in mother when I needed it. During this transition, she has provided me with the kind of emotional that I was always afraid to ask for. And now, it seems, she had a surprise for me. One that was probably supposed to motivate me during this competition. “I was going to save this until after you won, but you know I’m no good at keeping secrets,” she said as she reentered the room carrying a garment bag. “And honestly, we know the competition is in the bag, so it doesn’t matter if I give it to you now or later. Soni draped the bag over the kitchen island. “You want to know how you stand out? You showcase your skills. Your god-given magic and creativity. And you

don’t wear the white coat. Open it.” I set my coffee cup on the counter and unzipped the bag. A gasp of surprise came out of me when I saw what was inside. I knew it was a chef’s coat the moment she brought the bag into the kitchen, but I wasn’t expecting this. “Oh, Soni,” I whispered. “Do you like it? It’s beautiful, right?” The coat was beyond beautiful. It was cut in the classic design, but it was far from the basic white one I had on. It was a patchwork of delicate, patterned fabric, a mixed media piece of artwork with multicolored, free form embroidery, and flecks of shimmery woven cloth that looked like gold dust. “I can’t wear this. It will get ruined in the kitchen.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed and then started unbuttoning my chef coat like I was four years old. “That jacket is made to be both beautiful and practical. It’s made for you to wear. Not for you to treat like it’s something precious,” she said sternly. I shrugged off my whites and stood in my dry wicking tank top as Soni took the new coat off the hanger. “All of these fabrics are washable and breathable. I turned my back to her, and she helped me put it on. She must have given the seamstress my exact measurements to have this made. The perfect fit was evident even before I had it buttoned. The fabric was breathable and washable, but it also had a bit of stretch. This was a truly thoughtful gift. “How’s the fit?” she asked as I turned to face her. “Good,” I squeaked, trying hard not to cry. “Aw, baby Bird,” Soni cooed, then pulled me into a hug. “I need this win so fucking bad,” I whispered, burying my face into her shoulder.

“You’ve got this, Birdie,” Soni said, squeezing me harder. “It’s yours, do you hear me?” “Yes,” I said, then cleared my throat and pulled away from her. Soni looked me over from the fluffy curls of my pineapple’d crown that spilled out of my headscarf to the striped chef pants that provided a funky pattern clash with my new chef’s coat. “You look artistic, bold, and skilled. You look damn good.” I smiled at my sister. “Thank you, sis,” I said softly. “No problem,” she said, then pulled me into a hug. “Now go win that money!”

The competition was being held at a local technical college that had a newly minted culinary arts department. The students received extra credit for attending, and few of them would operate as sous chefs for us. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I wove through a crowd. Nerves were getting the better of me, but I didn’t want anyone to know. Weaving in and out of the crowd, I finally found a table marked “contestants.” “Hi, I’m Birdie Malone? I’m a contestant in today’s competition?” Why the fuck was I turning up the end of all of my words like that? I needed to calm the fuck down. “Oh, yes!” the young girl said, plucking my name tag from the table. “You’re one of only five women selected to compete,” she said conspiratorially. “Really? How many total contestants are in this round?” “Twenty-two,” she said, handing me an apron. “The rest of the contestants are waiting just through those doors.” I followed the line of her finger and spotted a camera crew lingering near the doors. “This is being recorded?” I’d signed a press release when I sent in my application, but I assumed it would just be some shots for the paper, not video. “I think it’s just commentary for the local news, but someone said some famous chef from a cable show is filling in at the last minute for Myles Lawson.” “Really?” That was a disappointment. I really ired Chef Lawson. He ran an pit barbecue restaurant out in Charleston, and like me, he was mostly self-taught. I’d hoped to make my introduction during this contest. A certain snake-faced villain was also good friends with him, but I was willing to look beyond for a chance to work with an amazing pitmaster—maybe line up a short apprenticeship in his kitchen. I guess that was out, and we would be judged by some cable channel cooking diva. Great. “Do you know which chef is filling in for him?” “No, they’re keeping their identity pretty close to the chest. I’m guessing they’re

going to use the footage for the show and want to get a genuine reaction out of you guys whenever they announce it.” “Thanks.” I sighed in frustration and made my way to the kitchen. This was the last thing I wanted. I could’ve applied to any of those cooking competition shows that were so popular nowadays, but I specifically chose a local one because I thought it wouldn’t be as intense. So much for that idea. I should’ve worn a little more make-up. Resisting the urge to duck into the restroom to call Soni and beg her to bring me my cosmetics bag, I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. “Hey, Chef!” a cheery voice called out, pulling me out of my reverie. “I’m Marissa Cahill. And you are?” “Birdie Malone,” I answered, extending my hand. “Oh, yes! Chef Malone! Please find a prep table and get set up. We have about forty-five minutes until the competition gets started.” “I can set up anywhere?” “Yes, anywhere you feel comfortable. We’re going to have two rounds today and wherever you are today is where you’ll be for the duration of the contest.” “Okay, cool.” “When you get to your station, make sure you have everything you need and that your oven, stovetop, and small appliances work properly. We had the students test everything, but you can never be too careful. Folks have lost in years past because a pilot light went out, and none of the other contestants would let them use their range.” “Really?” I asked in surprise. “I didn’t realize this competition was so cutthroat.” “Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Marissa said, her tone gravely serious. “It can be life-changing for some folks. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“Right, of course,” I said, feeling foolish. Of course, people took it seriously. I mean, I was betting my future on winning this thing, wasn’t I? “That was a silly thing to say. Of course, people are taking it seriously. I guess I’m just nervous.” Marissa’s quick smile returned. “Sure you are. Bless your heart! Like I said, we have about forty minutes until start time. That will give you a minute or two to settle in a do some breathing exercises or something. Oh! Hi, chef!” she exclaimed as another contestant came through the door. Looking around, I decided to set up at the one closest to the door, just in case the nerves I told Marissa about suddenly decided to empty my stomach of the three cups of coffee I drank this morning. I dropped my knife roll on the gleaming stainless steel prep table and began to inspect my station as Marissa suggested. The bottom shelf was stocked with a mixer with all the attachments, a food processor, a Ninja blender and an immersion blender, a pressure cooker (nice!), and pots and pans in every shape in size. I plugged each small appliance in and made sure that they worked. Satisfied that they were operational, I turned to the five-burner range behind me. “Don’t worry…if your pilot light goes out, I will let you use mine,” the woman next to me whispered conspiratorially. “Heh, thanks,” I said, turning toward her. “I’m Corey.” She thrust out her hand. “I’m a home cook. This is my third year competing.” I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Corey. I’m Birdie. Second-year competing, huh?” I didn’t volunteer any details about my experience. She seemed nice, but this was a competition, after all. “Yeah, I competed last year and the year before that. It came down to me, a recently graduated culinary arts student, and that guy who opened the sushi burrito place in West Greenville. I guess you know who won.” “Well, then. I guess you’re going to be stiff competition for me,” I said with a smile. “Are you a home cook as well?” she asked, taking in my custom made chef coat

and pants. “I’m a line cook at a local mom ‘n pop,” I answered vaguely. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. “That’s nice,” she said with a nod and a benign smile. I’d seen that smile before. It was the silent equivalent of bless your heart. Corey thought I was out of my league. “Well, best of luck to you! And thanks, but I hope I don’t have to take you up on that offer to use your range.” “Oh, I don’t either, but the offer stands!” she said cheerily, then went back to her prep station. I laughed to myself, then looked around the room at my fellow contestants. All at once, I felt a familiar surge in me. Cocky confidence that I’d once worn so effortlessly before I let people convince me that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing in the kitchen. And that cockiness felt as comfortable as my custom made chef’s coat. A grin stretched across my face, and I didn’t bother to try and hide it. That fifty thousand dollars was as good as mine.

Chapter Four

Saxon

Noah, my sound guy and sometimes chauffeur, parked the van in the packed lot of the technical college. Paula hopped out immediately, already in work mode. “So we’re gonna get a bit of commentary from you outside. Brett, scout out a spot while I brief Saxon, please,” Paula ordered. I rolled my eyes and climbed out of the van. Paula was efficient as fuck, but her all-business mode was grating on me today. Paula smiled up at me. “You look good. Not hungover or high. Halfway human. You should visit your old friends more often.” I rolled my eyes, but she was right. Spending three days with Myles and Keisha did help me clear my head. “Whatever. Brief me on what’s happening.” “Okay, here’s a list of the contestants. Read over the names and get familiar with them.” I took the paper from her and scanned the list. None of the names seemed too difficult to pronounce — Oh, no... “They’re reorganizing the event to draw attention to you, but we’ve done stuff like this before, so that shouldn’t be too painful…what?” Air whistled over my windpipe, but no words came out. This name couldn’t be on the list. I had to be imagining things. “What?” she asked again, impatient. “No…” I finally managed to say, shaking my head. Was this happening? Was I really seeing Birdie Malone’s name on this list of contestants?

“What is wrong?” Paula asked again, pushing the question out between clenched teeth. “There’s, uh… Birdie’s on this list…I can’t…” “Who’s Birdie?” She snatched the paper from me and scanned the list. “You know her? Is she some girl you fucked?” “Oh, God.” I paced away from her and arrowed my hands into my hair, gripping handfuls and yanking at it as if that would wake me up somewhere else. Some alternate reality where I wasn’t about to be confronted with the biggest mistake of my life. “What’s the big deal? Turn on the charm like you have every other time we’ve come face to face with one of your…women.” “No, you don’t get it. This is different. I —” “I don’t give a fuck, Saxon,” Paula snapped. “I just spent the last seventy-two hours convincing our bosses that the situation down here could be salvaged. This is not something you can say no to, Saxon. Your job — our jobs — depend on it.” “Fuck!” Why did I keep finding myself in these situations over and over? Was this how the rest of my life was going to be? Was I destined to keep reliving every mistake I’d ever made, like some twisted version of The Night Before Christmas smash cut with Groundhog Day? I tipped my head back and laughed. “This is what I deserve. It’s what I fucking deserve.” If I didn’t want to face the result of my mistakes, I should have been more careful about making them. And I most certainly didn’t want the people who put their trust and livelihoods in my hands to suffer because of the choices I’ve made. But damn… Birdie Malone was more than just a mistake.

She was the source of every regret and the root of all the shame that kept me away from South Carolina for the last six years. And now I had to face her — face what I’d done to her. Everything in me wanted to run from this. I turned to look at Paula. “Don’t do this, Saxon,” she pleaded. I clenched my teeth, fished my sunglasses out of my jacket, and slipped them on. “Fine,” I agreed, feeling sick to my stomach. “It’ll be fine.” Paula glared at me. “I need it to be more than fine, Sax. I need you to be on your best fucking behavior. You can’t fuck this one up.” “I know. I hear you.” But if there was one thing he ed about being in the same room with Birdie Malone, good behavior wasn’t something either of them did very well. In fact, they had a special knack for bringing out the bad in each other. Brett called out to us. “This is a good spot over here,” he said, waving us over. “Okay, time to turn on that charm,” Paula said brightly. I gave myself a shake and followed Paula into the building. I could do this. I was one of five judges. The focus didn’t need to be on me the whole time. I would keep my distance from Birdie. Keep our interaction cordial. Birdie was too prideful to call me out in front of everyone, so she would probably do the same. We recorded the quick introduction we needed in the spot Brett had chosen, and then the event organizer met us at the door. “Hi! Hello! Saxon Turner! It’s such a pleasure to meet you! And thank you so much for filling in for Myles Lawson. I know your schedule is tight.” “Oh, it’s my pleasure, Miss…” The smile on my face felt plastic and patronizing, but it had the desired effect because she blushed and held out her hand.

“I’m so sorry. I’m Marissa Cahill. I’m a newscaster at Channel 7 News here in Greenville.” I took her hand in mine and gave it a firm, intentional squeeze. “It’s nice to meet you, Marissa. This is my crew.” I turned and introduced them, and Paula took over. “Welcome to Greenville Tech’s Culinary Arts Center! We’ve really enjoyed having the competitions here in the last few years. The students are invited to attend for class credits, and a few of them serve as runners and sous chefs for the contestants,” Marissa explained as we approached the crowd gathered just outside the doors. My stomach clenched as the first person turned, locked eyes with me, and recognized me immediately. She leaned over and whispered to her friend, and a ripple of awareness made its way through the crowd. Before I could even say something about it, Paula stepped between me and Marissa. “Hey, folks! Saxon would love to meet you and sign a few autographs, but we’re running late. If you stick around for a bit after the first round of the competition, he will be happy to meet with all of you. But for now, if you could just let us through.” I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked Paula as the crowd parted, clearing a path. Cellphones raised as I ed, and giggled hellos greeted me. I pasted on my saccharine sweet, good southern boy charm. Winked and smiled my way through the crowd until the doors swung closed behind us. The kitchen was set up for students, and all the contestants were facing a makeshift stage just to the left of the door. Marissa ushered us over there, and I stepped into the conversation circle with the rest of the judges. “Well, shit. They said a celebrity chef was filling in for Myles Lawson, but I didn’t expect Saxon Turner,” a burly man, dressed as if he should be behind a principle’s desk, stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “I’m Christopher Hunt, the CEO of Hunt Restaurant Group here in Greenville. We’re sponsoring this event.” I vaguely hearing the name, but I feigned recognition. “Oh! It’s great to meet you. I’ve heard good things. Sorry to keep y’all waiting. Traffic coming

in from Charleston was hellacious.” “No need to apologize. You were well worth the wait. I’m Gwen Stephens. I’m a local food critic.” Gwen introduced me to everyone else in the group, who all seemed to be professionals d with the food world. Only the last fellow introduced himself as an actual chef, and he was the winner from last year. The sound system screeched as Marissa Cahill stepped on stage with the mic in her hand. She cringed and glared at the sound guy. “Sorry about that, y’all,” she apologized as the system leveled out. “I’m Marissa Cahill from Channel 7 News, and I am delighted to be here today to host the seventh annual Taste of The Upstate Culinary Competition!” She paused to give the contestants and the spectators a chance to applaud. “We have some repeat contestants this year as well as a wealth of new faces! And I don’t know about y’all, but I came hungry and I’ve got my mouth ready for some culinary delights! But without further ado, let me introduce our judge’s .” Marissa gave each judge a colorful introduction. One by one, they walked around the riser and took a seat on the stage. One by one until he was the only one standing behind the riser. Fuck. “And last but not least,” Marissa paused for effect. “We know y’all were expecting Myles Lawson of Big Lawson’s BBQ. But he has a new baby and didn’t want to be away from home and his business for a week, and that is completely understandable. Have you seen that gorgeous, babe?” A murmur of agreement went up through the crowd. “Yeah, I know. A big ole man holding a baby. Gah…my ovaries! Anyway, I think you’ll be pleased when you see who’s here in his place. Welcome, author, chef, and travel documentarian, Saxon Turner!” Shouts of disbelief went up as I rounded the riser and greeted everyone. I smiled tightly, waved to the spectators, and tried my best not to scan the contestants for Birdie’s face, but I couldn’t help myself. And if I was honest, my body had gone on high alert the moment I stepped in the room, just knowing she was in the same space, breathing the same air.

I’d nearly made it to my seat before what felt like a laser beam focused on me and… there. A prep table at the far end of the room close to the swinging doors was Birdie. Her dark eyes were focused on me, wide and unblinking. That look was nothing but hostile. But as pissed off as she was, I couldn’t help but notice that she was still damn fine. She’d always been a petite thing. Fun-sized was what I’d called her, but what had been a curvy girlish figure six years ago had filled out into womanly curves, and I couldn’t help but wonder how she would feel in my hands now. How she would fill them. Before I could catch myself, I felt the corner of my mouth kick up into a smile. Birdie’s top lip curled back from her teeth in a snarl of disgust. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said, loud enough to draw Marissa’s attention. Oh, shit. The presenter’s eyes went wide, and she glanced between the two of us. “Oh, I assure you. We are not kidding. Saxon Turner has graciously agreed to fill in for the whole week. Isn’t it wonderful? I think it’s wonderful.” Birdie stepped back from her prep station and took a series of deep breaths. She looked a little green. Was she about to out? “I…excuse me.” She turned and ran out of the doors on the left side of the room. Shit. Maybe this wasn’t going to go as well as I thought. I watched the doors swing back and forth until they stopped. “Well, uh. Looks like one of our contestants might be having a case of the nerves,” Marissa Cahill said. “Um…I guess we’ll take a break and see if someone can go check on her to see if she’s all right?” she asked, looking around. I stood up and headed toward the door. Birdie ran out of here because of me. I needed to fix this. I’d almost made my way to the door when Paula stepped my path.

“Saxon…where do you think you’re going?” “I’m gonna go check on her—” “In what world do you think that this something you should do or that it’s something she even wants?” Paula hissed. She was a small dark-haired woman, but when she was pissed off, she was strong. She pushed at my chest until she had me backed into a discreet corner at the back of the kitchen. “You don’t understand—” “I more than understand, Saxon. You’ve hurt this girl — deeply by the looks of it. And your presence here is a problem for her in more than one way.” I frowned. “What do you mean, more than one way?” “Are you really this stupid?” she asked. “Apparently, I am. Explain it to me like I’m a child.” Paula stepped in close and lowered her voice. “This is a competition, Saxon. What do you think will happen if people find out that you have a past with this woman?” “Fuck,” I cursed as realization dawned. If anyone caught wind that Birdie and I were once involved, she might get disqualified from the contest — which she must have only entered because she needed the money. My fucking presence could rob her of a contest she was sure to win and disrupt her life yet again. I cursed again and slumped against the wall. “Yeah… you could really fuck things up for her.” “Again…” I murmured. “I need to drop out of this thing. Find a way for me to get out of this—” “Saxon, you already know that’s not possible. You were a last-minute replacement, but they have reworked all the promo for this to include you. You are the draw to this event, Sax. You can’t back out. Not to mention if you do fuck this up, you’re fired. And if you’re fired, I’m fired. We’re all fired. And I

know you have yourself a nest egg saved up and will probably disappear for a few months while you figure out what to do with your life then resurface at some restaurant in New York. The rest of us don’t have that luxury.” I squeezed my eyes closed. Paula was right. I had to tough this out for them. But if toughing it out meant that I could possibly ruin Birdie’s chances of winning? “I can’t do this to her, Paula. I can’t do this to her again.” “Do what again? What did you do to her that is so much worse than you did to me or any of the other women you’ve slept with.” I opened my eyes and looked at Paula. She was trying to make this . Like what we had for a few brief moments a few years ago was even close to what I shared with Birdie. But she wouldn’t know that because she didn’t know about Birdie. “Paula…what I did to her—” The doors Birdie had disappeared through swung inward as she reentered the room with the culinary arts student who went to fetch her close at her heels. She looked like she’d been crying. Chin in the air, shoulders square, she took her spot behind her prep station. She was going to continue. Relief washed through me. “What did you do to her, Sax?” Paula demanded. I looked down at Paula and debated whether or not this was something she needed to know. What would she gain from it except another reason to distrust me? And Birdie… she deserved to have a chance to showcase her skills without anything tainting it. “It’s unimportant,” I said with a shake of my head. “She’s back now. Nothing to worry about.” I pushed away from the wall and stalked past Birdie’s station to get back to the judge’s table. She drew in a soft, startled gasp as I ed. It took all my willpower to keep my hands at my sides instead of reaching for her, holding her, and reassuring her that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her (again).

Instead, I went straight to the seat I’d abandoned and sat down. “Everything all right, son?” the restauranteur asked. “Absolutely,” I said with, painting on a smile. “Well, I’m so glad you’re back with us, Chef Malone!” Marissa boomed into the mic. “Sorry about that,” Birdie said. “Just a case of the nerves. Won’t happen again.” “Good! Well, now that we have all of the chefs back at their stations, I’m gonna step aside and let Chef Ransom, head of the Culinary Arts Department here at Greenville Tech, come up here and explain the rules and parameters. Chef?” Dressed in a crisp, white chef coat, black pants, and a starched, erect toque blanche, Chef Ransom stepped forward and greeted the eager contestants. “There will be two challenges today,” he began once the introductions were done. “Both will be basic but necessary skills tests.” A folder in front of me held some information on the event, the judges, and a list of the challenges. I opened it and read through it. The first three challenges were super basic — things she learned in the first few weeks of Culinary Arts School. Birdie could handle them easily. A quick glance around the room confirmed that she was probably one of three classically trained chefs — though I was a little iffy on the third. He kept tugging at his chef’s coat like the fabric was itchy and uncomfortable. Nothing like the way Birdie wore hers. Her attention was focused on Chef Ransom, who explained the challenge, a fiveminute mise en place. So if I tilted my head just so, I could watch her somewhat discreetly. That chef coat had to be custom made. I’ve never seen anything like it, and the pinky-orange tones complimented her skin; golden brown, but rosy in the places I found myself wanting to kiss. Her brow. The rise of her cheeks. The very tip of her nose. Her lips. She was gnawing at the corner of her bottom lip — a tick that surfaced when she

was nervous or in deep concentration. It was probably some of both right now. She also gnawed at that corner of her bottom lip when she was trying to hold back. An echo of the pleasure I’d felt with her arrowed through me, so sharp and intense that I groaned aloud and had to cover the sound by clearing my throat. I hadn’t let myself think of the time we spent together. Those heated moments I spent buried in her, ready to burn it all down just to be with her. “Julianne, brunoise, and chiffonade. This will be a test of your knife skills,” Chef Ransom was explaining. “Chop as many vegetables as you can as you will need to use them in the next challenge.” The students handed out bags of peppers, Vidalia onions, and various leafy herbs. Birdie didn’t just accept the peppers they gave her, though. She checked each and smelled them, knowing that there was a myth out there about male and female peppers. The males were supposedly bitter, but the females contained more seeds and were sweeter when eaten raw. She was the last contestant to get her veg, but she took the longest. None of them had bothered to inspect their peppers, and I could see on their faces that they were worried if they should have and why. I dipped my head and smiled. What she just did was an excellent Jedi mind trick. That one move had made all of them feel unsure of themselves and their skill. “Are you quite ready, Chef Malone?” Ransom asked with a raise of his brows. “Yes, chef,” she answered in a steady voice. “All right then.” He turned toward the middle of the room. “You’ll have five minutes. And... begin.” Birdie selected her Santoku knife from her roll. It was one of the first gifts I ever gave her. I felt a stab of pride at knowing that she still had and used it. She grabbed a Vidalia onion and went to work. Halved it. Peeled it.

She julienned one half and gave the other a quick chiffonade. By the time she reached for the next Vidalia, she had sunk into that trance-like state that often came over her in the kitchen. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Chopping, butchering, or filleting, anything detailed and repetitious put Birdie in the zone. Having her on prep meant that everything would be set up nicely when it was time to really cook. She was a beast. I would have loved to have her in a kitchen with me. “Wow… that little one on the end is fast!” the food critic said. Birdie smashed, chopped, and chiffonaded through the bad of veg: yellow, red, and green paper, shallots, and a few bulbs of garlic. “Fifteen seconds!” Chef Ransom announced. “Don’t forget that you’re demonstrating three different techniques— julienne, brunoise, and chiffonade.” A panicked look came over her face, and when I looked over the little colorful piles of veg on her cutting board, and I saw the reason why. She’d forgotten to brunoise. “Ten seconds!” Chef Ransom called out as she grabbed a shallot and green pepper. So fast that it seemed impossible that she would finish without losing at least the tip of a finger, Birdie brunoise that pepper and one shallot into tiny cubes. “And five, four, three, two, knives up!” Birdie raised both hands. Tiny beads of sweat popped up on her brow and upper lip. She licked the latter as she zeroed in on the prep stations near her. When she set down her knife, I clocked the moment that she realized that she’d probably won this round. A tiny smile quirked the corners of her mouth before she looked up. I didn’t know if she meant to look at me, but our eyes locked, and I couldn’t help but smile at her. With a small nod and raise of my brow, I attempted to convey that she’d done an excellent job. Birdie sneered in response and mouthed the words, “Fuck you.” Oh, little Bird. Oh, how I wish I could.

Chapter Five

Birdie

There are lots of things I imagined myself saying when I finally came face to face with Saxon Turner again. You broke my heart in ways that I never knew it could break, and I’ll never forgive you for that. How are you alive? I stole your hair to put a root on you. You should be dead. Did you ever love me? If you did, how could you just walk away? I wanted to say some or all of those things, but all that came out was sputtering words full of anger tinged disbelief. Anger that grew to a white-hot ember. Immense. Consuming. God, I haven’t been this angry since… Since the day he left me. I can’t think about this now. Not now. Chef Ransom moved from table to table, examining everyone’s knife cuts while I tried to get myself together. I may have found the intestinal fortitude to stomach being in the same room with Saxon, but after he brushed by me on the way back to the judge’s table… Yeah, I would need to tap into strength I wasn’t even sure I ever had to make my way through this. The smell of him…like woodsmoke and baked apples. Less of a smell and more like two things that made me feel at home. And what the fuck did it say about me that I felt at home with a man who literally doesn’t have one? A man that

made his money traveling the world in some hedonistic version of Eat, Pray, Love. A man with no roots was a man who couldn’t be trusted. Especially not with my daughter. Our daughter. Chef Ransom stepped up to my prep station with his mouth set in a grim line. “Chef Malone,” he murmured. “Chef,” I answered by way of greeting. “These cuts are excellent, but that’s to be expected of an experienced line cook. I suspect you get a lot of practice.” It wasn’t exactly a dig, but I felt the bite in his comment anyway. I didn’t know what he knew about me, but that comment made me feel like it wasn’t anything good. At the very least, he heard about my reputation for being difficult to work with. That I was a chef that didn’t play well with others in the kitchen, which honestly, was enough. “Good work,” Chef Ransom said, but his tone was almost a bit begrudging. Like he didn’t want to give me even that tiniest bit of praise. “Thank you, Chef.” “And I’m going to assume whatever… issue that made you run from this room is now under control?” He looked at me, piercing dark eyes meeting mine in an attempt to convey some unspoken intent. “Yes, chef.” I dropped my gaze to the colorful little piles on my station. “It was just nerves. I’ll be fine.” “Good,” he said, then rapped on the stainless steel table before moving on to the next contestant. I stared at my work, fixated on the uniformity. This wasn’t a culinary arts school or a working kitchen, but sharp skills were important. “Students! Please help our competitors store their mise en place so that we can prepare for the next challenge! Contestants, you can take a fifteen-minute break,

but you must remain in the building or in the designated smoking area in the side lot.” I stepped back from my station and looked around the room. My gaze locked on Saxon’s almost instantly. He tipped his head toward the door and raised his eyebrows, an obvious request to step outside and talk. I shook my head and mouthed the words fuck you again because, really, fuck him. No, I wouldn’t go out in the hall with him to talk. The time for talking ed six years ago when I found myself in the Charleston Airport, with a duffle bag at my feet, waiting on a man who had already boarded a plane to the other side of the world. In my peripheral vision, I saw Saxon stand up. Weak ass fool that I am, I looked up at him again as he made his way across the room because I couldn’t help looking at him. His long legs were molded by dark denim jeans, and the chambray shirt he wore brought out the blue in his eyes. I loved the sight of him even though I hated him with every fiber of my being. He didn’t say a word, but his bright blue eyes pleaded with me. God… it was still hard to tell those blue eyes no. Without saying another word, he pushed through the swinging doors into the hallway. I turned away from him and smiled at Corey, who looked a tad more nervous than she had when we started the challenge. “I hope my little panic attack didn’t throw you off your game,” I said, hoping to start a conversation that would distract me for the next fifteen minutes so I didn’t go out to meet Saxon in whatever dark corner he’d found to wait for me. “Oh, no,” Corey said with a tight smile. “Nerves get the best of all of us. I mean, I about shit myself when Saxon Turner came through that door. We’ve never had that kind of celebrity chef judge before. It’s usually just local guys.” “Yeah, that fucked me up pretty good,” I said honestly. Corey shrugged. “You have nothing to worry about, though. If you cook as well as you handle a knife, this competition is yours.” I stifled a laugh. She wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t see everyone’s work, but I could tell by the sounds in the room while everyone was focused on the challenge that no one else had the same training.

“It’s just a skill. Practice and application are what makes you good at that sort of thing. It’s not the same as having a great palette or nose.” “Sure,” Corey said with a derisive snort. I bit my lip. When I came in here, Corey was anxious to be an ally. I know that was because she felt like this was her year to win the competition, but it pained me to see her faltering so early over a basic ass knife skill challenge. “Listen, I promise you it’s not some superpower. I can show you a few tricks that might help you prep for these next few challenges easier if you want.” Corey turned to me, arms folded, eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that?” I shrugged. “You said you’d help me if my pilot light went out. You didn’t have to do that. I want to return to the favor.” She stared at me for a moment longer, then finally nodded her head. “Okay, what can you show me?” For the next ten minutes, I gave Corey some fairly simple tips to help her get a little more proficient with her knife skills. Focusing on her made it easier to ignore that deep longing to go out in the hallway and find Saxon. But my whole body ed the moment when he reentered the room. God, this feeling was so familiar. I didn’t want to feel it, but something about this ache felt good to me. To have him so close and know that I couldn’t have him was exactly the feeling I had when he was my instructor. Head bowed over the prep station, I attempted to set it back to rights. When I was done, I cast a surreptitious glance at the judge’s table. Saxon was talking to the food columnist. His posture was relaxed, and he wore that genial, good ole boy smile that convinced everyone but me that he was a charming southern boy who was tragically misunderstood. Maybe it was actually accurate because the Saxon I knew wasn’t this arrogant, reckless fucker. The Saxon I knew would have walked across the room on his knees just to get a kiss from me. “All right, contestants! I think we’re ready. Chef Ransom here will announce the winners, and then we’ll move on to the next challenge,” Marissa Cahill announced.

Quite a few shoulders drooped at that announcement. It seemed cruel to get eliminated on something so basic as knife skills, but I understood the logic behind it. If they couldn’t master this most basic of skills, there was no way they would survive the later rounds. Still, I felt a sympathetic pang as they called them up as a group and dismissed them. With heads bowed, they left the room — eight in all. I looked around at the remaining competition and still felt confident that the win was in the bag. “For this next challenge, we will be testing home chefs on another fairly simple culinary skill: eggs.” I rolled my eyes. Eggs weren’t simple. Yes, eggs were common, but there were very easy to fuck up. Preparing an egg just so is technique heavy and quickly exposes even the best chef’s faults. “Chef Ransom, if you would step forward to explain this challenge, I would be grateful. I can barely boil an egg without incident.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes again. It was so trite to brag about being a bad cook when it was so easy to learn a few necessary skills. I wish women wouldn’t do that. “There are several ways to cook an egg,” Chef Ransom began. “For this challenge, we are going to focus on preparing eggs two ways — scrambled and omelet. And you will have your choice of three styles — American, French, or British. You’ll have forty-five minutes to complete this task. Students, please provide our contestants with their basket of eggs.” “That’s a new twist to the challenge,” Corey murmured as the culinary arts students delivered a basket of multicolored eggs to each contestant. “How so?” I asked. “They didn’t use to specify the style. It was just scrambled eggs and omelets. Didn’t need to be made in a certain style at all.” I shrugged. “Guess they wanted to make it more competitive.” “I guess,” Corey murmured as the student set a basket of eggs on each of our stations.

The wariness in her voice wasn’t unwarranted. There was a time when I struggled with making the perfect egg. Since this was a competition, I knew it would probably be best to stick with a style that I liked and made often — French. French scrambled eggs were creamy and melted in the mouth. And the frittata left lots of room to add some Lowcountry flavor. As the students finished handing out baskets of eggs, I started formulating a quick but flavorful breakfast Low Country frittata. By the time Chef Ransom gave us permission to start, I knew exactly what I would grab from the fridge. Shrimp. Low country seasoning and Old Bay because, let’s face it, everything is better with Old Bay. Olive oil. Four potatoes. Bacon. The trinity of onions and peppers was already prepped and ready to go, so that gave me plenty of time to work on the frittata. I’d save the scrambled eggs for the last ten minutes. After taking a moment to set the oven at four hundred degrees, I looked at a stack of plates, bowls, and cups to assess my presentation options. The obvious choice for a frittata would be a cast iron pan, Le Creuset if they had it, but what if… I counted the judges and then counted the ramekins stacked neatly under my work station. Five — six when I added in Marissa Cahill, who needed to be buttered up a little bit after I interrupted the competition. Settled then. I’d give them their own cute little single-serving frittatas. Satisfied with that decision, I grabbed two nonstick skillets, placed them on the range top, then turned to my prep station to work on the ingredients. The shrimp were shell and tail on, so I peeled and cleaned them, then tossed them into the skillet for a quick sauté with some garlic and butter. Bacon went into the other skillet on medium heat. While the bacon rendered, I peeled and chopped the potatoes — making sure they were small enough to cook quickly. That was the most important part, really. Making sure the veggies weren’t too soft or too hard. That the shrimp weren’t mushy or — god forbid — chewy. I was deep in that headspace when I spun back to my prep station and found myself face-to-face with Marissa Cahill and the Channel 7 cameraman.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to startle you, Chef!” Maris chortled. “You were in the zone, huh?” “Uh…yeah,” I said and attempted to smile. It felt more like a snarl. “You are really serious about your craft. We love it! What style of eggs are you making for us?” “French.” “Okay! And why’d you choose that?” “Well, it’s my favorite way to eat eggs. And most chefs know that if you can master French scrambled eggs, you can definitely make the other styles.” “Mm-hmm, so tell us a little bit about your recipe. Is this something you were taught, or did you come up with it on your own?” “Kind of a combination of the two. The scrambled eggs just take time and technique to affect. But someone made the frittata for me once, and I’ve been trying to recreate it ever since.” I reached for the eggs. “A frittata? And how do you make that?” “It’s fairly simple,” I answered while I counted and cracked the eggs into a ceramic bowl and explained the steps to preparing the frittata. “Tell me about the person who made this so good that you spent years trying to perfect it?” “A lover,” I said, then was immediately horrified that I’d blurted that out without thinking. “Well, now. This story is getting interesting. Say more.” My neck and ears went hot with embarrassment. I’d told this story more times than I could count. It was one of my favorites to tell during the singles cooking classes I taught from time to time — how a frittata could be the cherry on top of good morning sex. But this was the first time I told the story when the star of the tale was in the room to hear it.

“Well..” I began, then grabbed the whisk. “I met this guy—total bad boy. Like… everything that your mama told you to run away from. Except when I got to know him, I discovered that he was just a sweet boy protecting all of his hurts with bravado.” “Those are the best ones, aren’t they?” Marissa said, leaning in now. “Not all of them, but this one? Definitely.” I didn’t have to look at the judge's table to know that Saxon’s blue eyes were focused on me. I could feel it. I could feel him wanting me, and knowing that want ran deep felt good. I wanted him to want me so bad it hurt the same way I did. “Anyway,” I continued. “After spending an amazing night and morning together, he made me this frittata. I took one bite and fell in love.” Saxon clears his throat — yes, I knew the sound of his non-verbal cues from everyone else’s — and I couldn’t help but look at him then. The heated look in his eyes, eyebrows knitted, bottom lip pinched between his teeth, face flushed pink under his freckles. All of those little signs, another silent plea. A plea I wanted to say yes to. “Wow…that is some frittata! Are the two of you still together?” Hurt doused the flicker of heat that had blossomed between us. “No, unfortunately, he really did turn out to be the absolute worst. But I’ve been using this omelet to make men fall in love ever since.” It wasn’t a complete lie. I’d never made it for anyone else but family, but I did teach people how to make it. I could only hope the recipe worked as well for them as it had for Saxon. Marissa moved on to interview the next contestant, but I stayed stuck in the moment. Not the present one. I was stuck in a moment from six years ago. A dark, dingy apartment on King Street with the windows open wide in an attempt to catch a cross breeze to dissipate the thick heat and humidity of the day. The sound of drunken revelry in my ears, his hands on my sweat-slick body, muscles taut and reaching as I rode him until I came and then him pinning me to the mattress until I came again —

“Five, four, three, two, hands up! Chefs, back away from your stations!” Chef Ransom called out. I raised my hands reflexively. “Oh, shit,” I whispered. Anxiety swept through me as I looked down at my station. Six perfectly prepared frittatas sat on my station next to a shallow bowl of creamy scrambled eggs. And I didn’t making any of it. “Shit,” I cursed under my breath. This had happened to me before, but it had been a long while since I sunk into a trance that deep while preparing food. Did I taste any of this? Were the frittatas dense or fluffy? Did I put cheese in the scrambled eggs? What kind? Well, I guess I would never know because both were now on a cart headed toward the judge’s table. “Contestants can take a twenty-minute break while the judges consider your dishes,” Marissa said. Still dazed, I made my way out into the hallway and leaned against the nearest wall. Corey came to stand next to me. “I’m pretty sure my omelets were overcooked,” she groaned. “Well… at least you can be sure of something. I don’t tasting anything after beating those eggs.” I slid down the wall. “Are you serious?” Corey asked. “As cancer.” I covered my face with my hands. “I’m pretty sure I fucked this up.” And it was my own damn fault. I let myself slip into a sexy daydream about Saxon instead of focusing on the task in front of me. How could I have forgotten that he was the one that made me that fucking frittata? Yeah, it was a recipe I knew well, but I should have known it would be too distracting to make with him in the room. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Corey said dismissively. “And if it’s any solace, I caught Saxon Turner looking at you more than once while

you were cooking. He seemed pretty interested in your frittata story.” Shit. Were we that obvious? “Was that true?” she asked. “The story, I mean.” “Unfortunately, yes.” “Well, I’m fairly certain Chef Saxon wouldn’t mind starring in some variation of that. Hell, neither would I, to be honest.” I sighed and stood. “Chef Saxon is a notorious bad boy. I’ve had my fill of those types,” I muttered. But as I made my way to the bathroom, I couldn’t be certain if that was true.

Chapter Six

Saxon

“How are we supposed to tell the difference between these again?” Marissa asked. “Because I’m not gonna lie, all of them are starting to taste the same now.” “They’re labeled, Marissa,” Chef Ransom said for the second time with a hint of impatience. And to be honest, I was getting a bit irritated too. She didn’t listen very well for someone who called herself a journalist, and she seemed bored with the process. “Instead of focusing on the different types, why don’t we decide which egg dishes taste the best and then decide from there if they are executed well,” I suggested. “Because if we deliberate much longer, all of these dishes are going to be cold and hard to judge.” “Good idea,” the food critic named Gwen agreed. Chef Ransom nodded, and silently every one began to taste each egg dish in turn. I eliminated three off to the bat for poor technique. A fourth was overcooked but seasoned well. Two more were near perfect but either used too much salt or not enough. I put this in the maybe column. Then there was Birdie’s. I started with her scrambled eggs. Creamy. Just the right amount of… was that truffle salt? Black pepper. Parmesan. It reminded me of many nights in my King Street apartment with her. Eating out of the pan because “Why dirty up a dish when they’re so good like this?” Tasting them on her tongue when I kissed her and fingered her sweet pussy against the kitchen counter because “Why get dressed? We’re just going to get undressed again.”

I grunted softly and pushed them toward the collection of bowls we’d decided were winners. Next was her Lowcountry-inspired frittata. It was impossible to play it cool when she told the story behind the recipe, but she was wrong about who created it. The recipe wasn’t mine. We came up with the flavor profile together, but it was mostly hers. And she may have fallen in love that morning, but I was the one who actually said the words. “Okay,” Marissa said after we’d all tasted each dish and decided which were executed well. “Looks like we all pretty much agree on which ones are the winners. Let’s get these chefs back in here.” “Do you think we could get a quick break before we do that?” I asked. “Agreed,” Chris Hunt said as he stood up. The rest of us followed suit without waiting for Marissa to say if it was okay. We’d been sitting for a few hours and deserved a chance to stretch our legs. And … I was hoping I would catch Birdie alone even though I knew she didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe I could get her to listen. Most of the contestants were right outside of the kitchen doors. They crowded me when I stepped out, and the requirement to be polite grated on me. It took me a moment to extricate myself, but they finally let me go when I asked the one at the prep station next to Birdie’s how to get to the restrooms. I followed her directions until the group was out of sight, then checked a few hallways — thinking Birdie might have slipped off to have some time alone. Sometimes she needed to decompress after giving her work such intense focus. Watching her in the kitchen was like having a front-row seat to a contemporary ballet. She was so fucking graceful. Every move was efficient and purposeful. That wasn’t something she learned in cooking school. It was just a natural gift that worked for her in the kitchen. It was damn beautiful to witness, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed just being able to watch her fucking work… I wanted to tell her. I wanted to apologize and do whatever I needed to do to make things right.

But she wasn’t down any of those abandoned hallways or in the bathroom I finally found. Resigned that I wasn’t going to get a chance to talk to her, I went inside to handle my business. But then I left the bathroom… And found her waiting in the empty hallway. “Hey, I was looking for you—” “Why?” she asked. “I wanted to… I just wanted to talk to you—” “About what? Why are you even here, Saxon?” Guilt swamped me as I realized that I couldn’t tell her why I was in Greenville. She wouldn’t want to hear that my wayward dick got me in trouble and I was here judging this competition to give the Governor and my bosses a chance to cool off. But I couldn’t deny the fact that the universe must’ve brought me here because I was meant to see her. “Maybe fate decided that it was just time for us to see each other again,” I suggested with a shrug and a sheepish grin. She scoffed. “Is this the same fate that made you abandon me?” Fuck. I walked right into that one. “I didn’t know what else to do. I fucked us up so badly. I just thought that you’d be better off if I wasn’t around.” “I waited for you…” Her chin quivered, and her eyes filled with angry tears. “I stood outside of that fucking airport and waited. I waited and waited. I knew you weren’t coming, but I waited anyway.” “Fuck, Birdie… don’t cry.” I closed the distance between us and cupped her wet cheeks in both my hands. “I thought I was done feeling this way. I thought I was done with it, and then you show up here and…” Her voice cracked, and a sob spilled out of her that damn near ended me. “God, you’re killing me, baby bird. I’m so sorry.” I tried to wipe her tears as they fell, but it was pointless. Apologies spilled from my lips, but they only seemed to make her cry harder. I kissed her wet cheeks, her closed eyelids. Her

salty, quivering lips. She yielded to my kisses, but only by the tiniest of degrees. “Why are you here? Why now? Why?” she sobbed, her lips puckering softly to return my apologetic ones. “It wasn’t enough for you to ruin my life once? You had to come back and fuck it up a little bit more, huh? Finish me off?” “I didn’t come here for that. I swear. Birdie, I swear I didn’t know that you were even here —” I murmured against her lips between kisses and then tried to pull her into my arms, but she suddenly went stiff. “I’m so fucking weak,” she moaned, then pushed against my chest, knocked my hands away when I tried to pull her in close again. “I know there’s nothing I can say that will fix what I’ve done, but I want to try. Lemme try —” I reached for again only to have her shove me hard with both hands. “No! Just stay the fuck away from me, Saxon. I need this, okay? I have too much to lose. So just stay the fuck away.” She pushed past me and went into the bathroom, leaving me in the hallway with empty upturned hands. Needing — aching for her to fill them. I stared down at my palms. “I have to fix this. How do I fix this?” A soft familiar sound of derision drew my attention, and I looked up to see Paula standing at the end of the hall. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re just a fucking chaos machine,” she accused. “Paula, I—” “They’re calling everyone back. Let’s see if we can finish this day without getting fired or getting one of the contestants disqualified.” “She just—” “Go, Saxon. I’ll take care of the girl.” “Okay, but be gentle with her, Paula.” Paula’s face twisted into a look that I’d never seen before. “I’m not you, Sax. I

think I can get her out of the bathroom without tearing her heart out.” Then she pushed by me and went into the bathroom. I stood there for a moment more then made my way back to the kitchen, Birdie’s angry words dogging my heels. It was clear that she wanted me to stay away from her — and had valid reasons. But I couldn’t deny that even while she was begging me to stay away, all I wanted to do was get closer. To hold her. To kiss away all of those tears. Fuck. Maybe I am a chaos machine. All the contestants were called back into the kitchen. Chef Ransom lined all of them up in front of the judge’s table, bringing their eager, desperate faces out from behind their prep stations into clear view. They all looked nervous and excited and terrified. All except Birdie, who stared at her glossy black work clogs like they were the most interesting thing in the room. That was my fault. I did that to her. God, why did I keep making everyone around me so fucking miserable? “So we’ve decided on our winners. When I call your names, step forward, please,” Marissa drawled sweetly. “Mark Hart.” A young man who looked to be in his mid to late twenties who was just as redhaired and freckled as me stepped forward with a big grin on his face. “Thank you, Mark. Jason George?” She went down the list of nine contestants that would move on to the next round. Birdie sucked in a big breath, stepped forward, and whispered a quiet thank you when her name was called. I realized then that she thought she’d fucked up her dish somehow, and I couldn’t imagine why she would think that. Except maybe… I’d watched her as much as I could discreetly manage when she was cooking. She’d seemed to drop into what I’d playfully called her “fugue states,” where she was so focused that she wasn’t aware of what was going on around her. It wasn’t usually a problem. That sort of hyper-focus worked well under certain circumstances. I’d asked her about it once, and she said she couldn’t explain it,

but I’d bet dollars to donuts that she’d dropped down into a memory of me — a memory of us together. That was why she was so angry. She was sure that thinking about me had distracted her, but I knew it had done the opposite. I hated that my presence had driven her to distraction and made her doubt her skill — especially such a simple one. “Unfortunately, the chefs whose names we didn’t call won’t be moving on to the next round,” Marissa said, in a poor imitation Pa Lakshmi. “Please, go gather your things and if the winners would come in close to the luges table so we can give you the details for tomorrow’s challenge.” The group huddled in close, and Chef Ransom stepped into the center of them. “We’ll meet at the Lowes Grocery store at eight tomorrow morning. This challenge will be about selecting the ingredients you will need for your dish, which will be Lowcountry inspired. The catch is that you will only get fifteen dollars to make that happen.” “Uh…which Lowes?” Birdie asked. “The one on Woodruff Road, and if you’re at all familiar with the traffic, you want to get out there early to make sure you’re on time,” Marissa informed. They linger a moment longer, unsure if they were free to go. “You’re dismissed,” Chef Ransom said finally. I stood, and so did the rest of the table. My eyes were on Birdie’s back as she made her way back to her prep station. “Chef Turner!” Chris Hunt boomed. “Can entice you to stop by my main street establishment for dinner and drinks tonight?” Biting back an irritated retort, I turned toward the grinning middle-aged man. “Depends. What kind of dinner are we talking about?” This dinner invitation was only extended because Chris hoped that I’d bring my camera crew and maybe his restaurant would make it onto the show. I couldn’t blame him. This was the business. I still hated it. “A good steak dinner and good bourbon. I have it on good authority that you’re a

fan of both.” “I am. Especially good bourbon.” And I would like to drown in it if it will dull all the sharp edges of this day. “Uh… where’s Paula? She has my schedule.” Paula popped up next to me like she’d been sidling close the whole time — which was probably true. “We have to check in to our rental, but we’d be happy to you for dinner. Why don’t you give me your information?” While Paula dealt with Chris Hunt, I searched the room for Birdie. She was busy tying up her knife roll. I’d only made the slightest move in her direction before Paula’s hand clamped around my wrist. “How does seven sound, Sax?” “Uh… good! Seven sounds good.” Over Chris Hunt’s shoulder, I watched Birdie leave through the exit door. “And Chris?” I said, dropping a hand onto the older man’s shoulder. “Make sure there’s lots of bourbon.”

Chapter Seven

Birdie

I took the long way home from campus. There was absolutely no way I could go straight home with this mood on me. So much had happened this morning. My head was still swimming like I was having a bout of vertigo. Saxon Turner was in fucking Greenville. He’s here in my hometown, judging a competition that I needed to win. And I let him kiss me. I let him kiss me, and I almost fucked up on the first day of the competition because I was so distracted by his presence in the room. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t avoid him. The fact that I couldn’t hold it together during the first day of competition without breaking down in the bathroom proved it. And then to have his assistant Paula come in and comfort me… gah. It was fucking humiliating. Now that he has this playboy reputation, I couldn’t help but wonder if she consoled me out of genuine concern or habit. But that wasn’t even the worst bit of it, to be honest. The worst bit was that I couldn’t keep any of this a secret anymore. When I was kicked out of culinary arts school, it was easier to remove him from the narrative. If I didn’t acknowledge that I was kicked out for sleeping with him, I could also avoid the truth that he had left me and never looked back. When I found out I was pregnant with Amara after he’d left to film Á La Minute, I had to keep him out of the narrative to maintain some sense of normalcy for Amara and me. But now he was here, and all thoughts of maintaining anything close to normalcy were probably pointless now. As my mama often said, “the truth will out.” So it would be in my best interest to reveal this to everyone close to me. Oh, yeah. And Saxon too. I had to tell him about his daughter.

And how was I supposed to do that? Hey, uh, by the way, I had your baby six years ago. Her name’s Amara. Would you like to meet her? I mean… well, it probably would go something like that when I got the balls up to do it. Which apparently had to happen soon… Fuck. Why is all of this happening now? Unable to avoid heading home, I pointed my car toward Soni’s house on Earle Street. My sister had graciously offered to take over mommy duties while I was competing this week, so when I pulled into the driveway, I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of her car in the garage. Soni started an online business just before Halloween last year, and a little over four months later, Good Medicine was moving so much product that she was looking for a location to open up a shop. She’d completely reinvented herself, and that was an inspiration to me. I entered through the kitchen door since the garage was open and happened upon Atlas, Soni’s hot, super sweet boyfriend, monster walking around the kitchen with Amara on his shoulders. High-pitched squeals and giggles bounced off the walls as they chased Soni around the room. “No! Princess Amara, please have mercy! Call your ogre off me!” she cried. “Never!” Amara bellowed. “Not until you give us cookies!” “But you’ve already had snacks! You’ll ruin your royal dinner!” Soni pleaded. “I don’t want no stinkin’ dinner!” Amara sneered. “Yeah! We don’t…wait? Why don’t we want dinner, Princess Amara? I like dinner,” Atlas said, with an exaggerated pout. Amara let out an exasperated sigh and whacked Atlas on the head with her paper towel roll scepter. “You’re supposed to agree with me, dummy!” “Hey!” I interrupted. “That’s not nice language, Amara Rose.” “Mama!” she gasped, then slid off of Atlas’s shoulders with the kind of reckless abandon that made my belly pitch.

“Birdie, you’re home! I expected you much later,” Soni squeaked excitedly as Amara leaped into my arms. “How’d it go?” Atlas asked, and Soni whacked him. “What? Don’t you wanna know?” “It went great,” I said before she could scold him any further. “I won today’s challenges easily, and I’m moving on to the next round.” “Great!” Soni said, pulling me into a hug. “That’s so great, Birdie. Don’t tell us anything else. Aggie’s coming over, and I’ll call Estelle. I saw on the TV that there was going to be a big news segment on it. They said a Food Network star filled in for one of the judges. Is that true?” “Yeah…actually—” “Don’t tell me! I don’t want you to have to tell the story more than once. I’ll go call Stelle and Aggie so they can get over here.” Sonja looked around the kitchen. “My phone’s in the office. I’ll be right back.” Atlas watched Soni bounce out of the room with all the interest of a man in love, then turned to me. “She’s been a nervous wreck all day. Chanting affirmations and burning sage until the smoke alarm went off.” I shook my head and chuckled softly. “I’m glad she did that,” I murmured, thinking about how much I wanted to quit when Saxon came in the room. “I needed it more than she could have possibly known.” Atlas took one look at me and a frown settled on his heavy brows. “Are you okay, lil’ sis?” “Yeah,” I said, swiping at the stupid tears that appeared without warning. “It was just a long, stressful day, you know? All of that adrenaline…” “Here.” Atlas took Amara from my arms. “Why don’t you go up and take a shower? Soni and me’ll get dinner started. I’ll even make you a drink. Just go up and relax.” Gah. This dude really was a nice fucking guy. My sister was so lucky to have him. I was jealous of that, and feeling that petty and small made me feel worse.

“Thanks, Atlas.” As I climbed the stairs to my second floor bedroom, a bone-weary exhaustion settled on me. I felt every hour I’d spent on my feet today. Of course, I’d worked longer shifts, but the emotional toll of being in the same room with Saxon paired with the physical exertion took something extra out of me. Opting to take a bath instead of a shower, I filled the tub in my private bathroom with scalding hot water and Epsom salt. When the air was so thick with steam that it filled the room, I let my hair down and sank into the tub. I clenched my teeth and breathed deeply until my muscles loosened, and my skin only ed it as a mild tingle. Amara’s excited squeals rang through the house along with Atlas’s roars. The tears swamped me again. I would have to tell my daughter about her father, and the thought was terrifying to me. Would Saxon want to lay some sort of claim on her? And if he did, what would I do? I didn’t have the kind of money I would need to fight a custody battle with him. I mean, he was a known drunkard and at least a casual drug , but he was still rich, and I was just the stupid girl who fell for a known fuck boy. But if that’s who he was, and what we were, why the fuck couldn’t I get over him? A soft knock sounded at the door, startling me. “Yeah?” I called out, wiping my tears. “It’s Soni—” “And Aggie and Estelle,” my other sister added. “Atlas said you were feeling a little overwhelmed. I’ve got some hooch and that calming ritual bath that you like from the shop. Can we come in?” Soni asked. I chuckled, pushed myself up in the tub, and rearranged the bubbles so that they covered me strategically. “Yes… please come in.” The three of them all but burst into the bathroom. Agostina pushed the open jar of hooch into my hand. Soni emptied a wax paper bag fat with salts, herbs, and dried flowers into the tub, and Estelle simply grabbed a seat on the lid of the

toilet. “So tell us. Who is the celebrity chef?” “Stelle!” Sonja scolded. “You could at least ask how everything went before you get all nosey.” “She’s gonna tell us all of that anyway. I want to get the need to know information out of the way first.” “Bird should tell the story in whatever order she wants,” Agostina said as she sat down on the edge of the tub. She looked me in the eye, and a tiny crinkle formed between her brows. I felt my skin prickle with wariness. Aggie wasn’t psychic or anything, but she had a way of knowing things. Both my sisters did. They inherited that witchy Malone thing from our mama. Soni was more intuitive, while Aggie was deeply empathic. I guess it skipped me, and for that reason, it always made me feel uncomfortable to know that I couldn’t really hide anything from the women in my family. “Well?” Estelle asked impatiently. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if I liked Estelle. She could be a bit rude and pushy. Instead of answering her, I brought the jar of hooch to my lips, took a deep sniff, and then a big swallow. Nutmeg, vanilla, allspice, and honey. And something else… “This isn’t mama’s hooch,” I said, after taking another sip. Soni frowned. “How did you know?” “There’s orange zest in here. Mama doesn’t use orange zest.” Soni smiled. “You’re right. I made it. The orange zest gives it a little something extra. I was gonna share it with y’all during the full moon, but I figured now was as good a time as any—” “Who cares about the damn orange zest in the hooch?” Estelle interrupted. “Who is it? It’s somebody we know, isn’t it?” “Yup,” I said with a nod.

“Oh, my god. I knew it!” Estelle said, squirming excitedly. “Is it that one guy who got married in Charleston a few years ago? What was his name?” Soni asked. I shook my head, no. “It’s not him.” “Well, we know it can’t be Emeril. The city doesn’t have that kind of pull. Oh…” Estelle frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s the queen of butter and racial slurs.” “Nope,” I said, shaking my head again. “It’s not her either.” “Well, who then? Quit stalling and—” “Estelle,” Aggie said, warning in her tone. “Let Birdie talk, damn.” I looked down at the water I sat in. Purple and pink flowers floated on the surface. I swirled them with the tip of my finger. “The celebrity chef is Saxon Turner,” I said softly. “Oh, my god,” Agostina gasped. I looked up. Looked her, and only her in the eye. “Amara’s father.” “Holy fucking shit,” Estelle blurted, and then even she was stunned into silence. The silence in the room grew, swelled until it felt like it might make my ears pop. I took another swallow of the hooch, a big one. I needed it to work on me. I needed it to make this moment easier to bear. “How did you… when did you…” Soni tried to ask, her voice hesitant. “He was one of my instructors at Culinary Arts school.” “And that’s why you dropped out,” Agostina said, putting the pieces together. “No… I told you guys I dropped out. It was easier to make you think I’d just quit because I couldn’t hack it than it was to it that I got kicked out of school because I was fucking my instructor. That I fell in love with him. That he left me after we’d been outed, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Birdie…” Soni said softly. Her voice was like a kiss on the forehead. “What do you mean he left you?” Estelle asked. Her tone had softened to something that sounded like concern. “The Dean of Students called us both into his office. The moment we got the message that he wanted to see us, we knew that he knew .” I sighed and licked my lips. “Saxon went in first, and as I sat in the hall, I heard the Dean tear him a new asshole. Told him that he had used his position of power to coerce me into a sexual relationship with him. That he’d ruined my career and my reputation for a piece of ass. I rushed in and told him that wasn’t true. Told the Dean that we loved each other.” “And Saxon agreed? He said he loved you too?” Aggie asked. I nodded. “But the Dean fired him anyway. Right there in front of me…and I lost it. That’s why I got kicked out.” “Wait,” Estelle stood and move in closer. “You got kicked out for defending him, and then he left you?” I nodded. “He left you? Alone and pregnant with his child?” “He didn’t know I was pregnant—” “It doesn’t fucking matter, Birdie. How could he leave you after you upended your life for him? Where is he?” Estelle asked, reaching for the door. “Do you know what hotel he’s staying in?” “Estelle, calm down,” Soni said, dropping a calming hand on her shoulder. “No, I just want to talk to him,” Estelle said. “I know, but we should see what Birdie wants to do.” The three of them looked at me. I met all of their gazes individually then took a deep breath. “Well… first, I want to get out of this tub because having this conversation while naked is just a tad much for my psyche. Then I want to eat

whatever Atlas and Soni made for dinner. Drink more hooch. Then come up with a recipe that will be guaranteed to win tomorrow’s challenge.” “And what about Saxon?” Estelle asked. “Are we just gonna let him keep breathing—” Soni whacked her in the arm. “I mean, she has a point. You… you are going to confront him, right?” Aggie said, finishing the thought for Estelle. I gave that some thought. Didn’t I do that already? And didn’t I just weaken and let the motherfucker kiss me? A real confrontation needed to happen. I knew it needed to be done if only to tell him about his daughter. And I had to be real about this. After that kiss, Saxon wasn’t going to let me escape him for long. “I want to focus on this contest,” I answered finally. “Once that’s over… I’ll confront him.” “You can’t just—” “Estelle, I appreciate your desire to pull up and have a conversation with this man. Frankly, it surprises me that you’re willing to ride for me like that. I didn’t think you liked me all that much. But…” I shook my head. “I entered this competition to win. I’m not gonna let him distract me from my purpose again. I’ll deal with him when this is over.” A proud smile spread across Agostina’s face. She stood from where she sat on the edge of the tub and grabbed a towel. “Get out of the tub, baby Bird,” she said while holding it open. “It’s time to get to work.”

Chapter Eight

Saxon

Paula had somehow managed to get us a condo smack in the middle of downtown with a quaint view of Greenville’s bustling Main Street. She’d given me some bullshit explanation about it being cheaper than renting three hotel rooms for a week, and maybe that was true. But something told me that she chose this place because it was easier to keep an eye on me if we were under the same roof. And could I blame her? Every time Birdie looked my way today, I felt an almost uncontrollable desire to risk it all. And that moment between us in the hallway? That brief second where I dried her tears and stole those sweet kisses … yes, I would definitely risk it all to have that back. And I mean every-fucking-thing — my job, her chances at winning this cooking competition, the livelihood of my friends who depended on me. I knew that it was wrong and selfish, especially when it came to Birdie. She’d already lost so much because of me, and all I did was walk away. It wasn’t right for me to come at her with that energy, expecting her forgiveness, her love. But I wanted it. A hard knock at the door startled me. “You’ve got forty-five minutes if you still want to walk down to the restaurant instead of calling an Uber,” Paula said from the other side of the bathroom door. “Okay.” “I laid out those grey slacks that you like, a nice shirt, and a lightweight blazer.” “Thanks, Paula,” I said, swallowing down a feeling that wavered somewhere between gratitude for the way she took care of me and feeling infantilized by the fact that she’d laid out my clothes like I was incapable of doing it myself.

But again…could I blame her? I’d put that woman through so much shit in the last few years that I owed it to her to get my shit together. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why it was so fucking hard. Reluctantly, I turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and went into the master bedroom. Draped across the foot of the bed were the clothes Paula had picked out for me as well as a pair of black boxer briefs. I clenched my teeth. A child. She thinks of me as a child who might forget his underwear if she didn’t lay them out for me. “Let it go,” I grumbled to myself as I dropped the towel and pulled the underwear on. “You never did tell me what was different about her.” “Holy shit!” I cursed, startled to find Paula sitting in an armchair in the far corner of the room. “You scared the shit out of me, Paula. What the fuck are you doing over there?” “Thinking,” she murmured. She’d seen my dick on more than one occasion, but something about her catching me unaware made me feel… vulnerable. I grabbed my slacks and pulled them on. “About what?” “About that confrontation I overheard in the hallway today and the girl I had to console in the restroom. This doesn’t seem like she’s just some girl you fucked and didn’t call again.” “I told you that she wasn’t.” “She said you ruined her life, Saxon. What did you do to her?” I pulled my shirt on and buttoned it. Turning to the full-length mirror, I asked, “Tucked or untucked?” “Untucked,” she said.

Ignoring her question, I went about the minimal task of getting dressed. “Did we pack my—” Paula appeared at my shoulder with my black belt in hand. I took it from her and threaded it through the loops. “Are you just ignoring the question, or are you finding a way to tell me what you did to that poor girl?” “Why do you need to know the details, Paula? I did what I always do. I made promises, and then I left.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “It was more than that. You usually avoid those women because you hate coming face to face with your mistakes. But all day, I had to make sure you didn’t do something reckless.” I turned to her and cupped her shoulders with my hands. Paula was a beautiful girl. The kind of girl with dark hair and piercing eyes and a full, lush mouth that caught the attention of plenty of men. Attention she never noticed because she was always focused on me. Outside of a few drunken nights, we haven’t been together in that way in years, but I sometimes got the feeling that she was carrying some kind of torch for me. I really wish she wouldn’t. “Paula…I’m sorry about what I put you through today. And you’re right. I don’t like being confronted with my mistakes. But seeing Birdie… it was like seeing the first really big mistake I ever made — the one that changed the course of my life — and wondering if I had an opportunity to make it right. But what you overheard between us? That angry outburst you heard from her? It was completely deserved. I did ruin her life.” “But how?” “How doesn’t matter. Just know that I’m not going to do that again.” I gave her shoulders what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze and then reached into the suitcase for a pair of socks. Paula sighed then looked at me. “So I can trust you not to do anything stupid when we meet up with this guy? You’re not gonna try to like… ditch us and go find her?”

The thought had crossed my mind, but… “I meant what I said. I’m not here to ruin her life again. I’m going to judge this competition and get the fuck out of South Carolina. I never should have come back here to begin with.” “Okay, she said with a satisfied nod. “I’ll go get dressed, and we can head out.” The stroll down Main street to the restaurant by the Reedy River was exactly the thing I needed after being trapped inside all day. I’d only been to this little city in the foothills of the Blue Ridges a couple of times. A lot of growth had occurred during that time. Hunt’s House on the Reedy was situated on prime real estate, almost as if they’d built a perch for the eatery so that it overlooked the falls and the suspension bridge. Hunt had reserved a table for us nearest the giant wall of windows. Brett and Noah took a minute to set up some discreet bounce lights so that I didn’t look like a washed-out scarecrow. “I’m so sorry, but Mr. Hunt is running a little late,” the hostess said as she seated us. “He sent over a bottle of bourbon to keep you company in the meantime.” The trim waitress leaned over the table and deposited an enormous bottle of bourbon in the middle of the table. “Mr. Hunt told me that you didn’t care for rye, so this is a sweet wheat with a full-bodied flavor, crafted at a local distillery.” Each rocks glass held a large cube of ice that chilled the amber liquid as the waitress poured it in. When it was about half full, she wrapped her red polished nails around the glass and handed it to me. I brought the hefty rocks glass to my lips, sniffed the woodsy scent, and took a generous sip. The bourbon was soft on the tongue and smooth when it hit the back of my throat. It tasted like a night of good laughs and good sex. Not that I would be indulging in either. It probably paired well with shame and regret, too. “Tell Mr. Hunt that he can be as late as he wants as long as I get to keep this bottle on the table.” “Well, that’s good because this bottle is all yours. Mr. Hunt has a menu planned for you all, but the chef is sending out some appetizers while you wait. If you

need anything between now and then, my name is Kayla.” “Thank you, gorgeous—” “If you could bring out some water for everyone, that would be great, too,” Paula interrupted. “Absolutely. I’ll go get that for y’all.” I watched Kayla walk away. Her black pencil skirt hugged her curves and added a little wiggle to her walk. Paula cleared her throat and reached for her glass. “What?” I asked, knowing that sound was a warning. “Behave yourself.” “I was just looking.” “Yeah, well. We all know where looking leads,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe this guy has us waiting on him.” “It’s cool. I can wait all night as long as I have this bourbon,” I said again, taking another drink. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered under her breath. My tolerance snapped. Yes, I’d put her through a lot today, but this was uncalled for. “Are you gonna have this shitty attitude for the entirety of this meal?” “I don’t know. Are you going to do something else that will nearly get your fired and send us on some apology tour?” “Paula—” “Mom? Dad? Please stop fighting,” Brett whined. Like always, it made us laugh. All of us boys, anyway. Paula didn’t even crack a smile.

“Yeah, it’s all fun and games until we need up in the unemployment line,” Paula snapped, and that dampened the mood considerably. “Hm,” I grunted before drinking what was left in my glass. “You know, Paula, our roles are already firmly established.” I looked across the table at her as I reached for the bottle of bourbon. “I’m the fuck up. We get it. And unfortunately, it’s your job to clean up my messes. But you know what?” “What?” she asked, pushing out her chin defiantly. “If you ever find it too difficult to do your job, you can always find another one. I’m sure there’s someone who can make this much easier than I do and won’t require this level of commitment from you.” Paula’s dark brows dipped into a fierce frown. “Is that a threat? Are you seriously threatening to fire me after—” “Saxon Turner!” Chris Hunt boomed as he made his way across the upper-level dining room. I winced as every head turned my way, then stood to shake his hand. “Good evening, sir.” “Sorry, I’m late. Had to wrangle a little distribution issue. You know how that is.” “Of course! No worries, I had this good bourbon to keep me company.” “Yeah, Marrow Bone Creek makes good stuff. If you have time, I can arrange a distillery tour while you’re here.” “Maybe next time. You my crew.” I introduced them all by name, then settled back into my seat as Mr. Hunt made small talk with them. Hunt House was a steakhouse, and the proprietor had arranged for the usual ridiculous big steakhouse fare. A seafood tower spilling over with shrimp, lobster, and oysters. Fried green tomatoes with crab, succotash, and bacon. A salad with heirloom tomatoes, arugula, pesto, and balsamic reduction. All of that was followed by a tomahawk ribeye that was more meat than any man should eat in one sitting, but I took my time devouring. I hadn’t eaten anything

but the food made for us at the competition all day. “And how about you, pretty lady?” Hunt asked Paula, who’d painted on a smile even though she was furious with me. “How is it traveling with a bunch of smelly men?” “Well, you just about hit the nail on the head. It’s very smelly at times!” she said, then forced out a laugh. “I can imagine,” Hunt said. “Yeah, but once you get used to the stench, it’s not so bad. I’ve come to think of this ragtag group as my family.” She looked around the table at the boys before her eyes settled on me. “I love this band of freaks.” “Aw, mom. Don’t embarrass us!” Brett groaned. “So what do you think of Greenville so far?” Hunt asked. “Surprising, to be honest. As you probably know, I’ve been abroad for several years, and the last time I was here, there wasn’t much to the place. It seems to be blossoming to something of a foodie town,” I said. “That it is!” Hunt said, pointing his fork at me. “And that was no small feat! It was a herculean effort to convince these folks that rejuvenating Main Street and inviting in high-end restauranteurs would bring in revenue for the city, but we dragged them into the new millennium, by god!” He let out a raucous laugh then dug back into his steak. “Well, all that hard work has paid off. This place is damn near unrecognizable,” I said. “And drawing in some Michelin Star chefs!” Paula volunteered. “One of whom is in the house, if I’m not mistaken.” She’d done her homework on this guy, and I was glad. Despite my full belly, the bourbon was getting me drunk, and I was running out of things to talk about. “We sure do! Chef Breslin. He’s a big fan of you, Saxon,” Hunt said, proudly. “I think I’ve heard of Breslin. He came out of Charleston, too, if we’re talking

about the same guy.” “Yes, he did,” Hunt said with a nod. “I try to hire locally as much as I can.” “That’s great. Does the competition help with that?” Paula asked. “Oh, definitely. I’ve hired quite a few sous chefs who finaled but didn’t win. Most of the winners go off and do their own thing and have some moderate success. Mostly with food trucks and that type of thing,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not a fan of the food truck, huh?” Noah asked. I looked over at him. His cheeks were rosied by the bourbon, and his eyes were a bit glassy. “Call me old fashioned, but I just don’t understand the appeal of buying a meal from a gut truck.” Noah’s smile went razor sharp. “You’d be surprised. Some of the best meals I’ve had were from gut trucks.” Hunt smiled congenially. “I don’t know, son. Nothing can beat sitting down to the sort of feast like the one we’ve had this evening.” “Actually—” “Noah,” Paula said, placing her hand on his forearm. “Some folks just prefer more traditional fare. And let’s face it, not all of us have the intestinal fortitude one requires to digest street meat.” “Now that’s the truth,” Hunt said with a wet chuckle. “If you boys are finished, I would love it if we got that tour of the kitchen and met Chef Breslin,” Paula said. Expertly hustling the evening along like an activities coordinator. “Oh, of course. Kayla, sweetie, run down and tell Chef Breslin that we’re about to come through with Chef Turner.”

“Yes, sir,” she chirped and dashed off. I cleared my throat to draw Paula’s attention and gave her a wink. She rolled her eyes. I felt a little shitty for laying into her before the meal. She’d kept the conversation lively and corralled all of our asses toward an after-dinner coffee without incident. She did a lot more than I gave her credit for. “Hey,” I said, catching her by the elbow as we made our way toward the service elevator to the kitchen. “What?” she asked, looking up at me with tired eyes. “What I said earlier about you finding another job, I didn’t mean that—” “It’s okay,” she said, cutting me off. “You’re tired. We’re all tired. Let’s meet the chef and get back to the condo so that we can all get a good night’s sleep.” “Okay. Hey,” I pulled her a little closer. “I just want you to know that I appreciate you, okay?” She stared at me for a moment, her eyes welling with tears. “Okay,” she said with a nod. Hunt excused himself after he made the introductions and his head chef took over. The kitchen tour dragged on too long. Let’s face it, if you’ve seen one industrial restaurant kitchen, you’ve seen them all. But Chef Breslin was incredibly proud of his broiling station, which to his credit was massive. “So you’re judging the local food competition, right? What do you think of the competitors so far?” Breslin asked. “They’ve only demonstrated basic skills so far. None of the difficult stuff yet, but some of them hold some promise.” “Yeah, a friend of mine is competing, Todd Hendricks? Stocky guy? Dark hair?” “Yeah, yeah,” I said even though I ed exactly nothing about Todd Hendricks. Not the man or his food. “Like I said, it’s still really early in the competition.”

Breslin nodded. “One of my former sous chefs is competing too. Birdie Malone?” “Oh?” I tried to stay cool, but I could tell that my interest in Birdie was noticed by the chef. “Yeah, she’s a hot little thing. Brilliant chef, too. A monster on prep, but… watch out for her.” “What do you mean?” I asked, even though I was almost sure I already knew where this was going. “I fired her recently. She does great work, but… let’s just say she doesn’t have the right attitude for the kitchen.” My blood pressure spiked so quickly that it felt like the top of my head was about to blow off. The bourbon had eroded just enough of my self-awareness that I didn’t soften the aggression in my voice when I asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?” Breslin shrugged. “She didn’t respond well to authority and didn’t fit in well with our kitchen culture, if you know what I mean.” “Kitchen culture?” I asked, raising a brow. “You know, that feminist, ‘me too’ bullshit. That shit doesn’t play well in the kitchen. Got her fired from a few jobs on Main.” My blood was pounding in my ears now. Feminist, #metoo bullshit? Had this motherfucker harassed Birdie and then fired her for saying no? I might be a trash ass human being, but this wasn’t something I ever condoned in any kitchen I ran or worked in. “You know,” I began, stepping in real close and lowering my voice. “The culture in the kitchen should be welcoming and accommodating for everyone in it.” “Hey, man!” Breslin said, raising his hands and backing up. “I hear ya, but all of this sexual harassment shit is makes it harder to manage a kitchen with women in it. I’d just as soon not hire them than deal with that—”

“Saxon?” Paula stepped between us. “We should probably get going.” “Did you hear what this little asshole just said?” “I did, and that’s the reason why we need to get out of here.” She turned to Breslin. “Thanks for the tour, chef. Can you tell Mr. Hunt that we decided to call it an evening?” I glared at Breslin, who gave me a shrug and a sheepish grin. This shit stain deserved a good beating. “Let’s go, Sax,” Paula said, pushing hard against my chest, but I didn’t budge. “Saxon, please. A fistfight, no matter how justified, is the last thing you need right now.” Her pleas penetrated the red haze of my anger. She was right. I couldn’t afford any more trouble. I was balancing on shit, as is. “Right,” I said, looking down at her. “Let’s go.” Paula called an Uber for us, and we rode in silence back to the rented condo. I couldn’t get what Breslin said about Birdie out of my head. Was the kitchen culture so toxic in this small town that pushing back against sexual harassment got her blackballed? I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened the web browser. “What are you doing?” Paula asked. “Googling Birdie.” “Do you think that’s a good idea?” “Yesterday, I would’ve said no. Googling her would have just made me miss her. I would’ve done something stupid like send her a drunken Facebook message.” “And the difference between today and yesterday?” she asked. Results populate on the screen, and I stared at my phone. “Nothing is different. Nothing except the fact that I’ve seen her, and she’s still achingly beautiful, and I

still—” I stopped short of saying what I knew was true. Paula probably already knew anyway. “You won’t tell me what you did to this girl, but whatever it was, she deserves to get over you.” Paula reached across the console and took my phone. “Leave her alone, Saxon.” I closed my eyes and let my head hit the headrest. I was only here for four more days. If I didn’t get fired, I would move on to the next destination. The last thing Birdie needed was for me to crash into her life and spill these feelings only to leave her again. I should definitely leave her alone, but… that was easier said than done.

Chapter Nine

Birdie

Soni pulled her Subaru hatchback into a parking space close to the entrance of Lowes Foods and threw the car in park. She’d insisted on driving me after I told them about Saxon last night. Agostina was in the enger seat, and Estelle would have been in the back next to me, but she had a yoga class to teach. She did send me a text to let me know that she was with me in spirit. Part of me wanted to protest against being infantilized this way, but it would be pointless. I needed every ounce of this . “Do you have your list of herbs and spices to use in your dishes today?” Soni asked. I nodded. “And you’re wearing your mojo?” “Yes,” I murmured, covering my left breast with my hand. Soni had made it special for me last night. She did it the old way with a lodestone, my own hair, and nails, and coarsely ground sea salt, wrapped and sealed in a scrap of red flannel. I was wearing it around my neck and tucked it into my bra cup. Up until last night, I didn’t know that Soni could work this kind of root, but the bag felt warm and powerful next to my skin, as strong or stronger than any Mama had ever made for me. Agostina unbuckled her seatbelt and turned in her seat so she could look at me. “Here…” she said, holding out her closed hand. “What is this?” I asked when she dropped a crystal into my palm. “It’s a citrine point. Soni has you well protected and prepared, but I felt like you could use a little boost to guarantee success. Keep in it your left pocket and only

hold it in your non-dominant hand when you’re feeling unsure of yourself.” I opened my palm and looked at the fat, five-sided point with a rough base that looked like someone had chiseled it right out of a cave wall. It was clear at the point, faded into a tangerine orange, and back to a milky white at the base. “The point is the focus for the crystal’s energy. If shit gets real crucial, I like to angle the point into my palm and clench my fist until the pain grounds me at the moment. I’m not saying you need to hurt yourself to stay focused. I’m just telling you what works for me.” “Ohhkay?” I answered slowly. Aggie was bipolar. It had been years since I’d seen her in the throes of a manic depressive episode, but that little tidbit about stabbing the crystal into her palm didn’t sound healthy. I met Soni’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and she slow blinked to let me know she heard it, too. “Thanks, sis,” I said, slipping the crystal into my left pocket. The way I felt right now, I didn’t have a whole lot of room to question Aggies centering and grounding methods. “Is this them?” Soni asked. A black Mercedes Sprinter van pulled into the space across from us. The woman who’d consoled me in the bathroom yesterday climbed out of the enger side. “Uh…yeah,” I said after clearing my throat. “Who’s that woman?” Aggie asked. “I think she’s his assistant or something.” “Hm, sure she is,” Soni muttered under her breath, her brown eyes narrowed into thin, suspicious slits. “Because there’s absolutely no other reason why a known fuck boy would keep a cute brunette with an amazing rack around.” “Don’t be that way,” I scolded, giving Soni a light smack on the arm. “She was nice to me yesterday when I was in the bathroom crying my face off.” Soni’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “How sweet. But we won’t be having any more of that today, will we?”

“No, ma’am!” I pressed the mojo bag in my bra flush against my skin. “I don’t think she’s malicious, though.” “Just steer clear of her,” Agostina said, pulling her long locs over one shoulder. “Stay clear of all of them until the competition is over.” “That’s the plan.” A plan that seemed completely pointless when the Sprinter’s side door slid open, and Saxon stepped out. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him stretch and yawn, the tee-shirt lifting to expose the muscles of his lower back. The brunette laughed and tickled the exposed bit of his belly Saxon’s stretch had revealed, making him laugh, and tug the hem of his shirt down. A spike of jealousy arrowed through me. An assistant wouldn’t touch him like that. So… she was more than just an assistant. Cool. Awesome. Still smiling, Saxon reached inside of the sprinter and grabbed a lightweight blazer. Shrugging it on, he turned toward where we were sitting in Soni’s car. Early morning sunlight caught the red-god strands of his hair and lit his eyes to a surreal aqua blue. Fuck…how was he still so fucking pretty? All the drug use and hard living that he was reported to have indulged in had left no mark on him, but the crinkled corners of his eyes that, when he squinted, made him look even more handsome. “That’s him?” Soni scoffed. “He looks older in person than he does on TV.” “He’s your age!” “Looks older on him…” she grumbled. “What’s with that stupid haircut? A manbun? Isn’t he a little old for that hipster shit? And I thought he would be taller.” “He’s six foot. Not everyone can be Atlas.” A smile twitched on Soni’s lips at the mention of her boyfriend. “This is very true. He is one of a kind.” “I don’t know…” Aggie said, tipping her head and twirling the end of one of her locs around her finger. “I mean, I get it. He looks…intense.”

A long soft sigh escaped me as I ed just how intense he could be. “Yeah… he’s definitely that.” Saxon shielded his eyes with one hand and looked directly into Soni’s car. My sister’s windows were tinted pretty dark, but somehow he saw me. A soft, lopsided smile canted his lips, and he gave me a little wave. Still torn between wanting to run to him and remind my body how good it felt to be his and abject hatred, I flipped him off. That soft smile turned into a full-on grin. But it was the wink that made my pussy clench. “Jesus,” Agostina gasped. “That man is sex on legs.” “Don’t I fucking know it.” “Just that’s trouble you’ve already been in. You don’t need to make the same mistake again,” Soni said. Tell that to my vagina. “You’re right. I’ll keep that in mind.” Sonja was right, though. I tried to hold onto that thought as I finished my coffee and waited for the rest of the contestants to arrive. Saxon lingered near the sprinter, smoked a cigarette, and looked like every morning after a deliriously good night of fucking. But more than that, I saw so much of Amara in him. I thought my daughter looked a little bit like me, but I saw now that she made my faces with his face. That her freckles blessed her nose and cheeks in the same pattern his did. And her reddish-brown curls were just a shade darker than his. The Channel 7 News van pulled into the spot next to Saxon’s Sprinter, and all around us, the remaining contestants got out of their cars. “I guess that’s my cue.” “We’ll walk you in,” Soni said, yanking her keys out of the ignition. “Come on. This isn’t really necessary.” “The hell it isn’t,” Agostina said, following Soni’s lead.

Both of my sisters climbed out of the car. Soni opened my door and beckoned to me. Embarrassed but still deeply thankful for their , I climbed out of the car. Flanked by my sisters, I made my way to the door. “I’m sorry, this is a closed event,” the young lady at the door said when my sisters attempted to walk in with me. “Okay,” Soni turned to me, grasped my face in both of her hands, and looked me in the eyes. “You’ve got this, okay?” I nodded. “Okay,” I croaked around the lump growing in my throat. She placed her hand over my heart. “Trust this process. Enjoy it. You love cooking, and you excel at it. This is already yours,” she said again, then kissed me on the forehead. Soni stepped back, and Agostina took her place. “Listen to everything big sister said. She’s wise.” I laughed and nodded. “She is, and I will.” “I just want to add one thing…” Aggie took my hand and pressed my palm between her breasts, right over her tattoo of the voodoo sigil for protection. “Everything that belongs to you is making its way toward you right now. What flows, flows. What crashes, crashes. Make space and save your energy for the things that are meant for you.” “Wow,” I said, swiping away nonsensical tears. “That was really deep.” “I know, right? Billy Chapata said that. I’ll let you borrow the book sometime,” Agostina said with a grin. She slid a warm hand around the back of my neck and touched her forehead to mine. “What flows, flows.” “What crashes, crashes…” “What you seek is seeking you, baby Bird.” She pulled away and kissed the palm of my hand.

Aggie had an uncanny knack for memorizing every soulful or spiritual thing she’s read or heard. It could be annoying sometimes, but sometimes, like right now, it’s just the thing I needed to hear. “Text one of us when you’re ready to come home. I have a few appointments today, but if you can’t reach Aggie or me, Atlas will come and get you.” “Okay,” I whispered, feeling fortified but overwhelmed at the same damn time. I wished they could go in with me. Be an audience of two and cheer me on. But they couldn’t, and with one last hug, I watched my sisters walk back to Soni’s car. When they were halfway there, they ed Saxon and his crew on their way in. “Good morning, ladies,” Saxon said, in his slowest, sweetest southern drawl. Soni slowed her step and then stopped to glare at him. “I know who you are,” she spat, pointing at him like she was throwing a hex. “Stay away from Bird.” “Soni!” I squeaked. Agostina grabbed her by the arm and dragged her the remaining distance to the car while shouting, “Sorry!” over her shoulder. The brunette watched my sisters get in the car and drive away. Saxon’s attention was focused on me as his long stride ate up the distance between us. What crashes, crashes. What flows, flows. I took a deep breath as he drew closer. Was this what Aggie meant when she said everything that belonged to me was making its way toward me right now? Because the way he’s smiling at me and the look in his eye makes me when he was my everything, and I was his. “Morning, Chef,” he said. “Chef,” I greeted with a nod. Saxon glanced over his shoulder. “Those are your sisters, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” “Don’t be. They’re protective of you. Somebody should be looking out for you,” he added softly. That someone was supposed to be you. Like he’d heard my thoughts, Saxon’s gaze dropped to my mouth. He leaned in just the tiniest bit, and I forgot to breathe. The brunette sidled up next to him and cleared her throat. Saxon took an abrupt step backward and pained frown settled on his brow. “Good luck today, Chef. See you inside.” Then he stepped around me and went inside with the brunette trailing behind him. The breath I’d been holding rushed out of my lungs. I tipped my head to the sky, jammed my hand into my left pocket, and grabbed the citrine. Angling point so that it dug into my palm. “This is already mine. What’s meant for me won’t me by,” I whispered, gripping the crystal tighter and tighter until it wiped my mind clean of everything but the reason why I came here. To win.

Chapter Ten

Saxon

Paula slammed the enger side door of the Sprinter, irritation rolling off of her in waves. And once again, she had a right to it because I nearly kissed Birdie. I nearly kissed her in the grocery store’s parking lot and ruined everything for both of us. But it wasn’t my fault, really. When Birdie had looked up at me, her tongue darted out to wet her pillowy bottom lip, and I nearly leaned in and sucked that bottom lip into my mouth. And I’d thought about it every second we were in that grocery store. Even thinking about it right now made my dick throb. “You know… I don’t know what you expect me to do at this point,” Paula said. There was a note of resignation in her voice. Like I’d worn her down. Worn her out. Not for the first time since I blew up my life between the thighs of the Governor’s daughter in a dry goods closet, I wondered if I should just give in. Just quit. It was clear that none of us really wanted to do this anymore. Maybe it was time to stop fighting. Time to call in some favors to get them new and better jobs with someone — anyone else. I still needed to hold it together during the competition, though. Blowing up my own life was one thing, but I refused to fuck with Birdie’s. The ride out to the college campus was deathly quiet. The boys were probably just as fed up with me, too, but the silence was a relief. Did Birdie lean in closer the moment before I pulled away? The scent of her —

bright and fresh like a juicy ruby red grapefruit had flooded my senses. Was that on her breath or her skin? Would I get a chance to find out? Me and my crew were the last to arrive at the kitchen. I nodded hello to the judges who hadn’t made it out to the supermarket — Chris Hunt being one of them. Chris Hunt, who seemed to be too engrossed by his phone to greet me. Heh. He must have heard about the disagreement between Chef Breslin and me. Whatever. Chris Hunt got what he wanted from me. I didn’t owe him anything beyond the cost of the steak dinner he comped, which I would readily repay if asked. “Heard you had quite the dinner,” Gwen, the food critic, said with a smirk. “Oh, yeah?” I asked as I sat down. “Where’d you hear that?” “Word gets around,” she said with a shrug. “You know how it is in a small town. But you know… Hunt House on the Reedy is good eating, but this town has a lot more to offer than a steak dinner.” “I should have come to you first.” She leaned in and dropped her voice into a whisper. “Catch up with me after this, and I will take you to a place where you can get some good, down-home cooking.” “I like the sound of that,” I said, giving her a wink. Something told me that the tension at the condo would be oppressive tonight. It might be a good idea to find something to do. “All right! Looks like everyone has arrived, so let’s get things started,” Marissa Cahill chirped. “As you know, your challenge today is to create a delicious lowcountry dish with a fifteen dollar budget.”

When they announced this challenge yesterday, it was obvious to me, and probably Birdie, who was wearing an arrogant smirk on her lush lips, that these people have never been poor a day in their lives. Fifteen dollars was more than enough for a low country meal, and Birdie’s bulging paper bag was proof of it. Also…the fact that they were calling it low-country cuisine grated my nerves. It was Gullah food. Food that still reflected the flavors brought to Carolina shores by enslaved West Africans. But maybe this wasn’t the best time or place to point that out. “Chefs, I hope you have saved your receipts as we requested at the store because your total will be considered along with your dish during the judging process.” And with that, Chef Ransom started the clock, and the contestants went to work. Birdie grabbed a stockpot and set it on the stovetop before turning back to her prep station to unpack her grocery bag. Bacon, onions, smoked meats, five or six tomatoes, and a bag of Carolina Gold Rice. She was making red rice. Red rice was a traditional meal brought to the States by West Africans and was similar to jollof rice. It was simple, flavorful, and filling. And I’d eaten hers, so I was almost certain it would be a winner. She gave the bacon a rough chop, dumped it into the stockpot, and turned the fire on. While the bacon was rendered, Birdie chopped her onions and smoked sausage. “Seems like you’re very interested in Chef Malone,” Gwen said. I cleared my throat and looked down at the agenda for the day. “She’s a good chef. Makes me wonder why she’s competing instead of running her own kitchen.” “How can you know how good she is based on the three dishes she’s made?” I shrugged. “Birdie is the perfect combination of precision and creativity. Her technique is solid, and that foundation makes it easier for her to be a bit more playful when the dish calls for it.” “Birdie?” she asked.

Dammit. I couldn’t believe I let that slip, let myself speak about her in such a familiar way. “That’s her name, isn’t it?” I said with a shrug. A quick glance at her revealed a knowing smirk. “Yeah, that’s her name,” Gwen agreed. Fuck. My face felt hot, so I knew that it was bright red. “Excuse me, Chef. Do you mind if we step outside and chat for a moment?” Chris Hunt. He’d definitely heard about my disagreement with Breslin. And maybe he overheard my conversation with the food critic about Birdie. But that didn’t mean that I wanted to entertain…whatever this was. “Not right now,” I said dismissively. And by not right now, I meant never because the last thing I wanted to do was explain good kitchen culture to a guy who called my assistant, lil’ sweetie unironically. Chris Hunt sighed loudly. “Do we need to have this discussion here? Considering that it involves you inexplicably leaping to the defense of one of the contestants?” I clenched my teeth and look at Birdie. The way her gaze met mine, I knew she heard Chris’ accusation. Pushing away from the judges’ table, I stood up and faced the older man. “Lead the way, sir.” I followed Chris Hunt out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out into the parking lot. A few culinary arts students lingered around the door, smoking, and chatting. I gestured toward a bit of shade a short distance away from them. Sheltering my skin from the Carolina sun, I turned to face the restauranteur. The older gentleman crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat. “We had a good time at dinner last night, didn’t we?” Surprised by the tact he was taking, I furrowed my brow. I’d expected selfrighteous anger and not a “don’t you like me?” line of questioning. “What’s this about?” I asked, mirroring his defensive, arms across the chest, pose.

“If there was some issue between you and Chef Breslin, I would have thought you would come to me.” “There was nothing to come to you about,” I said with a shrug. “You might want to talk to Breslin about the way he runs your kitchen, though.” It was Chris Hunt’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about, son?” “The disagreement with Breslin. It was about toxic kitchen culture. The kind that got one of the contestants in this competition fired.” “He told me… he told me that you had something going on with one of the contestants, and you were ticked off because you recognized one of her dishes on the menu…” “Wow…” I said with a chuckle. Good cover. Really good. It had just enough of the truth in it to make it believable. “There’s nothing between the sous chef and me, but apparently, Breslin and several chefs in your group have blackballed her because she refused to tolerate the harassment she endured in your kitchen.” “Harassment?” Chris Hunt looked confused and more than a little nervous. “The sexual kind,” I said with a smug nod, even though I wasn’t sure if that was the case. “So if we’re done…” “Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” I shook my head and turned away from him to head back inside and came face to face with Birdie. The look on her face… had she overheard our conversation? “Hey…” I said softly. I wanted to pull her aside. Ask her if things were as bad for her as I imagined. And why didn’t she call me or reach out in some way if she was struggling like this? Shit. She wouldn’t want to talk about that. She didn’t even want to talk to me. Get over yourself, Saxon.

“Are they ready to judge or…?” “Yeah, just about. I just stepped outside to get some air.” Birdie looked up at me. There was more than three feet of space between us, but I felt that same pull, that same magnetic energy nearly made me grab her and molest her in front of the grocery store. I wasn’t much better than Breslin, was I? “I’ll just head back inside then,” I muttered under my breath. Birdie was standing in front of the door. I had to maneuver around her if she didn’t move aside. “Saxon…” she said, her voice soft. We were standing close. So close that her citrusy scent, a scent weighted by the smells of the red rice she’d just made, overwhelmed me. It took everything in me to keep from tracing the shape of her ear with the tip of my finger— kissing the beauty mark half an inch below the earlobe. I cleared my throat. “Yeah?” “Thank you,” she whispers. “You don’t have to—” “You didn’t have to either, so… yeah.” She gave me a quick glance and then looked away just as quickly. “Yeah…” She stepped out of the way, and I went inside. The rest of the afternoon ed in a haze. We tasted the completed dishes, but only Birdie’s lingered in my memory and on my tongue. This was one of those things I forgot about food and cooking until I experienced it again. The intimacy of making food for someone or eating something someone has prepared for you with love. There was an intimacy in sharing food with someone in that way. Intimacy that was deeper if you prepared it together. Birdie was the only woman I’d been that intimate with, and with the spoonful of her red rice of my mouth, I

realized how much I wanted it back. During the judging, I struggled to find the balance between effusive praise and objectivity. I was fairly certain I didn’t achieve it because I was met with Paula’s frustrated glare. Birdie made it to the next round, though, so that was all that mattered, really. “So…handsome,” Gwen said as she took her sunglasses out of her bag. “Are we still on for dinner and a drink?” “Drink?” Paula interrupted. “That sounds great, but can I borrow Chef Saxon for a minute?” “Uh—” Paula grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me toward the swinging doors that led to the hallway. I knocked her hand away as she pulled me through them. “What is your deal?” “Nothing except the fact that Breslin was tweeting about your argument last night and how it got him fired. What did you say to Chris Hunt?” To the right and left of us, the heads of culinary arts students swiveled toward us. Rolling my eyes, I pushed through the exterior door and stepped outside. “What are you talking about?” Paula pulled out her phone, opened up Twitter, and handed it to me. A few quick scrolls revealed that Breslin had been fired. He’d conveniently omitted the reason why, but he didn’t fail to point out that I may have had something to do with it and hinted that it something to do with one of the contestants that I seemed to be familiar with. Thankfully, he didn’t mention her name. “What did you say to Chris Hunt?” “I told him what happened. Apparently, Breslin lied to him. He didn’t know anything about what happened to Birdie or the real reason she was fired—” Paula pressed her fingertips to her closed eyelids. “You were supposed to lay

low. Why did you feel the need to get involved—” “Was I supposed to just let him talk about her like that?” “You were supposed to think about someone besides yourself for once!” Paula’s voice rang out loud, and when I looked around, I saw that the culinary arts students were trickling out of the building, headed toward their cars. Some of the contestants, too. And Birdie. The look on her face… “I can’t keep cleaning up your messes,” Paula continued, shaking her head. “I can’t keep caring about your career more than you do.” “Paula, listen—” “No, you listen, Saxon. You listen to me for once.” I redirected my attention to Paula, and I was actually stunned to find her crying. “Paula… what—” “I’m done, Saxon,” she said with a finality that I’d never heard in her voice before. “I quit.” “Paula, don’t. Let’s talk about this—” “No, I mean it. I’m done.” When I reached for her, she backed away, then with her head down, she turned and went toward the Sprinter. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Then, because the universe felt like I hadn’t been punished enough, a sleek black Lexus pulled up to the curb. The rear window rolled down, and a tiny, sweet voice called out, “Mommy!” Birdie walked toward the car with a big smile on her face. “Hi, darling girl,” she said before leaning in to the window and giving the source of that voice a kiss. Birdie had a kid? A guy climbed out of the driver’s side of the car. A big guy. A really handsome, really big guy who had a smile for Birdie. He opened the enger side door for

her, and she climbed in without so much as a glance in my direction. Was that her man? Her kid’s father? “Wow,” I muttered, then scrubbed my hand over my face. I mean, of course, she had someone. It’s been almost six years. Of course, she would move on with her life. But the kid? She had a kid? I didn’t see the kid, but that sweet little voice calling her mommy…that hit a sore spot in my chest. “So… did you get all of that straightened out? Are you ready for that drink?” I looked down at Gwen. “You know what? My life just blew up, so a drink sounds really, really good right about now.”

Chapter Eleven

Birdie

With a groan, I toed off my kitchen clogs in the wheel well of Atlas’s car and massaged the arches of my feet. “Are you seriously airing those things out in an enclosed space?” Atlas complained, cracking his window. “Boy, shut up,” I retorted. “There’s foot powder in my shoes. My feet don’t even stink.” “Yeah, I know. That foot powder is in there because of me. I put it in there. I’ve had to put them things outside on the porch to air out more than once.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a hazard of living with a chef.” “Don’t I fucking know it,” he grumbled. “Whatever,” I said, whacking him on the arm. “I don’t see you complaining when you sit down to eat all of my good food.” “And you never will. But I will complain about your funky ass feet… that you’re putting on my dashboard right now! Really, Birdie?” “Come on, bro-in-law. I’ve had a rough day in the kitchen,” I pouted, wiggling my socked toes on his woodgrain dashboard. “A’ight, fine…” he groaned. “I will allow it this time, but don’t make it a habit.” Atlas wasn’t my brother in law yet, but we already had a better relationship than I ever had with Eric, Sonja’s ex-husband. I couldn’t decide if that was because we were closer in age or that he was just more laidback and fun, but it was a new experience, and I liked it.

“Am I right to assume that this sunshine-y mood can be credited to the fact that you rocked today’s competition? Did you move on to the next round?” “That assumption would be correct, my good fellow,” I said, barely suppressing a grin. “That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ ’bout, sis!” He cheered, grabbing the front of my chef coat and roughing me up. “Did you hear that, Mara? Mommy made it to the next round. Halfway to winning the whole thing.” “Not quite halfway,” I corrected. “There are still three challenges left.” “Whatever. This competition was in the bag on day one. Still, it’s definitely a done deal after whatever magic you Malone women got up to last night.” I smiled, ing how my sisters poured into me last night and held me together this morning with their affirmations and talismans. That definitely grounded me in all of the best ways, but surprisingly, so did Saxon. When I quit my job last fall, I spent months trying to find a job in another kitchen. With so many restaurants opening on Main Street and all over the county, I figured it wouldn’t be that hard. But after the third interview, I realized that my reputation had preceded me. So I looked further out — as far as Spartanburg and even Asheville, though I wasn’t interested in relocating. But the response was the same. The interviews went great, but I never got a callback. When I followed up a week or two later, the position was always closed or filled. That’s when I knew Breslin had blackballed me. Breslin and I worked together for almost a year. He was a Michelin Star chef, and I was honored to work under him — even if it was a steakhouse, I knew that I would learn a lot working at his side. Or at least I thought I would. It wasn’t the first time a man had come on to me in the kitchen. I’d learned to let the kind of humor tossed around in the back of the house roll off my back. But I would never tolerate letting someone put their hands on me. I wouldn’t allow someone to corner me repeatedly and make me feel unsafe in

my place of work. When he kissed me, I threatened to take it to Human Resources. Then Breslin told me exactly what would happen if I did. He’d tell everyone that I was a liar. He’d make me sound like some super sensitive, candy-ass that couldn’t handle being spoken to roughly in the kitchen. And it wouldn’t have been hard to believe at this point. I’d been fired from my two previous jobs for the same reasons. If I went to HR and Breslin followed through with his threat, I would be considered a cancer in any kitchen. So I quit. And Breslin burned me anyway. I never told anyone why I quit my job — not even my sisters. Which was why I was surprised to overhear Saxon and Chris Hunt, the CEO of Hunt Restaurant Group, discussing it. Even more so when that discussion led to Breslin announcing his termination on Twitter. Saxon standing up for me that way… it had to mean something, right? “So I didn’t want to bring this up, but I popped into Kinfolks for lunch today, and Mr. Kemp looked a little frazzled.” “Mr. Kemp? What’s he doing there? I left Ortega in charge. There’s literally nothing for him to do.” “I hear you, but… “ I sighed and covered my face. It had only been about four months since I took over the kitchen at Kinfolks, up until that time, Mr. Kemp had been running all of the day-to-day operations. He was a great cook and a great businessman, but he was real old school. He ran the kitchen like a 24-hour diner. I brought in systems and order when I took over in addition to updating some of the menu items — with his approval, of course. But all of that change was difficult and hard-won. I guess that was why he decided to show up at the restaurant today. I shifted toward Atlas in my seat, and he rolled his eyes. “I know. Munchkin can hang with Kairo and me while you handle whatever’s

going on over there.” “I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to cover me. It’s not your job, but it’s just… you know how Mr. Kemp gets. I don’t want to have to hire all new staff after this competition.” Atlas grunted and smirked. “After you win this competition, the staff at Kinfolks isn’t gonna be something you need to worry about.” I opened my mouth to disagree, but then I couldn’t because I hadn’t really thought about what would happen if I won. Would I quit Kinfolks immediately? Or would I keep working there while I built my catering business — or at least until Mr. Kemp found someone else? “That reminds me,” Atlas said as he slowed to a stop at the intersection where Kinfolks and his business, The Coworking Spot, met. “You need to make some time to sit down with me and go over your business plan.” “I figured we didn’t need to do one yet. If I don’t win—” “Birdie Malone!” he cursed under his breath, pinching his nose. “Even if you don’t win, I’m prepared to help you work out a business plan and invest if need be.” “Are you serious? Is this because you’re dating my sister? I know I’m pretty pathetic right now, but I’m not some charity case—” “Jesus Christ, Birdie! Of course, you’re not!” He glanced in the backseat at Amara, who’d suddenly gone quiet at the sound of his raised voice. He smiled and winked at her. “Uncle Atlas isn’t mad, munchkin. I’m just frustrated because your mommy and her sisters seem to think I’m some sort of idiot who doesn’t recognize a solid business owner even though it’s literally my job.” He cuts a sideways glance at me. “Is that very nice, Mara?” “No!” my daughter shouted without hesitation. “Point made,” I said with a groan. “Good. Go handle your business, Bird. I’ve got this little chicken handled.”

Full up with emotion, I darted across the console and pecked Atlas on the cheek. “Thanks, bro-in-law.” “Not your brother in law yet,” he corrected as I opened the door to climb out of his car. “You are in my heart,” I said with saccharine sweetness, placing my hand over my heart. Atlas rolled his eyes and pulled away. He tooted his horn before turning the corner, and I stood on the corner across from Kinfolks, waiting for the traffic light. Kinfolks was an old West End establishment. The Kemps bought it when I was seven years old, and the Malones have patronized the meat and three for almost as long. The Kemps were practically family, and it was that closeness that landed me in their kitchen when I couldn’t find work anywhere else. When I opened the door and stepped inside of the restaurant, I nearly ran into the last person in line. What the fuck? It was three hours after lunch rush. Why was there a line at all, let alone a line all the way to the door? “Excuse me,” I murmured, stepping around the person I’d collided with — and the customers they were standing behind — to get to the . Sophie was behind the cash wrap. She was red-faced and visibly flustered because she was a fucking server, and at Kinfolks, you ordered and then had the meal served to you. She didn’t regularly operate the new point of sale system, and the line was evidence of that. Josh was supposed to be at the . He was cute, personable, and knew the menu like the back of his hand. Why wasn’t he at the ? “Hey, Soph,” I cooed, sliding up next to her and placing a hand in the middle of her back. “What’s going on here? Are you okay?” “No…” she whispered, her hand shaking as it hovered over the screen full of entrees — entrees that shouldn’t be on the menu for lunch.

Fuck. “Okay, why are you on the , though? Did Josh call off or something?” “No, he’s serving. Mr. Kemp switched everything around when he came in this morning and —” “Okay, okay,” I said, rubbing her back. “Do what you can here. I’m gonna find Joshua so he can relieve you.” I pushed through the swinging doors into the back of the house and found complete chaos. No one was where they were supposed to be. All of the stations were dirty, and my line cooks were snapping at each other like pitbulls. In the middle of it, all stood my second in command, kitchen clogs slipping on the greasy floor and damn near in tears. “No, Benny!” she scolded in a voice that said she’d said that exact phrase more times than she’d said it in her life so far. “Table four gets a medium-rare cheeseburger—” “But the ticket says—” “I don’t give a fuck what the ticket says! I just talked to them, and that’s what they ordered!” Benny recoiled, his face twisted in disgust. “You don’t have to yell.” And then I saw Ortega’s face morph into something I’d never seen before. Fearing for Benny’s life, I stepped between them. “Chef!” he said, relief washing over him. “Thank god you’re here. The kitchen is —” “I know, Benny. Take care of that order for table four. I need to talk to Chef Ortega.” I curled a ive arm around her shoulder and felt her give slightly. “Yes, chef,” Benny said with a nod. “Thanks, Benny,” I said with a stiff smile, then pulled Ortega to the back of the kitchen. Normally I would take her into the office, but I could see Mr. Kemp in

there, sitting behind the desk, fiddling with my computer. God, I hope he didn’t fuck anything up. I looked around my chaotic kitchen. Well… anything else. “What’s going on?” I asked, keeping my voice even and calm even though I felt far from it. “Mr. Kemp came in and completely rearranged the schedule. He moved people who normally work in front of the house to the back. Mixed up the waitstaff. No one knows the specials. The line is out the door because what’s her face can’t run the —” “We’re in the weeds. Got it.” I looked around the kitchen. “Okay, grab the schedule and get everyone back where they belong. I’ll handle Mr. Kemp and try to get the kitchen back to rights.” Ortega nearly collapsed in relief. “Thank you, Chef.” Once we got everyone back to their assigned posts, the kitchen didn’t seem nearly as bad as it was when I walked in. I gave it about forty-five minutes before I considered the source of all of this chaos. Mr. Kemp. Part of the reason why I ended up at Kinfolks was that Mrs. Kemp wanted her husband to retire. His health was failing and the only way to get him to slow down — according to his wife — was to bring in someone who could to the job as well, or better than him. Except she hadn’t included Mr. Kemp in that conversation. I rapped softly on my office door and peeked my head in. “Hey, Mr. Kemp!” I chirped as cheerily as I could. “Birdie! Hey, lil' Bird!” he said, a big smile on his face. “I thought you had that big food competition thing today. What are you doing here?’

“I should be asking you that, Mr. Kemp. I stopped by to check-in, and Ortega said you were here. Is everything okay?” I asked, stepping into the office. Mr. Kemp shook his head. “That Ortega girl has a lot to learn…but don’t worry about that. How’s the competition going? Did you do well today?” “Yes, actually, and with an old recipe that I learned from my grandmother. You know what… I think it might be something you want to add to the menu. Want to come out into the kitchen so I can show you?” A big smile spread across his face. “Yes, absolutely!” Mr. and Mrs. Kemp never had any kids. According to my mama, who was a midwife back in the day, it wasn’t for lack of trying. As much as they wanted babies, none of them stuck. Our families were close, so over the years, they began to feel more like our Auntie and Uncle or godparents. Mr. Kemp was actually the first person to let me experiment in his kitchen. He didn’t have a formal education, but that didn’t matter. He learned at this mother's shoulder the same way I did. Some people — including me — think that sort of informal education made you a better chef. It definitely didn’t hurt. Ortega had the kitchen and dining room humming smoothly, and Mr. Kemp and I had made enough Gullah Red Rice to add it to the dinner menu as a special when Joshua burst into the kitchen. The look on his face was somewhere between fearful and excited. “What?” I asked. “Uh… Chef Saxon Turner of Á La Minute is at the cash wrap right now.” My heart dropped into my shoes, and sweat prickled my armpits, making them itch. “What?” I asked again. “He’s standing out there right now with the food critic from The Village Magazine,” he squeaked. “He’s asking for you.” “Me? Why would he be asking for me?” “Well, he didn’t ask for you by name, but he’s asking for the chef, and that’s

you.” “I’m not the fucking chef. I’m the headline cook, and besides, I’m helping Mr. Kemp with—” “I’m good here, lil’ Bird. Go on out there and meet that famous chef,” Mr. Kemp insisted. I licked my lips and wiped my hands on the dishcloth hanging from my apron while I tried to find a way out of this. There wasn’t one. “Okay,” I said, my voice small and nervous. Why was I so fucking nervous? I knew Saxon. I knew his kisses. Knew his body. I had a fucking baby by him, for fuck’s sake. There was nothing to be nervous about. I fucking knew him. I followed Joshua through the swinging door and the staging area to the cashwrap. In the entryway stood Saxon and Gwen. His cheeks were a little ruddy. They got that way when he drank bourbon — pink under those cinnamon fleck freckles and warm to the touch. He was in a playful conversation with Gwen, so Josh cleared his throat to get their attention. They both turned to me, a slow, sensual, surprised smile spread across Saxon’s lips. “Here’s our chef,” Joshua announced, stepping aside to push me forward. “Good afternoon, Chef Turner,” I said, presenting my hand. “Birdie Malone,” he murmured, as his large, warm palm slid across mine. “You’re the head chef here?” “My official title is head line cook, but everyone insists on calling me, chef—” “Because that’s what you are,” Gwen said. “The Village Magazine offices are right across the street. We eat here three or four times a week.” “That’s true,” I said with a laugh that I hoped didn’t sound as nervous as it felt because Saxon was still holding my hand. And staring at me with those piercing blue eyes of his. That look made my face hot. Made me wish that the thumb stroking the back of my hand was stroking across my nipples instead.

I cleared my throat, pulled my hand away, and linked them behind my back. “Is Gwen giving you a proper Greenville Foodie Tour?” I asked. Saxon shrugged and tucked his hands in his back pockets. “She showed me where to find the best bourbon and charcuterie.” “Okay…” I said with a nod and a laugh because of that made sense. “I think I know what to make for you. Josh, is the table near the front window empty?” “Yes, those guests just left, but Damian is still bussing the table.” “Okay, once it’s cleared, get them seated and give them that bottle of Marrow Bone Creek.” “The whole bottle or—” “Yes, the whole bottle.” I backed toward the swinging door. “I’ll send out some appetizers along with that good liquor you’ve been sipping all afternoon,” I promised. When the door swung closed behind me, the reality of this situation descended on me. If it was just Saxon, it would be no problem. But it wasn’t just Saxon. It was the competition, and Saxon, and the goddamn food critic for The Village Magazine. The moment I stepped into the kitchen, everyone’s eyes landed on me with expectant expressions. Their eagerness fed the nervousness churning in my belly. Hands-on my hips, I stared down at my kitchen clogs and tried to think. Pairing whiskey with food was tricky — not because there was any danger of going taste numb, but because it really gave you too much fucking freedom to use bold flavors. I just needed to know what foods pair well with the whiskey he’d been drinking. Saxon liked malt whiskey best, and Marrow Bone Creek’s malt was sweet. Honeyed figs, sweet spices, and a dry smokey finish — the exact bourbon I sent to his table. And knowing Saxon, he would want to keep drinking throughout the meal, so I couldn’t pair it with anything too spicy or garlic heavy if I wanted him to be able to taste both.

I looked up at Ortega, who met my eyes with a nervous giddiness. “Good whisky pairings, go.” “We have a bit of that fatty salmon left —“ I shook my head. “No. It’s Tuesday. No seafood.” “Not even smoked salmon?” Pausing for a moment, I considered the smoked salmon. He was a Charleston boy. Salted fish was well within his palate. “That might work for an appetizer. We could do a fried green tomato stack with goat cheese, chives, avocado if we have it. Wait… do we even have green tomatoes?” “Yes, Chef!” a voice called from somewhere in the back of the kitchen. “Good. Good. Let’s do that.” “Okay, Chef,” Ortega said, writing all of that down in the little notepad she kept in her apron. “But what about the entree?” Without answering her, I stalked toward the fridge and stepped inside. We had steak, but the steak was out. He just had that last night at Hunt’s, and I knew we couldn’t compete with that. Lamb chops? Chicken? Ground beef? Italian sausage? Wait… I checked the dates on the sausage, and the ground beef then laughed. “What, Chef?” Ortega asked. “We’re gonna make him Mr. Kemp’s meatloaf.”

“Really?” she asked, her face twisted in blatant disbelief. I grabbed the pan of ground beef and spicy Italian sausage. “Yes, really. Chef Turner has been traveling the world for five years. He’s eaten in some of the most expensive restaurants and some of the strangest roadside eateries. What he hasn’t had in five years is a home-cooked meal.”

Chapter Twelve

Saxon

Birdie said she was making us something special, but I asked for a menu anyway. The hostess showed us to our table, and when I sat down, I took a good look around. The place definitely had a mom-n-pop feel with its wood tables and ladder backed chairs. And the menu was exactly what you would expect: a protein, three sides, and a dessert. At first glance, I didn’t see a lot of Birdie in the options, but on closer inspection, I saw the little ways she’d elevated the simple, down-home selections. I smiled when I saw those little bits of her in there. Her name tag might say Head Line Cook, but she was definitely the chef of this kitchen. “I know this isn’t your usual fare, but I saw that you’d taken an interest in Birdie and figured that you might want to see her in her natural habitat.” “Interest?” I questioned, playing coy. “Everyone could see that you couldn’t take your eyes off the girl.” I shook my head and laughed, mostly at myself. Hopefully, it came across as dismissive and nonchalant. “She’s a talented chef. Her skill and creativity stood out from day one.” Gwen smiled and leaned forward on her elbow. “She’s definitely talented, and that gorgeous face and body don’t hurt either,” she said with a raise of her right eyebrow. I raised a brow in agreement. “I mean, I am a man. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.” “I know you noticed. I noticed that you noticed,” she said with a throaty laugh.

“But my interest in her is purely professional.” “Oh, really? Is that why you put on that sweet southern drawl and held on to her hand for so long?” Damn. Was my face and body language that easy to read? I guess I never really had to disguise it before. Flirting and wielding my good ol’ boy charm were part of my person in front of the camera. I’d been in front of it for most of my adult life, so maybe it was no longer just my persona. Maybe it was really me now. “Listen… that girl is gorgeous and talented, but I don’t want to ruin her chance of winning by asking her out or anything.” “Oh, so you’ve thought about it?” At that moment, I that Gwen was more than just a judge and conversation over dinner and drinks. She was a journalist, and I let her get me liquored up, and she was gearing up to pull some intimate details out of me. “Hey, chef! I’ve got that bottle of Marrow Bone Creek Whiskey and some appetizers to get you started.” “Ah. Thank you, Sophie,” I said with a smile. The waitress beamed like she was surprised that I ed her name. She set two chilled rocks glasses on the table, the bottle, and a small platter. “What do we have here?” I asked. “A fried green tomato stack topped with locally sourced feta goat cheese, avocado, fresh chives, and smoked salmon from Big Lawson’s BBQ.” “Oh wow… I had the privilege of sampling some of this at Big Lawson’s earlier this week.” “Oh, really?” Gwen asked with interest. “Yeah, me and Myles are old friends. We go way back.” “Is that how you landed the judging gig for this competition?”

Recognizing that I’d stumbled into a safe territory, I decided that this was a good subject to stick on. “Listen…” I began once the waitress and left our table to check on the other four tops in her section. “I know you invited me out in hopes of getting me drunk enough to either show my freckled white ass in these Greenville streets or reveal some closely held secret that no one else knows. You ain’t gonna get either out of me.” Gwen slumped back in her seat. “You could’ve told me that before you drank fifty dollars' worth of whiskey.” “And you could’ve itted that was what you wanted from me when you invited me out.” But that wouldn’t have been an authentic exchange.” “Probably not. But my assistant would have killed any drunken tales before they ever made it to whatever blog you planned to sell it to.” “You mean the assistant that quit this afternoon?” She asked. “Heh, touché.” That fifty dollars of whiskey had almost let me forget that Paula had rage quit in the parking lot just a few hours ago. I leaned forward and grasped the whiskey bottle on the table, poured a healthy slug in each of our glasses. “Here’s what I’m willing to do,” I began by lifting my glass and gestured for her to grab hers. She did. “I’m not gonna give you any scandalous bits about my personal life, but I will give you the buddy romance between Big Lawson and me. Gwen looked thoughtful for a moment. “And you haven’t shared this with anyone before?” “Nope. We recorded an episode with him before we came out here, but no one will know about our friendship until this season.” She sloshed the amber liquid in her glass while she processed what I’d offered her. “Can you promise to make this exclusive?” “Yes. Send me an email in the morning, and I’ll agree to it.” Gwen raised her glass. “We have a deal.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I told the tale of how I met Myles and how our friendship had developed over the years. By the time Sophie and Birdie emerged from the kitchen with our entree, I was warm with whiskey and good memories. And seeing Birdie walking toward me in her chef’s coat warmed me in ways the whiskey hadn’t. “Okay, good people!” she said as she slid the entree’s in front of us. “I know this is going to seem super basic. But Chef Turner, you have been traveling the world and eating really exotic fare for quite some time. I figured the thing you would want is a home-cooked meal. So… I made you Mr. Kemp’s meatloaf. With a little sumthin’ extra, of course.” I tried… I tried real hard not to stare at her mouth while she told us about the food on the plate in front of us, but I couldn’t. The whiskey wouldn’t let me. “So… like I said, it’s super basic, but I hope y’all enjoy!” Birdie began to back away from our table, and before I realized what I was doing, I’d grabbed her hand, holding her in place. “Why don’t you us, chef?” Birdie cast a wistful look toward the kitchen. “I don’t know…” “Just for a minute,” I said, a tad too much pleading in my voice. Birdie’s hand gripped mine in a tight reassuring grasp then she turned those brown eyes on me. “Okay, just for a minute.” I unrolled my silverware while Birdie dragged a chair from one of the other tables over. She settled into the chair as I spread my napkin on my knee. She affected a relaxed pose I knew she didn’t really feel because her knee bounced intermittently, and her fingers twirled around the curl at the end of her thick braid. Wow.. that brought back memories. That thick braid in the cradle of her spine as I fucked her from behind. “Chef Malone,” I said, after clearing my throat. “How do you feel about the competition so far? Are you feeling confident about your performance?” Her knee stopped bouncing, and she sat up a little straighter. “Confident? Somewhat. Mostly I’m surprised, to be honest.”

“Surprised?” Gwen asked. She had already dug into her mac-n-cheese. “Well… I haven’t been in such a competitive environment since culinary arts school. It’s a lot more intimidating than I ed.” “You went to culinary arts school?” Gwen asked. Birdie cast a furtive glance my way, then looked away just a quickly. “Yeah… I went to the Culinary Institute of Charleston.” “I had no idea,” Gwen said. “It’s not something I talk about much. I dropped out in my third year. I had the same issues with competition there that I’ve been struggling with the last few days.” Was that the story she was telling everyone? That she was some softy who couldn’t handle the competition, so she dropped out? That was so far from the truth, and did her and her talent such a disservice that I nearly said something. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said instead. “Not all of us can be world traveling chefs with a show on the food network!” she said, glancing my way with a sad smile. “Some of us are just really good, really creative home cooks,” she finished pointedly. Ouch. That was something I’d definitely said to her during our spats in the classroom about her technique and inability to stick to a damn recipe without adding her own flair and flavor. “Well…” I sliced into the meatloaf and pushed a bite of the Mac-n-cheese, mashed potatoes, and a single crispy Brussel sprout onto my fork along with it. “One thing I’ve learned while traveling the world, eating exotic fare is all well and good, but there is nothing like comfort food.” I hadn’t meant for it to sound so cheesy — like some line I would say at the end of my show. But I could feel the anxiety vibrating off her as I brought the fork to my mouth, and I just wanted her to relax. Chef’s and foodies all have an obsession with the perfect bite. That one bite that

combines all of the meticulously crafted flavor profiles married on the tongue in a memorable way. This may be a simple, down-home meal, but I could taste the care and love she put into it. It made me nostalgic for all of the home-cooked meals I never had. “Wow,” I murmured as I loaded up my fork again. “This is really good, chef.” She chuckled. “You sound surprised.” “Not surprised,” I said, shaking my head, my mouth full of her good food. “More like pleased. I mean, you know how I grew up. I didn’t get a whole lot of home-cooked meals like this.” My fork was halfway to my mouth before I realized what I said. “How did you grow up?” Gwen asked. “I think on one of your first shows you said something about your dad raising you by himself,” Birdie suggested, smoothing over my slip of the tongue. “Yeah, uh, my mother died in childbirth, so my dad raised me on his own. And he wasn’t --” Something lodged in my throat. A bit of meatloaf or maybe emotions stirred up by that good ass whiskey and being so close to Birdie. I cleared my throat. “Let’s just say he did the best with the skills he had.” Birdie reached out and gave my forearm a comforting squeeze. Gwen observed that bit of affection with no comment but a knowing smile quirked her lips. “So that upbringing… I imagine it was pretty rough, huh?” Gwen asked. I was so relieved that she didn’t try to latch on that I’d spoken to Birdie like we weren’t strangers that I didn’t mind spilling my guts about my impoverished upbringing. I’d never told anyone most of these things — only Birdie — so Gwen was getting some super exclusive fodder for whatever article she wanted to write on me. And honestly, it was about time. Maybe this competition and a potentially humanizing article would help me shed this devil may care persona while I still could. I clean my plate. In fact, I go a step beyond cleaning my plate and swept my finger through the residual spicy ketchup that topped the meatloaf and mashed

potatoes onto my finger and licked it off. Birdie laughed. “Are you done, chef?” she asked, holding out her hand for the plate. “Unfortunately, yes,” I said, ing the plate to her. “Do you need a box, Gwen?” “Yes, that’d be great. This was really delicious, Birdie. Per usual.” “It was my pleasure. I’ll be right back with that box.” I leaned forward on my elbows and watched Birdie make her way back to the kitchen, wishing her chef pants didn’t hide the perfect little ass I knew was under there. Gwen cleared her throat, and I redirected my attention back to her. “You’ve got to work on your poker face.” “What?” I said with a nervous laugh. “You’re gone for that girl, and it’s all over you, Saxon Turner.” I scrubbed my hand over my face and laughed again because what could I say? I was gone over Birdie. Have been since the day we met. Birdie brought back the food critics to-go box, and we all stood. I glanced at my watch and realized that we’d been here for hours. The dining room was empty except for us. “So, are you going to give me the kitchen tour?” I asked, trying hard to find a reason to stay. “Do you really want to do that?” Birdie asked a crinkle in her brow. “Of course.” “Well, I’m gonna have to opt-out,” Gwen interrupted. “I’ve got a wife and kids at home. It’s been real, chef,” she said, thrusting out her hand. “Oh, yeah, definitely. And if you need anything more for your article, let me

know.” “Will do. Good night!” “Night, Gwen,” Birdie said, a bright smile on her face. She watched Gwen walk out the door and cross the street before she turned to me. “Are you asking to tour my kitchen because you’re interested or because you’re just trying to spend more time with me?” I shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. “Can it be both?” Then I saw it happen. The wall that had been between us for the last two days slammed down again. She folded her arms over her chest. “Listen, Saxon. I really appreciate you confronting Breslin on my behalf. I don’t know what happened between you two or why it lead to him being fired, but thanks for that.” “It was nothing. I only wish that I’d been there to prevent it. I wish it never happened to you in the first place.” Her dark brown eyes met mine, and I hoped she felt how much I wished I could change that. “I do, too,” she said softly. “But I still don’t think it’s a good idea to—” “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” That same little voice I heard earlier today from the back seat of that car burst from the lungs of the tiny human who rushed at Birdie with her arms thrown wide. Birdie bent low and scooped her daughter up in her arms and spun her around. “Mara! Mara! Mara!” she sang, holding the girl close. The little girl, Mara, was brown-skinned but lighter than Birdie, with a spray of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and over her nose. Her reddish-brown hair was parted into two big curly afro puffs. And when she propped her little chin on Birdie’s shoulder and looked at me, I saw her brown eyes — the color of her mother’s but shaped just like mine. “Holy shit,” I whispered. “Mommy, that man said a bad word,” Mara accused, pointing at me.

The guy who’d picked Birdie up after the competition today walked through the door, and holy fuck, he was even bigger now that I was standing next to him. “Heyyy…Bird,” he said, his speech slow and unsure. “Did you let her cross the street by herself?” Birdie accused. “Of course not! We crossed, and I stood on the corner to make sure Kairo got in her car safely.” “Hmmm…” she hummed suspiciously. “I guess you won’t be needing that ride home?” he asked. Birdie glanced and me and held her daughter a little tighter. “Uh, no. I think I’m going to be here for a little while longer. Did she eat?” “Yeah, we grabbed Wendy’s.” “Really, Atlas?” “It was what she wanted. You know I can’t say no to that face. Who’s your friend?” he asked, tipping his chin in my direction. “Oh, shit. I’m being rude. Atlas, this is Chef Saxon Turner. He’s one of the judges from the foodie competition. Chef Turner, this is my brother in law, Atlas.” “Not your brother-in-law yet—” “But you will be as soon as you give Soni a ring—” “Anyway!” he interrupted, stepping forward to shake my hand. So he wasn’t her man. I was relieved by that but still unnerved by the thought that had formed in my mind when I saw little Amara’s face. “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, returning his handshake. “And who’s this?” I asked, pointing at the little girl in Birdie’s arms. Birdie turned toward me, and when her eyes met mine, I knew it was true. “This is,” she began hesitantly, the corners of her mouth wobbling. She was trying hard

not to cry. “This is my daughter Amara Rose. Say hi to Chef Turner, Amara,” she coaxed, jiggling her a little bit. The little girl pulled her face out of Birdie’s neck, and when she looked at me, something in my chest cracked. “Hi,” she said in a small, shy voice that was nothing like the one she’d used when she burst through the door, then buried her face in her mother’s neck again. “Her name means grace, mercy, and kindness in Igbo, but she’s still growing into that,” Birdie said with a soft chuckle. I just stared at the two of them in shocked silence. “She’s just tired,” Atlas volunteered. “I should get her home.” “Are you ready to go home with Uncle Atlas?” “No, Mommy. I want to stay with you,” Amara whined. “I know, baby, but mommy has some work to do. This competition will be over soon, I promise. And then you’ll have mommy all to yourself again.” She kissed Amara’s cheeks then hand her off to Atlas. A strange protective jealousy rose in me when she nuzzled into the big man’s chest. “Nice meeting you,” Atlas said with a polite nod. “Birdie, I’ll be up for a while, so if you need a ride home. Call me and not an Uber, please.” “Okay, dad,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Thanks for taking care of baby girl today.” “No problem, Bird. See you later.” She followed them to the door and locked it behind them. The upbeat sound of the kitchen staff cleaning up after shift echoed from the back of the house as I tried to make sense of all this. Birdie turned to me slowly, her posture stiff and her eyes cast down. “Is that…is she…?” I knew what I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t get the words out.

She looked up at me with glassy, tear-filled eyes and nodded. “She is. She’s your daughter, Saxon. I guess we need to talk.”

Chapter Thirteen

Birdie

This was not the way I wanted it to happen. This wasn’t the way I wanted Saxon to find out about Amara, but in the grand scheme of things, did it really matter? He knew, and I just had to explain why I kept it from him all of this time. This conversation will be short and to the point. Probably. Hopefully. My staff was breaking down for the night, but the moment we stepped into the kitchen, all eyes were on us. “Hey, guys! You all know Chef Turner, right?” “Hello, everyone,” Saxon said. I introduced each of them by name, and he did his best to remain charming and genial, but his mask was slipping. “I’m gonna go back here and have a chat with the Chef, but before I go, I want to let you guys know what an amazing job you did tonight. I know Mr. Kemp came in here and threw a monkey wrench into our well-organized machine. I had a talk with him, so hopefully, that won’t happen again tomorrow. But way to readjust on the fly and make things work.” “You’re welcome, Chef,” Ortega said, and the staff echoed her. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office, but don’t disturb me if it’s something Ortega can handle. Got it?” “Yes, chef,” they answered in unison. “Okay,” I glanced at Saxon and tipped my head toward the office.

“You folks have a good evening,” he said with a sexy half-smile that must be second nature by now. It made me wonder how many people knew him — the real him. My guess was not many. My office was little more than a windowless room dominated by an old-school metal government-issue desk. A love seat was pushed up against the wall just to the left of the door. It was covered with files that Mr. Kemp had pulled out while he was here and packs of brand new dishtowels. “Sorry,” I said as I moved the files and dishtowels to a shelf behind the desk. “Mr. Kemp was super busy in here this afternoon. I’m almost afraid to see what kind of damage he’s done to the system I created. Please, have a seat,” I suggested once I’d cleared enough space for him to sit comfortably without the whole lot tumbling down on him. Saxon looked at the couch then around the office. Anxious energy vibrated off of him, and the muscle in his jaw flexed as he sat down. “Mr. Kemp… he owns the place?” “Yeah, he’s a family friend. The only one who would hire me after Breslin got me blackballed.” I closed the door, drowning out the music and laughter of my kitchen staff. When I did that, the space seemed to fill with his scent. The loveseat was small — too small. I didn’t trust myself to sit that close to him when I felt so vulnerable. So I leaned against the desk and folded my arms across my chest. The mojo bag in my bra shifted, salt shifting against the lodestone in a way that made me aware of its purpose. “I imagine you have a lot of questions…” Saxon sat forward on the couch, elbows to knees, with his head bowed. “She’s mine?” he asked again, his voice gravel rough with emotion. “Yes.” “She’s mine… my little girl,” he whispered, then cradled his head in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “You left,” I answered simply. “You made it absolutely clear that a life with me

wasn’t what you wanted. A baby wouldn’t have changed that.” He looked up at me. His blue eyes were filled with tears. “Birdie… I would’ve never left you if I knew — ” “I didn’t know until you were already gone. I missed my first period the month after you left.” “So why didn’t you tell me then? I would have come back. I wouldn’t have left you to raise our daughter alone.” “I know, but that would’ve been your only reason for coming back, right? Out of duty and obligation. Not because you loved me or wanted to be with me.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I heard the selfishness. “Birdie—” “Yeah, that’s selfish,” I said before he could hit me with that accusation. “But I’m not in the business of chasing after men who don’t keep their word. You didn’t want me or any future we might have had together. So I thought it was better for me to raise Amara alone than to have to share custody with a father who didn’t love her mother and couldn’t stay in one place for more than seventytwo hours.” “Have I ever said I didn’t love you? Did you ever hear those words come out of my mouth?” “You didn’t have to say it, Saxon. Your actions spoke loud and clear.” “I would’ve rearranged my whole life if I knew that you were carrying my baby, Birdie. You know that about me. And as far as my actions are concerned, I left because I loved you—” “Are you kidding me? You don’t really believe that, do you?” Saxon covered his heart with his hand. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the truth.” I stared at him in disbelief as tears filled my eyes. “How can you say that? I risked everything for you, and you just…left without a word or a phone call. You

crushed me, Saxon! You ruined me!” A hard knock at the door startled me, and I suddenly realized that I was practically screaming and that my staff likely overheard me. “Yeah!” I called out after clearing my throat. “It’s Ortega. We’re about done out here. Do you want me to lock up when we leave?” “Yes, Jenna. Thank you,” I called back. “I’ll be here for another ten minutes or so if you need anything.” “Sure, thanks, Jenna.” I gripped the edge of the desk and stared at him. “There’s no point in arguing about what might have happened. You know about her, so what happens now? Are you going to try to get custody or something—” “What? Birdie, no. I’m just trying to process all of this. I just found out that I have a daughter like five minutes ago… I have no plans to launch a custody battle.” I let out a shaky, relieved sigh. Of course, he could change his mind about that later on, but at least I didn’t have to worry about that tonight. “I just… I can’t believe you did this. I can’t believe you had a baby and kept it from me,” he whispered. This time, when he looked up at me, tears tracked down his freckled cheeks. The pain I saw in his eyes was staggering. Through all of this, I never imagined him hurt. I’d made him into some emotionless monster that didn’t give a damn about me and would have given less than a damn about our kid if he knew about her. Apparently, I was wrong. “I realized that leaving would hurt you, but I never thought… ah, fuck.” He covered his face with his hands. “What are we gonna do about this, Birdie? We have a daughter. It was hard enough to keep up the charade that we don’t know each other. Now that I know she exists, I can’t just pretend that she doesn’t.”

“I know,” I answered softly. He dropped his hands and looked up at me again. “So what are we gonna do? I can’t just leave this room with things the way they are.” “So what? I’m supposed to stay up all night talking through this thing with you?” “If that’s what it takes, yes.” Saxon’s tone and the look in his eyes was unwavering. “Fine,” I finally agreed. “But we can’t do it here.”

Atlas pulled up in his Lexus and parked it at the back door of Kinfolks. He climbed out with a plastic grocery bag in his hand and a grim look on his face. “Thank you for doing this,” I said, taking the bag from him and holding my hand out for the keys to his condo. “What did you tell Soni?” “That I forgot something at the office. I don’t like lying to her, Birdie.” “I know. I just need like twenty-four hours without being questioned by the Malone women —” “It’s mostly my fault,” Saxon chimed in. “If I could’ve checked us into a hotel, I would’ve done that, but obviously…” “I get it,” Atlas said, giving him a polite nod. “As long as you’re sure about this…” He placed the keys into my open hand. “I’m sure.” “Okay. The sheets should be clean. The maid was just there on Tuesday. Clean towels and stuff are in the hall closet.” “Okay, thanks again.” “Call your sister in the morning, Birdie,” Atlas called over his shoulder as he climbed back into his car. “I don’t want to be caught in the middle of this.” “I will. I promise.” He tooted the horn before he pulled off, and I pulled out my phone to call an Uber. “I’m sorry about this. I know it puts you in a bad spot.” “Don’t sweat it,” I murmured. “I always promised myself that if the opportunity to tell you about Amara presented itself, I would do it. I would tell you everything you wanted to know,” I said with a shrug. “You never thought about reaching out?”

“Did you?” I asked with more venom than I intended. “Touché,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “Besides… you probably wouldn’t have responded anyway. I couldn’t just send you an email titled ‘you have a daughter’ and expect it not to hit TMZ before you even read it.” “You’re right on both s. If you’d tried to me early on, I would have ignored it because I thought a clean break was best.” “Hm,” I grunted. Amazing how much that still hurts.

“And honestly, I was too much of a coward to reach out.” I turned to look at him. “So you thought about it?” “Of course, I did,” he whispered. “Every day for the last six and a half years.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “I know I broke your heart when I left. But you’ve gotta know that I broke mine too. I never stopped loving you, mon oisillion.” Mon oisillion… my little Birdie. He always called me that. He was fluent in French, but he spoke it with a southern accent, so his pronunciation made him self conscious. Oh, god. Why the fuck am I taking this trip down memory lane? I couldn’t believe a word he said. Not a single word. But my heart. My heart didn’t agree with my head. And my body… I wasn’t a nun or anything. There was plenty of casual sex in my post-Saxon life. But my body ed making love to him. Pretty much every other experience paled when I compared it to the sex we had together. I was smart enough to know that it was more about the emotion attached to the act than the

actual sex itself, but my body didn’t care. It still wanted him. “Sure you do, you charming, handsome, motherfucker,” I said with a laugh. “Of course, you miss me. I’m amazing.” “You’re laughing, but I’m serious. And you are amazing. You were good to me and for me.” He stepped out of the doorway where he’d been leaning and faced me square on. “Do you hear me, Birdie?” I nodded. “I hear you.” I knew that I was good to him and for him, but it felt good to hear him it it. “Good.” He stepped a little closer. “Do you believe me?” The look in his eyes was too intense. I had to look away. But when I did, my gaze dropped to his lips, and that was a mistake because now I was thinking of the way he kissed me a few days ago. The prickle of his mustache as he brushed his mouth against mine, the apologies he whispered on my lips. “Do you, mon oisillion?” “I…” A car rounded the corner, bright headlights illuminating the minuscule, heated space between our bodies. I stepped back, glad for the interruption. I’d made enough mistakes with this man. Adding more to that already long list wasn’t something I was interested in doing. The car pulled up to the curb behind me, and I heard the window room down. “Are you, Birdie?” “That’s me,” I called over my shoulder. “Just need to lock up, and we’ll be ready to go.”

Chapter Fourteen

Saxon

The lobby of the condo building was empty and quiet and smelled like rose water. I followed Birdie into the elevator and turned toward her as the doors closed. “This is your sister’s boyfriend’s place?” I asked. “Yeah, I mean, he doesn’t really live here, though. We’re all pretty much living at Soni’s now. But we can’t say that he lives there with us because it gets Soni’s hackles up.” “Why?” She rolled her eyes. “She got divorced last year. They were married for thirteen years and separated for a year before it was finalized. She met Atlas around the same time and fell for him hard and fast. I guess she’s just holding onto her independence. She’s not ready to give that up. Not that Atlas is asking her to.” “He seems like a pretty stand up guy.” “He is,” Birdie said with a nod and a smile. “I like him. And more importantly, I like him for her. He’s patient and ive, good with my niece and nephew and Amara, and he really loves her. Like… loves her, loves her in a way I haven’t seen anyone love anybody.” “Hm,” I grunted, acutely aware that there was a dig in there for me, but it was hard to know if it was intentional or if she was just speaking her truth—probably some of both. “Well, I’m relieved. When he picked you up this afternoon, I thought he was your guy.” “Really?” She scoffed. “Atlas is sweet, but he’s not my type.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “A scruffy, arrogant, red-headed chef wasn’t your type either. And yet here we are.” She shook her head made a sound somewhere between a laugh and derision. “Yeah, here we are.” The elevator dinged, announcing that we had arrived at our floor. The doors slid open, but before she could step out, I grabbed Birdie’s hand. “What?” she asked, her voice wispy and soft. “Promise me something?” “Ohhkay…” she agreed, hesitantly. “When we get in here…” I laced my pale-freckled fingers between her brown ones. “Promise me we’ll leave the bitterness at the door. This conversation is long overdue. I don’t want us to end up fighting and then avoid each other for another six years. Let’s sort this out, okay?” I chanced a look at her and found her looking down at our ed hands. “Okay,” she whispered. Her hand slipped from mine, and we made our way to Atlas’s door. “Wow,” I said when we stepped inside. “I know, right? Atlas bums around in sweats, and Jordans and most of his work can be done from a laptop and cellphone. Sometimes I forget that he’s like seriously rich,” she said as she made her way toward the nearest lamp. “What does he do?” I asked as I looked around, tasing it all in. “You know… I’m not actually sure? Something with investments and business development, and he runs a co-working spot across from Kinfolks, where he teaches business courses. That’s how he met Soni. Whatever it is, he seems to be pretty good at it.” “You ain’t kiddin’,” I murmured.

The condo had definitely been cleaned recently. It looked like something out of Modern Living Magazine. All of the surfaces glowed in the lamplight, and it smelled strongly of oranges. Cautiously, I walked a little further into the room. The full expanse of the far wall was a large picture window that offered an unencumbered view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The furniture was big, low, and comfortable. “Does he rent or own this place?” I asked as I crossed the room to the wall of windows. “Owns. The units in this building went for three thousand when they broke ground, I think? But that was a couple of years ago. It’s probably worth half a million now.” “How old is this guy?” I asked, turning toward her. She was still standing near the door, almost as if she was afraid to onto the room. “Thirty-one. Same age as me.” “Wow,” I said again, turning to look at the blues, grays, and forest greens of the mountains. This kid was eight years younger than me and was already more stable. “Why so many questions about his place? Are you interested in making some sort of real estate investment?” Her voice was low but closer. She’d come a little further into the room. “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “It’s a nice place.” I turned to face her. “I was just thinking I could live here.” She laughed. “You? Move to Greenville and actually put down some roots? Nah.” “Why’s that so hard to believe? And I just found out that I have a daughter who lives here, so…” “You’d hate it here,” she countered. “You’ve traveled all over the world—” “So I’ve done all the traveling I want to do,” I interrupted. “And it would be hard to hate this place when you and my daughter are here.”

We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and in the space between us, I felt her give just the tiniest bit. Then she backed away. “Do you mind if I take a shower? I want to get the kitchen stink off of me. You know how it is.” “Of course.” “Okay, I won’t take long—” “Take as long as you need, Birdie. I’m not going anywhere.” I wanted to add that I wouldn’t ever leave her again, but I couldn’t make the promise. Not yet. Birdie must have sensed it because she gave me a tight nod, then grabbed the grocery bag Atlas had given her and went down the darkened hallway toward the bathroom. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to make those promises. I just knew that it wasn’t fair of me to reenter her life like this and love bomb her. I fucked this up. I’d never been in love before Birdie, and now that she was back in my life, I know that I haven’t been in love since. And that little girl — our little girl — deserved better than some father who blew in and out of her life like some chaotic whirlwind. I owed it to her to make things right with her mother. But how am I supposed to do that? Birdie was so closed off — her feelings were locked down tight. The only thing that seemed to seep out was the anger and bitterness she aimed at me. But I knew she wasn’t always that way. Not in the kitchen when I saw her selflessly teaching a co-contestant some basic knife skills. Nor did I see it when she interacted with Amara. No. That disdain was just for me and deservedly so. Would I ever be able to get past that? And more importantly… Should I even try? Because as much as it hurt me that she hid Amara’s existence from me, I knew she wasn’t wrong to do it. The man she thought I was? I was still him. Sure I wanted to be better — do better. But if having her and her love in my life wasn’t enough to make me settle the fuck down, she had no reason to believe that Amara would.

Down the hall, the shower kicked on, and an excited whoop echoed out into the hallway. The shower must be as nice as the rest of the apartment. And now I was thinking about Birdie naked and wet in that nice ass shower. I made it halfway down the hallway before I realized how creepy and presumptive it would be for me to strip and climb in the shower with her. Pivoting on one heel, I redirected my steps to the living room. Too anxious to sit down, I marked the circumference of the room. There were a bunch of photos scattered around the room; travel photos. Greece, Japan, India, Bulgaria… it seems like Atlas was a world traveler like myself. If things worked out with Birdie and me, maybe we could be friends — You’re getting ahead of yourself, Saxon. I definitely was. My heart was way ahead of my head because I’ve never wanted something to work out in my favor more than I did right now. I collapsed on the deep comfortable couch and pulled out my phone. Paula had convinced me that googling Birdie wasn’t a good idea, but there was no reason to avoid it now. I thumbed Birdie’s name into the search bar and hit enter. Thousands of results populated, but most of them were links to a YouTube channel and her Instagram. I clicked on the first link, and it took me to a video tutorial on how to make Southern buttermilk biscuits from scratch. The video was subtitled, and it only framed Birdie’s hands, her ingredients, and utensils — the action was set to some looping hip-hop beat. There was nothing remarkable about it. I watched the whole-fucking-thing. Watching her hands, those delicate brown fingers I’d laced my own through — mix, roll, fold, and roll again, cut and bake twelve biscuits that came out of the oven sky-high and perfectly browned. And at the end? Once the biscuits were buttered and cooled and ready to eat? A chubby little hand reached out and snatched one from the pan. I laughed out loud at how she’d included Amara in the video then scrolled down to check the year and the date: February 2016. Amara was two years old then. If I’d been less of a coward about confronting my

mistakes, I would have seen this. Maybe I would’ve reached out. Maybe there wouldn’t have been so much hurt to heal.

Chapter Fifteen

Saxon

Forty-five minutes and eleven YouTube videos later, Birdie finally emerged from the shower. Atlas must have forgotten to put soap in her bag because the smell that rolled out on the steam was distinctly masculine. I hated it. I wanted her sweet citrus smell. I wanted my smell on her skin. Turning to look over the back of the couch, I caught sight of her in a soft t-shirt and slouchy lounge pants that puddled around her feet, leaving her tiny toes exposed. Her hair was piled on top of her head in the way I loved and secured with a silky scarf. “I’m just going to throw these in the wash,” she said, opening a closet in the hallway with her chef coat and pants bundled against her chest. “You know… just in case.” As she dumped her clothes in the washer and cranked the dials, I wondered what just in case meant. Did it mean she was open to spending the night together? I’d assumed I would be taking an Uber back to the condo Paula had rented when we were done here, but just in case made me think something different. If I spent the night, did that mean sex? No, no, no. No sex. Why would I think that? Today was the first time she spoke to me in a way that felt like maybe she wasn’t wishing for my immediate and painful demise. Of course, there wouldn’t be sex. If she let me hold her before the night was over, it would be more of a gift than I deserved. She closed the closet against the sloshing and whirring of the machine and walked toward the couch. Her eyes darted toward the phone in my lap as she sat down. “Decided to catch up on your cyberstalking?”

“Uh, yeah. And I’m actually regretting that I didn’t do it sooner.” She burrowed deeper in the soft, comfy couch. “What video are you watching?” “Uh, I actually watched all of your YouTube videos— which were excellent, by the way. Now I’ve moved on to your Instagram feed.” “Oh! Follow me! It’ll give me kitchen cred!” I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but I laughed, then backed up a few screens and hit the follow button, then scrolled down to where I’d left off. It was a video of Amara naming the ingredients in her favorite sandwich — toasted PB & jam — and it was so adorable it made my heart ache. In the video, she was wearing an oversized apron covered in flour and a headscarf similar to the one her mother always wore in the kitchen. In her tiny, toddler voice, she shouted the recipe directions while pointing a wood spatula at the person behind the camera with all the fervor of a rampaging head chef. Next to me, Birdie chuckled. “This is a crowd favorite. I’m almost positive it was the video that earned me the spot in the competition. Even though my submission video was pretty good, this is the one that started making the rounds after they announced the participants. Can you believe she was only two years old then?” “No, but there’s a lot of things I can’t believe about this tiny human. Starting with the fact that she exists.” That was the wrong thing to say because she shrank back, and created a least a foot of space between us. I powered down my phone then pivoted toward her, resting my arm on the back of the couch. “Do you have any recent videos of pictures of her?” I asked. “Your YouTube cooking show doesn’t show her face — which I think is smart. You should protect her identity, but…I’d like to see more of her.” Birdie bit her lip, nodded, then pushed off of the couch and walked over to where her purse sat on the center island. She retrieved her phone and then came back to the couch. “This was two weeks ago,” she said, handing her phone to me. “Me, my sisters,

and my mom have this… full moon ritual. It's kind of an empowering, Malone woman thing…” I hit play on the video. On the screen, four women were dancing around a huge bonfire. I spotted Birdie and the sister’s I saw at the supermarket this morning, dancing a wild and gorgeously free Dumballah. I’d seen the dance a million times growing up in Charleston, but it was strangely moving to watch my woman and her sisters dancing it. An older woman who must be their mother entered the frame, then a teenage girl, and then… Amara. Our baby girl… reddish-brown hair free-floating like a soft cloud on her shoulders and freckles like mine, like her Papa, mimicking the movements of the women around her, a look of stern concentration on her tiny face. “She’s like a sponge,” Birdie said, laughter and adoration in his voice. “I love her so much. Like more than my own life, but she tries me daily.” She shook her head. “I swear she was put on this earth to teach me patience.” “My dad always said that about me.” “Hm,” she grunted softly, then took the phone out of my and queued up more pictures before she handed it back to me. In this one, Amara was smiling. Her hair was cornrowed into some intricate design, and she made animated faces that changed from frame to frame. Each one was cuter and more ridiculous than the last, and I laughed at all of them. I handed the phone back to her. “Are you ready to talk?” I asked as gently as I could. Birdie stared at the phone in her hand. “This is hard to say out loud. I don’t really know where to begin.” “How about the beginning?” “I…” She took a deep, shaky breath.

Sensing that she was seconds away from letting that wall descend so she could hide behind her bitterness and anger again, I pushed off of the couch and went straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the entertainment stand. I scanned the bottles and grabbed a familiar one: Marrow Bone Creek. It was quickly becoming my favorite brand. “Whiskey,” I said, holding the bottle up and out in front of me as I walked toward her. “I find it to be an effective way to have deep conversations. Drink just enough, and it lowers your inhibitions and loosens your lips. Drink too much, and you’ll forget about lowering your inhibitions and making a fool of yourself. I swear, by this medicine. You’ll be spilling your feelings and making life-altering mistakes in no time.” Birdie laughed — a real laugh. Not the self-conscious, guarded laugh she’d been using since she agreed to spend time with me this evening. A genuine one with her head tossed back exposing the long column of her pretty neck, eyes closed, her perfect teeth bared, a pleasant sound coming from some place deep in her that she’d managed to hide for the last two days. The laugh that I loved. “Oh, really?” she asked, happy tears streaking from the corners of her eyes. “Yup. It also has the added benefit of being a pain reliever.” “Hm.” Her expression darkened again, but I knew it would. I had to acknowledge the pain she’d been through, the pain I wanted her to reveal so that we could get to some place different. Some place beyond the stagnancy that we’d both been held in since I left. “You’re not going to give me a glass? Some ice?” “If I correctly,” I began as I reclaimed my seat next to her on the couch — closer than before. “You’re not the kind woman who needs either,” I finished with a raised brow. She chuckled and thumbed the cork out of the bottle. “You’re not wrong,” she said before bringing it to her lips. I watched those lips purse and her eyes close as she swallowed a mouth full of the good amber liquid. “Hm,” she grumbled again. “This tastes like memories.” She took another swallow.

“Memories ?” I asked as she ed the bottle back to me. She swallowed the mouthful of whiskey and nodded. “Good or bad?” Birdie sighed and closed her eyes again. Her tongue swiped across her top lips slowly, and a soft smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Even considering the way things ended?” she said softly. “The memories of our time together? They’re mostly good.” She opened her eyes and looked right into mine. “Is it true, or did I imagine that?” My chest went tight, and I couldn’t take a deep breath. “You didn’t imagine it.” My voice sounded rough. I cleared my throat. “You didn’t imagine it, Birdie. All of it was good. All of it, but that moment. I hate that leaving you the way I did made you question that.” “It’s not that I question it,” she clarified. “Mostly, I try not to think about it. Thinking about it — even the good times — it hurts. Which is hard because I have a little girl who looks just like you.” “And she’s beautiful, babe.” I shifted toward her on the couch again, and took the bottle from her hands, took another swig. “I hate that you raised her alone all this time, but I can’t believe that my worthless ass made something so beautiful.” “Hey, you didn’t make her on your own,” she corrected. “She might have your red hair and freckles, but she has my brown eyes and my wit. She came from me too.” “I know.” The silk scarf held all of her hair up and off of her neck, but one curl escaped at the nape. I reached out and twirled that ringlet of her hair around the tip of my finger. “Her hair may be red, but it's thick and curly like her mama’s.” Birdie’s breathing slowed, and she licked her top lip nervously. “I know she’s your girl, Birdie.” “She has my nose, too,” she said, her voice thick with emotions she still wouldn’t show me.

“She does,” I agreed. “She makes my faces, and she’s sassy. I’m getting every curse my mother ever laid on me when I was younger,” she said, shaking her head. “That rough, huh?” I asked with a soft chuckle. “Yes, and now that I think about it, this is also your fault. I’ve definitely seen glimpses of your funky ass attitude in her,” she accused, pointing a finger at me. “Hey, now. I’m not a bad guy. I’m just misunderstood. My teachers always called me spirited. Sounds like my daughter is the same.” The smile slid off of Birdie’s face, and she sucked in a harsh breath. “Wow.” “What?” “You said… my daughter.” “Oh.” I looked down at the bottle in my hand. “She is my daughter. The moment I saw her, I knew. She’s mine. Yours and mine. And I fell in love with her at the same moment.” “Shit,” she cursed. “Shit, shit, shit!” She snatched the bottle from me and walked over to the wall of windows with it pressed to her lips. “Shit,” she cursed again, pressing her free hand and her forehead to the glass. “This is so hard. Why is this so hard?” I wanted to go to her, fold her into my chest and kiss her, but I couldn’t be sure that was what she wanted. “Baby girl was born in August? She’s a Leo?” “Yup,” she sighed. “Just like her fucking self-absorbed father.” I laughed but didn’t react to that. “So she’s four years old?” “Yep. She’ll be five this summer.” “A Leo,” I said, shaking my head. “Technically Leo, Virgo cusp,” she corrected.

“That matters?” She scoffed. “Yes, that matters. She needs all the ego-stroking that you need but has a detailed plan to make the ego-stroking a regular part of her life. I’m in this competition because she wants to have a famous cooking show where she can show her face — ” “Wait…” I did some quick math in my head. “So late August means—” “It means she was conceived that weekend we spent together in Asheville,” she said. Her voice went hard and distant again, cold from a memory that was my warmest and happiest. Was I missing something? “Did I… am I mising that weekend? I thought it was good.” My memories of those two weeks we spent together were pretty much the only thing that sustained me after I left her. Birdie shook her head. “It was good,” she clarified, bringing the bottle to her lips again. She pulled the bottle away with a slurp and a pop. “But looking back on it now…it was just a season of bad decisions.” “Hm… a whole season?” I questioned. “Yeah.” Bad decisions? A whole season of them, and I was firmly in that season? “But something beautiful came out of that season,” she said, forcing levity into her voice. She turned and faced me, and I saw the tears on her face. “My beautiful little girl.” “Our beautiful little girl,” I corrected, not-so-gently this time. Birdie nodded, and more tears fell. “Our little girl,” she echoed. “She’s four years old—” “Almost five,” she corrected.

“Almost five,” I echoed. “Why didn’t you tell me about her, Birdie?” “I was hurt!” she accused again. “And angry, and after a while, it was just easier not to think about you and just take care of my baby.” Our baby. I wasn’t going to keep correcting her, but every time she claimed our daughter that way it felt like a paper-thin gash. “But does she know about me?” “No, no one knows. That’s the thing you see. Until you showed up here, no one knew. Not my sisters. Not my parents. No one.” My chest… it felt like someone had kicked me in it. I leaned forward and braced my elbows on my knees. Tried to catch my breath. All of what we shared, all of the love between us, and she didn’t tell anyone. “You didn’t tell anyone ?” “How could I, Saxon? You became this big deal, and I was a pregnant culinary school drop out. Living with my parents with thousands of dollars of student loan debt and no idea how I was going to get my shit together.” “And why are you telling that lie? You’re not some cooking school drop-out. You were kicked out because of me. Fuck, Birdie. You should have let me take the blame—” “What difference would it have made, Saxon? Whether the blame was on you or me, I ended up carrying the shame of it anyway. I came home pregnant without a diploma. I made the mistakes, and you… you just got to do what men always do. You got to leave.”

Chapter Sixteen

Birdie

“Some painkiller,” I muttered after taking a long swallow, then plopped back down on the couch. Saxon stood abruptly and paced away from where he sat on the couch and around the back of it. He rubbed the back of his neck until it was bright pink — almost as pink as his blotched cheeks. When he reached the end of the couch nearest the window, he turned and paced back toward the door. And what was that sound he was making? Was that… laughter? “I’m glad you think all of this is funny.” Saxon groaned and shook his head. “That’s not why I’m laughing.” He dropped his hands to his sides and turned toward me. There was no humor in his eyes, and no smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “I’m laughing,” he began as he walked back toward the couch, “because you think it was easy to leave.” “What?” Saxon came to stand over where I sat on the couch. “That’s what you think. That it was easy to walk away. That I didn’t regret it every second of every day for longer than I’m even willing to it to myself. Because I did, Birdie. I regretted it. I regret it even more now. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do at the time.” “The right thing?” Turning to face him, I rose up on my knees and stared into his eyes. “The right fucking thing? Are you seriously saying this to me right now?”

“Yes!” He bellowed. “It was the right fucking thing!” “My life was in shambles. I gave up everything —” “And all of that was my fault! Just being with me got you kicked out of culinary school. If we’d stayed together, my reputation would’ve made it that much harder for you.” “Harder than what? I’m working as a head line cook at a meat-and-three. Before that, I was an underpaid, undervalued sous chef. Exactly what hardship did I escape?” “Who would you have been if you followed me to Europe? I blew up both of our lives. ? It was a year of taking shit jobs, living in hostels, and writing those damn articles to keep myself sane before anyone would take a chance on me—” “Who would I have been if I followed you to Europe?” I asked incredulously. “Well, for starters, I would have been with you. We would have been together. I wanted—” My voice hitched, and I swallowed hard and blinked back my tears. “I wanted that with you. The struggle… I was willing to do that with you.” “No, no, no…” He paced away again. “You were too bright, too ambitious, too fucking talented to be in my shadow. You would have resented me in the end.” “You don’t know that.” “You would’ve, Birdie. If a chef who graduated from The Culinary Institute of America and taught at the Culinary Institute of Charleston couldn’t get a job in a decent kitchen for two years, what kind of job do you think you would’ve been able to get, huh?” “We talked about all of that before we made the decision to leave together. We talked about it and agreed that I would still go — that you still wanted me to go. Then you just left me.” “Goddammit, stop saying that like I just left like it was no big deal!” “How would I know how you felt, Saxon? You never called me to explain why.” I picked at a loose string in a seam on the couch. “Not an email or a Facebook

message. You didn’t even get drunk one night and slide into my DMs,” I joked. “It was like you fell off the face of the earth. I didn’t hear about you again until your articles went viral and then again when I saw the trailer for Á La Minute.” He turned to look at me with sad red-rimmed eyes. “I did a really good job of erasing you from my life. I blocked magazines and websites that mentioned you. I didn’t pay attention to any interviews you did, but when that trailer popped up on Youtube… gah. I just gave in. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was to hear your voice and see your face. I watched it over and over. I watched that thing so many times.” “You know what’s funny?” he asked softly. “I kept hoping you would see it and decide to reach out.” “If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just reach out to me?” “Because I’m a coward. Because I knew I don’t deserve it. Even in this moment, I can’t bring myself to cross this room on my knees, and kiss you, and beg you to forgive me.” I chuckled at that idea and brought the whiskey bottle to my lips. “I’d like to see that,” I murmured before I took a sip. A little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. He toed off the soft leather loafers on his feet, then walked around to the front of the couch… And dropped down to his knees. An uncomfortable feeling unfurled in my belly as he crawled across the floor toward me. Like he was tugging at the bind, holding back my emotions. Once he was kneeling at my feet, he took the whiskey bottle from my hands and set it on the coffee table. “Birdie,” he said softly and looked up at me. No, this can’t happen. I can’t give in like this. Summoning some loose tendril of resistance, I rolled my eyes. “Get up, Saxon. I was just kidding.” “I wasn’t.” He cupped my knees with his hands, and I drew a sharp breath. There

was a thin layer of cotton between his palms and my skin, but I felt the heat of that touch straight up my inner thighs. “Look at me, Birdie.” My breath came too fast. It pushed up the back of my throat and came out ragged in a sound that wanted to be a word but ended in a rasp. I watched his thumbs stroke the inside of my knees, and I had to clamp my legs together to keep from spreading them wide. “Birdie… look me in the eye, please,” he whispered. I licked my lips and then dragged my eyes away from his hands — those big, freckled, scarred, talented hands to the hollow of this throat — freckled there too. And then his mouth… and then his eyes. Those intense blue eyes that intimidated and enticed me from the moment we met. That raspy sound spilled out of me again, and he shooshed me softly. “I’m sorry… so sorry that I hurt you.” “Okay,” I said with a nod, wanting this to be over. “No… listen to me, baby. Hear me.” He squeezed my knees. “I never wanted to hurt you. I’m so, so sorry I did that. If I knew that leaving would hurt you as much and as deeply as it hurt me, I would’ve never done it. I just thought…” He swallowed hard, and tears brimmed in his eyes. “We loved each other, but you loved cooking, you loved being a chef, and I had no problem giving all of that up to be with you. But I could never ask you to do that. That’s why I left.” “What?” I shook my head. “Of course, I would give it up for you — I did give it up for you—” “Only because you believed I could fix it! I could see it in your face, Birdie. You thought it would be rough for a while, but in the end, we would both have our careers and each other.” He was right. I’d thought getting kicked out of culinary school was a minor setback. I’d convinced myself that people became chefs without formal training, and I could do the same. I felt that he could teach me everything I ever needed to know, and that would be a better education than I would ever get in school.

“I didn’t realize how much pressure I put on you,” I itted. “But… it worked out for you, didn’t it?” “Only barely, and I’m such a fuck-up that I’ve squandered opportunities repeatedly. Hell, the only reason I’m even in Greenville now is because I nearly got myself fired while we were in Charleston—” “Fired?” I frowned. “For what?” “It doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head. “What I’m saying is…you believed in me, and that faith you had in me was intoxicating, but I knew it was misplaced. Undeserved. Even while we were lying in bed together, making those plans, I knew I had to let you go. I had to, Birdie.” He closed his eyes, and tears slipped from the corners and down his cheeks. “I didn’t want to pull you down with me. I knew leaving would make you hate me, but you have to understand that in my mind, you hating me was inevitable—” “Saxon,” I whispered before cupping his face in my hands. He drew in a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes closed tighter. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. You are the source of my greatest joy and my greatest pain, but hate is not a word I would use to explain how I feel about you.” He opened his eyes and looked deep into mine. “I can’t hate you because I still love you, Saxon.” “Don’t say that to make me feel better,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Come on,” I said with a dry laugh. “We both know I’ve never been able to lie to you.” A small, hesitant smile quirked his lips, and my gaze dropped there. His hands slid from my knees to my outer thighs. I parted my knees, and he scooted a little closer. “I don’t know… that curse and snarl that came out of you when you saw me for the first time was pretty convincing.” I laughed and shook my head. “You misunderstood me. I never said I wasn’t angry with you. I’m still angry with you.” His top knot had slipped while we

were arguing and I tugged it free now and ran my fingers through his hair. It was longer that I initially thought, wavy, and thick, and just starting to curl at the tips. I traced his brow with my fingertips, abraded my palms on his scruffy cheeks, dragged my thumb across his lower lip. He really was a tragically beautiful man with a face that could inspire a modern-day Bronte or Austen. “Yes, I’m still angry…but mostly I’m angry because, despite all that hurt, I’m still in love with you.” He sighed, and his eyelids sank closed again. “I wish you weren’t.” “I don’t,” I said, then pressed my lips to his. When Saxon kissed me the other day, the taste of it was salty and bitter like tequila and sour grapefruit juice in a glass rimmed with salt. It burned my lips, but I still wanted more of it. But tonight, his mouth was a perfect blend of sweet, salty, and bitter. His lips were soft, his beard a perfect scruffy layer to balance the wet warmth of his tongue. And that first taste… the umami of flavors that I’d chased since the day he left me. Saxon’s hands slid higher and curved around my hips. Ri to his knees, he pulled me closer. I fisted my hand in his hair and he growled, gripped the flanks of my hips, and yanked me even closer. I moaned. We were as close as we could get with our clothes on, but it still didn’t seem close enough. I’d had my share of meaningless sex. Casual, hot, and sometimes anonymous, but never anything serious. No one I would date. I had Amara now, and I refused to expose her to my bullshit if the guy wasn’t going to be around while. But never in all that time did any of those warm bodies bring me as much pleasure as a kiss from Saxon. Why was that? It wasn’t like he was my first. He wasn’t even the first guy I’d fallen in love with. But being with him, kissing him, touching him, it affected me more deeply. Saxon scooped my ass into his big hands, lifted me, angling my pussy against his flat hard belly, and that delicious friction made me gasp out loud and grind against him. “Shit,” he hissed. “Don’t do that. Don’t move like that or make those sounds because I’m gonna do more than kiss you if you keep that up.”

“Is that supposed to make me stop?” He chuckled, and that sound slipped into a moan as I kissed him again, and rocked my hips. I could feel that he was doing the same thing, grinding against the couch to ease the aching need to be inside of me. And now that he mentioned it? Fucking him was all I could think about. With each thrust of his tongue, my pussy grew softer and wetter, making me ready for exactly that. He moaned and tried to pull away. “Come on, Birdie. You’re a little drunk and a lot vulnerable. If we take this any further, then kissing it will just give you another reason to hate me.” “Then I’ll worry about hating you tomorrow. Right now, I just want you inside of me.” “Damn it, Birdie.” He groaned and kissed me again. Rougher, more challenging, and one of his hands slipped under my shirt, splayed across my back, holding me steady. At the same time, he used the other to lift me and reposition me so he could cover me with his body. I opened my legs wider, and the hard ridge of his dick settled there, and Saxon sighed before arching into me, pressing against me just right. I burrowed my hands under his shirt, palms greedy for his naked skin. I could feel him trembling, holding onto the barest bit of self-control. I rolled my hips in time with the deep thrust of his tongue, and I think maybe I could come like this. When I did it again, and he rocked against me in perfect counterpoint, I knew I could definitely come from this. But when I reached for the waist of his soft grey slacks, he flinched and grabbed my hands. “Birdie, baby… no,” he whimpered. “We shouldn’t do this. You’ll regret it.” “Dammit, Saxon. Haven’t you learned that you’re really shitty at making decisions for me? I want to fuck you. I’m not drunk or otherwise incapacitated. This is me giving you my joyful and eager consent.” Saxon laughed and buried his face into my shoulder. “I’m trying to be a good and decent guy. Let me be good and decent to you, Birdie.” “Even if it’s not what I want?” I whined. “Come on, Birdie. Not even a day ago, you wanted me to stay the fuck away from you—”

“And today I want you inside of me.” I wrapped my arms and legs around him and pulsed my hips so that the underside of his dick split my pussy lips through my pajama bottoms and panties, rubbing against my needy clit. “Can’t a woman change her mind?” I whispered, leaving a trail of wet kisses on his neck. “Mmm… of course, you can. Of course… but…” Annoyed, I push him an arm’s length away to look in his eyes. “But what?” “But…” His cheeks went red. Really red. Was this embarrassment or… “I didn’t bring any condoms.” “You didn’t bring any…” I chuckled, and then the chuckled rolled into genuine laughter. “You? Saxon Bryant Turner,… you didn’t bring any condoms?” “Birdie, really? I didn’t think I even had a chance with you. I never even considered the fact that I’d be here with you under me begging me to fuck you —” I rolled my hips, interrupting his declaration, making his eyes rolled back in his head for a moment. “You could pull out?” I offered. “Fuck, Birdie,” he muttered and then sighed and bit his lip like he ed the last time we did that. He shook his head as he looked at me, and it almost seemed as if he’d agreed to slide inside of me skin-on-skin. “I believe that is how we ended up here, little Bird. How Amara ended up here,” he clarified with a raised brow. I smirked. “Did you think that being reminded of how you came inside of me and made our baby girl was going to deter me?” And honestly… when I thought about it now — making a little brother or sister for Amara — I didn’t reject it. Not right away because I already knew we’d made a beautiful, smart little girl. And wouldn’t an apology tour of my body that ended with him coming inside of me be the thing that helped me forgive everything? Probably. Definitely. But the dark, confused look on his face made me laugh it off. “I’m okay with it, Saxon.” He let out a breath. “But I’ve been…”

“Fucking your way through Europe and Asia?” He closed his eyes, and his cheeks went red again, and I realized that I’d never seen him like this before. Embarrassed and humbled, like we weren’t always this open with each other. “Yeah, I mean… I’m not worried that I have something, but it seems reckless…” I sighed because he was right. “It is. I haven’t been an angel either. I’ve been tested in the last year, but yeah, it would be reckless.” His nostrils flared, and his brow furrowed, cheeks red with a different emotion now. “Yeah, reckless,” he said again. “But …” His eyes raked down the length of my body. “You still want me?” He nodded. “I still want you.” “I want you too,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. I wanted to touch him again, so I did; tunneling my hands under his shirt and pulling it over his head so I could see him. He sighed and watched me touch him. Watched me trace the swirling pattern of his freckles — scattered and spare in some places and so clumped together in others that they created a constellation close to my own complexion. He flinched and rolled his hips against me when I scraped my fingernails over his flat, pinky-brown nipples. “Come here.” “Birdie, no.” He chuckled, groaned, and squeezed my inner thighs. “I wanna keep kissing you, but if I do, my dick is going to end up inside of you and…” He shook his head. “We can’t make another baby. Not yet. I haven’t even met the one we already made.” Not yet… I couldn’t even think about what that meant. “You thought about that too?” “The moment after I read it on your face,” he said in a rush. “Hm,” I grunted. “Well… I seem to that you knew exactly how to

make me come without being inside of me.” The humor drained from his face and was replaced with raw desire. The icy-blue irises of his eyes had nearly disappeared. His pupils were blown and gobbling me up. “I ,” he said finally. He bent over me slowly, charging the air between our bodies with all of the want between us before brushing his lips against mine. His fingers burrowed under my t-shirt. The goosebumps that spread across my skin at his touch ed the scars on his fingertips — places that had gone silky from burns, and the raised, criss-cross slices from knife cuts traced the cups of my bra before pushing it upward to drag his thumbs across my nipples. I moaned and arched into his touch. “Hm…yeah, I definitely ,” he murmured before covering one nipple with his mouth.

Chapter Seventeen

Saxon

When I saw Birdie for the first time it was in my classroom. Tiny, but fierce in a bright white toque and a chef’s coat that swamped her, I knew by the gleam in her eye that she was going to be my problem student. The one who got under my skin. The one who always challenged me in more ways than one. But there’s no way I could’ve predicted that six years later, that sexy, mischievous gleam in her eye was something I would have given a pound of flesh to have focused on me again. I guess that wasn’t something I could know until I gave it up, right? If I’d never walked away, I would’ve never known how sweet this could be, how deep this thing between us really ran. I just talked about having a baby with her, for fuck’s sake. A little brother or sister to the baby girl we already had. And damn it, I wanted to do that, but I was smart enough to know that we should take it slow tonight. “I’m never gonna get over you, am I?” she asked softly. I shook my head. “I hope not. God knows I tried to get over you.” “I did, too.” “You didn’t have to co-sign that so fucking fast.” “And you didn’t have to tell me that you tried to get over me either. I heard the rumors. I know about your exploits.” “Exploits?” I murmured, cocking an eyebrow. “All the women, Sax,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve spread your dick across three continents.”

“Mm,” I grunted. “I did. But no experience ever came close to you. In fact, all it did was make me miss you more.” “Yeah, sure. You missed me so much that it took six long years for us to get here.” “Apparently, six years was the time I needed.” “For what?” “Time to miss you. Time to grow up. Time to realize that you’re a good woman, a good love that I squandered.” She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, she reached up and touched my face. “A good woman.” she echoed, her voice soft. She’d made a statement, but there was a question in her voice. I nodded. “Yes. A good woman.” It was no secret that part of the reason why I was so reluctant to get seriously involved with her was that she was so young. She was only twenty-four years old when we met. Ten years younger than me. I knew it would be different for her emotionally, or maybe I just assumed it would be. Or maybe I was projecting because the moment I kissed her, I fell. It was no different now, but she was different. Better and stronger than she was then in all the best ways. But was I better? Was I different? I didn’t think so. And I knew I wasn’t a good man — for her or any woman. But I was good at making love to her. I could make her come, and that would be good. I would make it good for her. This wasn’t about me. Except... well, I kinda fucking loved eating her pussy, and the moment she suggested it, my mouth watered for the taste of her. I pushed up her shirt and found a soft red flannel bag dangling between her breasts. “What’s this?”

“Oh!” Birdie snatched it out of my hand. “It’s a mojo bag. My sister Soni made it for me… for the competition.” She pulled it and her shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor. “You’re sister’s a rootworker?” “What do you know about rootwork?” “I know enough to know that you’re supposed to store that in some sort of special way to keep its magic.” I wasn’t well-versed and only knew enough to be wary of it. Birdie shook her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she said as she reached for me. Her breasts were small, perfect mouthfuls, tipped with dark nipples that beaded and furled from my touch. Bending over her, I sucked her left nipple into my mouth. She let out a soft moan and whispered my name, and her hand curled around the back of my head. Mmm… yes. Just as responsive as I ed. But I ed everything about her body, didn’t I? I knew she loved to have her nipples sucked — sweetly at first and then hard, punctuated with nibbles and pinches. I knew how to translate her moans and all of the little twitches and jerks her body made when I was doing it right. Knew when it was time to slide one hand down the front of her pajama pants, but still over her panties to pet and play with her pussy until the cotton was drenched with her need.. “Come on,” I said, pulling back, creating some space between us. “Where’re we goin’?” she asked, her speech slurred and sex-drunk. “To the bedroom.” “Can’t you just—” “Do you want to explain the mess we’re bound to make on this man’s couch?” Birdie shook her head, and a slow grin spread across her lips. She wrapped her arms and legs around me. I groaned softly and cradled her ass in my hands as I stood up.

“Don’t hurt yourself, old man,” she teased. I rolled my eyes. “Be serious. You weigh nothing. I could hike up Caesar’s Head with you on my back, woman.” She felt featherlight, but when she tightened her legs around my waist and kissed me, my feet refused to move for a second. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, brushing her lips across mine. That about killed me. “I know. I’ve missed you too, baby.” “Show me,” she taunted, lapping at my mouth. “Show me how much.” The condo wasn’t terribly big, but it felt like it took forever for me to reach the bedroom. Finally, we tumbled onto the bed. Me on top of her. She was still making those tiny little thrusts against me, and it damn near made me strip her naked and push inside of her. “I can’t believe you begged me to fuck you bare,” I said through clenched teeth as I tugged off her pajama bottoms. “After that long speech about me being smack in the middle of your season of mistakes.” “Maybe I like making mistakes, ” she teased. “I know that feeling...the moment I saw you this week...” I shook my head. “I was willing to wreck my life and yours just to get you to talk to me.” “Hm. I guess we just bring the bad out in each other, huh?” I smiled at her. “I guess so...” I trailed my fingers around the edge of her panties. Tiny black bikini briefs that molded to her pouty pussy lips. I traced my finger down the seam they made. She squirmed and sighed and whispered please. I pressed my lips to her panty covered pussy. Birdie made a mewling sound in the back of her throat -- a sound that had my name in it that was full of pure animal want. “Please, ” she moaned again. “Shh, sweet girl.” She wanted my mouth on her, and I wanted it too, but I also didn't want to rush

this. No matter what she said, she would hate me in the morning, but I wanted that hate to have a bite to it. I wanted it to have teeth and hooks that pulled her back to me. Yes, that was fucked up, but I never claimed to be a good man. And now that she was back in my life... I didn’t know if I could live without her again. I curled my fingers around the edge of her panties and slowly pulled them down her sturdy, shapely legs. The moment they were off, she spread her thighs, and her hand slid down to touch the place where she wanted me to be. The sight of her fingers slipping between her wet folds made my hips thrust into the mattress involuntarily. “Do you want me to play with it, or are you gonna take care of yourself?” I asked. “You were taking so long to get to it. I thought you needed a little direction.” “Hm, ” I hummed, positioning myself between her thighs, my mouth inches from her sweet pussy. ”It has been a while. Maybe I could benefit from a quick refresher.” I cupped her ass, bringing her pussy so close that my lips brushed against her when I said, “Show me.” Birdie pushed up onto one elbow, made her fingers into a v-shape, and massaged her shy clit until it grew hard and needy, pink and glistening against her blackberry-colored lips. On her next downstroke, I lapped at the hard little nub with the flat of my tongue. “Oh, fuck, ” she whispered as her knees fell wide, and she curled her hips closer to my mouth. “Again...just like that.” She pulled back her hood as if I wouldn't be able to find her ripe clit without her help. I had to laugh at that. It may have been a few years, but I knew every inch of her body. She was just bossy as fuck, and I loved that about her. That she wasn't afraid or ashamed to demand what she wanted in bed. Lifting her ass a little higher, I drew my tongue through her slit, gathering her sweet liquid on my tongue before covering her clit with a wet, slurping suck. She went boneless, melting into the mattress. Surrendering to me.

And I devoured her. I held her pussy open with my thumbs and licked her from ass to clit, humming at the sweet, rich taste of her. And when I slipped the tip of my tongue inside, her pussy clenched around it, and goddamnit, why didn’t I bring any condoms? This isn’t about me... that. When I slid two fingers into her, her hips shot off the bed, and god, she felt so good. So wet and tight and hot, and my dick was so hard that I was about to fuck a hole into this mattress. “Oh, fuck, Sax. Please, wait... no.” She tossed her head left and right, working her silk scarf off of her still damp hair. “No, baby, wait. I don’t wanna come yet. I don’t wanna—” But she was already coming, hard and wet and spilling over my fingers. I wish it was my dick, and I wish she’d never mentioned that she was down to go bare because feeling her come has my dick aching and making a wet mess inside my pants. I would need to take care of that at some point. But not before I make her come again. “It was so fast. It happened so fast,” she whined, still panting from the orgasm. I pushed up on all fours and crawled up her body, dragging my bare chest against her naked skin. She reached for me instantly, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me closer so she could kiss me. Her little body was hot and obviously still in need of my attention. “Why are you so worried about coming fast? Are you one and done these days?” “Well...kinda? Since I had Amara, it’s been harder for me to get there, and once I do...” she shrugged. She was trying to make it sound nonchalant, but I could tell this was something that worried her. The only light in the bedroom was from the living room where we’d left a lamp on—just enough light for me to see the tiny furrow between her brows. I smoothed my thumb over her brow until that crinkle went away. “Lay back and

open your legs for me, baby.” “Saxon, I’m not kidding. It’s hard for me to get there more than once.” I pushed up to my hands and knees. “Legs open, Birdie,” I said firmly. “That wasn’t some sort of challenge--Sax!” I sat up, grasped her by the hips, and yanked her down to the middle of the bed, startling a little yip out of her. I kissed my way down her to her belly button. Despite her protests, her back arched when my lips landed at the crest of her pubic bone. I smiled and traced a line from hip to the other with the very tip of my tongue. Her legs fell open. “I know it’s late, and... you’re more than likely going to regret this in the morning. Which means that I won’t get to kiss you, taste you, or make you come again. And I need to prove to you that there is nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with your pussy. You’ll come until you’re hoarse from screaming my name. I don’t give a fuck how long it takes.” The tension in her shoulders softened, and she bit her bottom lip. “ that time we spent the night googling sex positions?” “Yeah,” she said with a soft chuckle. “Yeah, we found some real gems.” I laughed and nuzzled my nose in the crease of her thigh. God, the scent of her was fucking intoxicating. I could live and die between these thighs. “Do you that thing we read about edging?” I looked up at her. “Vaguely…” “Hm,” I hummed, brushed my lips against her pussy. “Lemme refresh your memory.”

Chapter Eighteen

Birdie

Saxon cupped my ass, gripping it hard enough to make me whimper, then looked me in the eyes as he drew his tongue up the seam of my pussy so lightly that I couldn’t help but squirm. “Keep still, baby. Let me do this.” He smiled at me, then licked my pussy again, applying just a tiny bit more pressure – still steering clear of my clit. He had only just started, but I already felt anxious. Yes, I was aroused. That was the frustrating part — being right at the edge of coming and unable to get there. When Saxon and I were together before, it didn’t take much to get me off, but now… shit, multiple orgasms were something I only achieved when I was alone and had a lot of time on my hands. “You’re in your head, Birdie,” Saxon whispered. “It’s going to take longer if you’re just focusing on the fact that you think you can’t come again.“ “I’m sorry—” “Don’t apologize.” He pushed up on his elbows and looked at me as he massaged my mound, and I shivered. “This feels really good. I swear, but I can’t… I won’t… I just…“ “Don’t trust me. I know.“ Again, he licked the seam of my pussy so softly with a flat of his tongue. So… so softly. “I may be an asshole, Birdie, but I know your body. I know how to make you come. Maybe you can’t trust me with your heart, but you can trust me to do this. Okay?” He asked, arching his brow.

I nodded. “Okay.” He smiled and winked at me, then settled between my legs again. His warm breath and the wet heat of his mouth so close to my clit made me hyper-aware of it. My pussy lips tingled from his whisper-soft attentions. My clit was so hard and eager for his mouth that I could barely keep still the way he asked. “Saxon,” I panted. “Yes?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the hood of my clit. “Please, I think I need…“ I shivered and whimpered a little. “More? That’s not the way edgin’ works, Birdie.” He pushed my legs open wider and stroked his thumbs over the places he’d licked and parted my lips. “Look at you. Already so wet…“ he whispered, and swept his tongue up from my ass, and split my pussy lips, only to stop just under my clit again. “Damn, baby. You taste so fucking good.” Then he did it again. And did it once more. Twice. Three times. I tipped my hips forward just the tiniest bit so that his tongue ghosted over my clit. Just that tiny glancing touch made my whole body quake, and a rash of goosebumps erupted on my skin. “Oh, fuck…” “That’s cheating. Now I have to start all over again.” Just the flat of his tongue lightly licking my pussy lips, splitting them, but still avoiding my clit, and I needed him to lick me there. To suck it. “How… How long are you going to do this?” I painted. “Until you beg me to come.” “I want to come now. I’m begging.”

He chuckled and brushed lips against my pussy, making them glossy with my need. “Not hardly.” Another of those broad, glancing licks, but this time he pointed his tongue and swept it just under my clit. Just shy of actually touching it. Teasing it until my thighs trembled, and my pussy clenched — each lick the promise of ecstasy he said he would give me. “Oh, God. That feels so good,” I moaned. “Fuck… Don’t stop.” I should have kept my mouth shut because he did stop, and then he slapped my quivering pussy with the flat of his hand. Confusing those nerve endings with the sharp dose of pain that made me gasp. “Asshole,” I groaned and frustration. Saxon laughed at me. “I promise it will be worth it.“ He changed his approach. Started with teasing my clit, but that wasn’t enough this time. It felt so good, but there was something bigger just beyond that feeling. Something my body reached for. With each of his tongue, my back arched a little more and a little more until my abdominal muscles quivered from the effort. Over and over, he edged me right up to the point of coming only to deliver that hard slap that was beginning to feel just as good as his soft sucking kisses on my puffy pussy lips. Then finally (finally!) he covered my clit and sucked hard. And when he slid two fingers inside me... “Sax!” I gasped. “Hmm...you’re right there, huh?” “Yes, Sax...please, don’t stop. Please, don’t.” For a solid minute, I was nothing but the pleasure that swept through my body. Hard contractions emanated from deep inside of me, but that wasn’t even the orgasm because when he stroked my g-spot while sucking on my clit, I came apart for real. Hands fisted in the sheets, I barely stifled scream ripped out of me as my pussy gripped his fingers like a vice.

“That’s it, little bird,” he encouraged. We locked eyes, and the way he moaned and licked me off his lips as he watched me come was so intense that it made me ride his fingers a little harder until the pleasure crested it again. “Shit, Birdie,” he whispered, his fingers stroking into the slick flex of my pussy. I was still panting and dizzy from coming when he painted wet kisses on my skin, making his way up to my mouth. “See?” he murmured, placing a soft kiss on my lips. “Your pussy is perfect.” “You’re perfect,” I murmured drunkenly, my body still humming. “Well, that’s a first,” he said with a chuckle. “Please, shut your arrogant mouth and kiss me.” I pulled him close so that we were chest to chest. His skin against my hard nipples sent a little echo a pleasure through my body. I arch into him only to have my pussy brush against his pant covered dick. “Take your pants off,“ I whispered. Saxon laughed. “Still?“ he asked. “Yes, even more now. Take your pants off.“ “Birdie—” I reached between us and slipped my hand into the gap at his waistline to find him right there. Hard and peeking out of his boxers. The palm of my hand skimmed over the wet tip of him, and he drew a sharp breath. “Birdie… we had a deal.” “What deal? We didn’t make a deal.” “Okay, maybe I made a deal with myself.” “What was the deal?”

“That if I made you come again that I would be satisfied with that. That I wouldn’t need to… oh, shit,” he whispered as I closed my fist around his dick. “Birdie,” his bright blue eyes looked into mine, and his mouth went slack. I knew that look. He wanted to be inside of me as much as I needed him to be. “Take your pants off,” I said again, softly, and followed it with a deep kiss, sucking on his tongue and tasting myself there. “I just want to hold you in my hands.“ “No… no, you don’t,“ he said with a laugh. “Okay… maybe not just that,“ I confessed, laughing along with him. “I didn’t believe it for a minute.” “I can put my mouth on it. Am I allowed to do that? Will you be able to keep your deal with yourself if I do that?” “Hmm…” he groaned, then squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his forehead to mine as he fucked the tip of his dick into my closed fist. “Fuck it,“ he whispered. He pushed off the bed, stood next to it, and yanked at his belt. I set up and knelt on the bed in front of him as he made himself naked for me. A soft moan eased out of my lungs when he unzipped his flies and pushed his pants down around his ankles. I licked my lips as I watched him draw his hand up his length. “Jesus… when you look at my dick like that, it’s so…“ He shook his head. “Only your mouth. You hear me?” His stern tone made me want to giggle, but I suppressed it. “Can I use my hands too?“ I asked, holding up my hands and wiggling my fingers. He made a sound – a laugh or a growl, I couldn’t tell which — and hooked his hand around the back of my neck to drag me closer for a kiss. It had an edge to it, much hungrier than before. Gently – as gently as he licked my pussy a moment ago – I skimmed the palm of my hand from the root of him to the tip.

He shivered. “Let me… I can’t stand up while you do this.“ “Okay, let’s just switch places,“ I suggested, then stood up. He sat on the edge of the bed. I stepped in between his knees. He drew his hands up the back of my legs and cupped my ass. I pushed his hair back and looked down at him. “I can’t even believe you’re really here,” I whispered. “Me either,“ he said, shaking his head. I took a step back and sank to my knees. His dick was right there at eye level, but I was captivated by the way he was looking at me. I drew a line up the underside of his dick with the tip of my tongue and around the flared tip. A stream of curses slipped from his lips. He reached for my scarf and tugged it off. My hair tumbled over my shoulders. He ran his fingers through it, then cupped my cheek in his hand. “You’re so beautiful, Birdie.” I smiled then sucked just the fat tip of him into my mouth. A tiny bit of pre-come landed on my tongue—Salty, a little bitter, and so familiar that it made me salivate. I intended to tease him a little bit. A little payback for all of the pussy slapping and orgasm denial. But just that taste of him and...I swear, I lost myself. With my mouth and hands, I sucked him off with sloppy, messy abandon. Spit dribbled down my chin and made him so slick in my hands that lube couldn’t have done a better job. “Birdie...fuck.” His abdominal muscles flexed, and he thrust his dick in deep until he hit the back of my throat. I swept my tongue along the base of his cock, proud that I could still take him this deep after so many years apart. “Yes,” he sighed before pulling out to do it again. “Just like that. Fuck, baby...” He throbbed on my tongue and I moaned as he flooded my mouth. I swallowed every drop of him down while he twitched and moaned.

“Shit... stop. I can’t ...no, fuckkkk... I’m still coming.” He fisted one hand in my hair held me still while he pressed and held his dick at the back of my throat. I rubbed his thighs, breathing through my nose until he finally emptied everything into my throat. “Little Bird... Jesus,” he panted, then flopped back on the bed. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and crawled up his body to brace myself over him. Looking down at him, red-faced and panting, I couldn’t help the smug satisfaction that welled in me. “Guess you’re not the only one with a good memory.” He shook his head and laughed. “Shut your arrogant mouth and kiss me.”

Chapter Nineteen

Birdie

My alarm went off at six in the morning, and I reached out blindly to turn it off. Except it wasn’t on the nightstand where it usually was. And I wasn’t alone. And I was very naked, and my pussy felt very happily used. Saxon grumbled and tightened his arm around my waist, yanking me closer to his hot, also very naked body. “What time is it?” “Six,” I mumbled, burying my face in the pillow. I wasn’t quite hungover, but I could have definitely used a few more hours of sleep. “I should get up,” I groaned. “Why?” he asked, planting a kiss between my shoulder blades. “I want to see Amara before she leaves for school, and I need to go home and get a fresh chef’s coat. I washed the one I wore yesterday but didn’t put it in the dryer because I was distracted.” “Hm. Distracted,” he murmured against my skin. “I guess I need to let you get up then.” He pressed another kiss to my spine and let his hand take a lazy trip across my lower belly and over my hip before he let me go. My nipples tightened, ing how he made me come with that hand so many times last night. But that was last night. It was morning now, and time to get my head on straight. I slid out of the covers and stood up, stretched. “Have you seen my mojo bag? Where are my clothes?” I asked, looking around on the floor, then turning to look amongst the rumpled bedclothes. “I think I took them off in the living room.”

“Are you going to get up and help me look for them? I would be humiliated if my sister found my underwear tucked in these sheets somewhere.” “You see, I would, but you sucked my soul out of my body last night, so I don’t have the strength to move.” Saxon rolled over onto his back and scratched his chest. With his red hair all mussed and that sleepy smile on his lips, he looked like a lazy, sex-dazed Viking king. I bit my lip. His dick was tenting the sheets. A very naked sex-dazed Viking king. “Hey, Birdie?” “Yeah?” “You hate me yet?” I tried and failed to suppress the grin that wanted to spread across my face. “Nope… not yet.” “Come here and give me some sugar then.” “But we only have two hours until—” “I know. Give me thirty minutes.” “Saxon—” “Fifteen.” He flopped out his hand and beckoned me closer. “You know you wanna.” I sighed, rolled my eyes, and pulled back the sheets, and climbed in next to him. Saxon pulled me under him, covered me with his body. I sighed again for different reasons and opened my legs so that he could settle into the cradle of my hips. “Good morning,” he hummed, brushing his nose against mine. “Your breath stinks,” I joked because it did, but also because he felt so good, and I didn’t want to think about that too much. He smiled and brushed his lips across mine. “Does that mean no good morning

kisses?” “Who said that?” I asked, and he slanted his mouth over mine. The kisses were soft at first—sweet, good morning pecks with smiles in between them. But I quickly pushed them into something more sensual and deep because those feelings that I didn’t want to examine were still right there under the surface. I loved this man, and I loved these languid, morning kisses. The kind of kisses he used to give me when we had nowhere to be other than our bed. I slid my hands under his arms to caress his broad back and appreciate how good the weight of him felt on top of me. How his body completely dwarfed mine in a way that made me feel even smaller and more delicate than usual. “Are we okay?” he asked softly. I wanted to say yes. It would be easy to say yes when we were close like this, but it wouldn’t be the truth. “I don’t know yet.” He nodded. “Okay.” He nuzzled his nose against mine again. “So you don’t hate me, but does that mean that you still love me?” “Maybe?” He grunted. “Maybe isn’t a no,” he said with a smile. “So I’ll take that.” We took a quick shower and stripped the bed before calling an Uber. With barely an hour to get home, change, and head to the competition, we figured sharing would be easier since Soni’s place was on the way. It wasn’t until we were sitting in the back seat of Colin’s Ford Explorer, my pussy still throbbing from last night’s orgasms, that doubt began to creep in. My cheeks heated as I thought about all that happened last night. I told Saxon I loved him — more than once. There was no alcohol to blame. I was barely tipsy when I said it. “What are you doing way over there?” he asked softly, beckoning me closer. I scooted over to the middle of the seat, and he placed his hand on my thigh, palm up. I slid my hand into his and laced our fingers together.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. A nervous laugh tittered out of me. “Yes, I’m very okay. More than okay, actually.” Saxon made a soft sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then leaned in to whisper, “I don’t mean your pussy, Birdie. I know we made each other feel good last night. I’m asking about your head and your heart. Where are they right now?” “I’m not sure,” I rasped with a shrug. “Birdie, look at me.” I fidgeted, shifted in my seat, and then slowly raised my head to meet his eyes — desperately hoping that I wasn’t making heart eyes at him. It didn’t work because the moment his eyes met mine, he sighed and said, “Me too.” “I tried really hard not to attach any significance to this, but…” “It’s us,” he whispered. “Yeah,” I nodded in agreement. “It’s us.” He squeezed my hand. “So what do we do now? Maybe I’ll drop out of the judging— “No… it’ll look suspicious after that big thing with Breslin yesterday.” “So we just keep pretending like we don’t know each other?” he asked, hurt and disappointment laced through each quiet word. “I don’t see any other solution that doesn’t require one or both of us dropping out of the contest.” “Why can’t we both just drop out? If it’s money you need, I can give you fiftythousand dollars, Birdie.” I frowned at him, instantly furious that he would even make that suggestion. “Absolutely not. Why would you even suggest that?”

“Come on, Birdie. It’s the least I can fucking do under these circumstances. You wouldn’t even need to enter a competition if it wasn’t for me.” “What? No, Saxon. And especially not for that reason. Thanks for the offer, but also fuck you very much for thinking I would take your money.” “Jesus Christ, you’re taking it all wrong. I just want to remove all of the obstacles so we can figure all of this out, Birdie.” “I want that, but I also want to win this competition. If only to prove to myself that I can do it.” Saxon shook his head and laughed. “This is exactly what I was talking about last night. You love me, but you love being in the kitchen more.” “This… this is not that,” I stammered. “It’s not the same thing at all. I trusted you completely back then. But now you’re asking me to trust you again when you’ve done nothing to restore the trust that you destroyed.” “Are you going to give me a chance to?” he asked, raising his voice. Colin, the Uber driver, cleared his throat. Our eyes met for a brief second in the rearview mirror — almost as if he was checking on me. “Sorry,” I apologized. Saxon looked from me to Colin’s eyes in the rearview and then blushed hard with embarrassment. “Yeah, sorry. Just a little disagreement.” “No problem,” Colin said. We rode in quiet, tense silence for a few moments. A few awful moments. “Okay, fine. We continue to pretend we don’t know each other,” he agreed finally. “Will I get to see you? Be with you like this?” “Saxon… I don’t know.” “Come on, Birdie. Have some pity. It’s bad enough that I have to treat you like some stranger during the day.” He leaned in close. “Don’t punish me by keeping

yourself and this good pussy away from me too,” he whispered. “You’re a spoiled fucking brat,” I said with a laugh. “I am. But that doesn’t change how much I want you.” He brushed his lips against mine in a soft kiss. “And you did say that you love me…” “Fine,” I snapped, my cheeks flaming. “I’ll ask Atlas if we can use his place while you’re here.” “Thank you,” he said with another soft kiss. “And what about Amara? When can I meet her and spend some time with her?” My stomach clenched, and fear — or maybe my ego — made me want to say never. Recognizing it for what it was, I stuffed those feelings down and cleared my throat. “I think we should wait until the competition is over before we do that. There’s too much risk involved, and I don’t want her exposed to any sort of drama—” “You mean by me?” “No, Saxon,” I said softly. “But if we start popping up around town with a little girl that looks just like you, it’s going to bring unwanted attention. You know that.” “Okay, you’re right,” he said with a nod. “Besides, you have to prepare her and all that, right? She doesn’t know me or that I even exist so it would be weird to have some random white guy pop up like, hey, I’m your pappy.” “Don’t be like that, Saxon,” I whispered as the car slowed in front of Soni’s house. “I’m sorry. This is just… a lot.” “I know, that’s why it’s best if we get all of these feelings sorted out before we bring her into it.” He nodded, then glanced over my shoulder. “That’s Soni’s place?” “Yeah, also known as the Malone Flophouse,” I joked. Saxon gave me a crooked

smile, but the look in his eyes damn near broke my heart. “I better go.” “Kiss me first?” he asked softly. “Of course,” I slid as close as I could on the seat, cupped his cheeks in my hands, and pressed my lips to his. Saxon grabbed the waistband of my pants, dragged me even closer, and deepened the kiss. His sweet kisses melted me, made me want to be in bed with him again. “You better go, lil Bird. I’m thinking disastrous thoughts.” I smiled and pulled away to open the back door. “I love you,” I whispered, suddenly and unreasonably afraid that he’d forgotten. “Love you too, baby,” he said. “Wait. Your phone number. I don’t have your phone number.” He held out his phone. I took it from him and put my number in. Then I opened up the camera to take a selfie for his photo before handing it back. He looked at it and laughed. “See you later. And thanks, Colin,” I chirped, then climbed out and ran up to the house. I now had forty-five minutes to get some coffee in my face and change into a clean chef’s uniform. The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted me when I stepped inside. Thankful that I could skip that step, I headed straight to my bedroom to get dressed. But before my foot hit the first riser, a loud moan made me pull up short. Was that…? “Soni…shit,” Atlas’s voice cracked on another moan. “Are you gonna let me do that? You’re gonna let me put it in your—” “Oh, God!” I slammed my hands over my ears. Why was he so loud? Why could I hear him so clearly? Was their door open? Damn near tripping over my own feet, I ran up the steps to my bedroom. Once inside, I slammed the door closed, praying that I’d put enough distance between me and the sound of my sister and her boyfriend fucking. I stood in the middle of the room and listened for a moment to see if I could still hear them. When I was sure their animal sounds would no longer reach my ears, I laughed and

grabbed a uniform out of my closet. After hitting the pants and jacket with the iron, I dipped into my bathroom to do my make-up. I was just finishing up my mascara when Soni knocked on my door. “I’m decent! You can come in,” I called out. My sister came into the room and leaned against the doorjamb. She crossed her arms and glared at me in the mirror. “Well?” “Well, good morning, sis,” I said cheerily. “No, ma’am. You have been out all night without so much as a call or a text. I had to find out from my boyfriend over breakfast that you spent the night in his condo with Saxon while we took care of your daughter.” I cringed and turned to face her. “Okay, I’m sorry for not calling or texting, and I’m sorry for pulling Atlas into the middle of it. But I needed to have it out with Saxon without sideline commentary from the Malone sisters.” “Sideline commentary? We just want what’s best for you, Birdie. We’re trying to keep you from making the same mistakes.” With a shake of my head, I grabbed my chef’s coat. “I get that, and I appreciate your help, but I’m a grown ass woman, and these are my mistakes to make.” Soni’s eyebrows nearly met her hairline. “Okay, fine. You’re a grown-ass woman. I get it. But while you’re being a grown woman and making all of these grown woman mistakes, that you gassed us up to you in this. We’re in this with you and if you decide to trash it for some ginger dick, who rearranged their lives to make it possible for you to compete.” I stopped buttoning my coat and stared at my sister in disbelief. “What?” “Ginger dick, Soni?” “Yeah,” she said with a sheepish shrug. “He’s a ginger. I just assumed the carpet matched the drapes.”

“Oh, my god,” I groaned, covering my face. “Promise me you’ll never refer to Saxon’s dick again, and I promise I will never mention all of the dirty stuff I heard Atlas saying to you when I came in just now.” Soni’s eyes went wide, and her cheeks flushed. “You heard that?” she whispered. “Heard it? It was echoing off the walls!” Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, I arched a brow at my sister. “So… you guys are doing butt stuff?” It was Soni’s turn to cover her face. “Okay, let’s never mention these things to each other again,” Soni agreed. I nodded and continued to button my chef’s coat. “And all that other stuff… I haven’t forgotten the sacrifices you all made to make this happen for me. I’m deeply grateful. Don’t worry. I’m not going to fuck this up.” “Okay, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, baby Bird.” I went to my sister and pulled her into a hug. “I know, Soni. And I love you for it.” “Love you too,” She looped an arm around my shoulders, and we made our way back downstairs. “Before we put this topic in the lockbox and never speak of it again... about the butt stuff…” “Yeah?” I asked hesitantly. “So you’ve done it before?” “Uh… yeah? What do you want to know?” “Does it… hurt? It hurts, right?” I smiled and looped my arm around my sister’s waist. “So that’s kind of a hard question to answer, but it shouldn’t hurt too much if he does it right.” My sister and I went into the kitchen and continued our conversation about butt stuff over a cup of coffee. What Soni said to me upstairs was still at the forefront of my mind, but it was hard to give it any credence when I told her how I did butt stuff with the man who made me come all night. I wanted to believe that I

wouldn’t fuck this up. That I could have both. That’s what they tell women, right? I could love him, fuck him, win this contest, and take care of my daughter, right? This thing was completely handled. No big deal.

Chapter Twenty

Saxon

While climbing the stairs to the condo I was sharing with my crew, I tried to sort out what happened between me and Birdie last night. If someone had tried to convince me yesterday afternoon that I had a daughter with Birdie Malone and that I’d wake up next to her this morning, I would have thought they were high. To be honest, high was exactly how I felt after making love to the woman who has owned my heart for the last five years. Like the last twelve hours happened outside of reality. And we had a little girl. I paused outside the door of the condo to look at the pictures Birdie sent me this morning while we were waiting for the Uber. My god, she’s beautiful. A perfect blend of me and her mama with her freckled cheeks and her curly red hair. I hated that I had to wait until after the competition to meet her, but Birdie was right. Amara deserved to be protected and kept far away from any drama that would undoubtedly touch her if this news were to get out now. But I’d already missed so much. Tacking on another three or four days seemed like an added punishment. But at least Birdie agreed to spend her evenings with me until then. Digging my keys out of my pocket, I unlocked the door and opened it to an idyllic familial scene between my crew . “He lives!” Noah boomed as I stepped through the door. “Good morning, kids! Daddy’s home.” I joked, and belatedly realized that it was

actually true for the first time ever. They were all gathered around the kitchen table for our usual team breakfast. “This looks good,” I said, washing my hands and then grabbing a plate from the cabinet. I loaded up my plate with hash browns, scrambled eggs, and bacon then sat down at the table. It wasn’t until I looked at Paula and observed the scowl on her face that I ed that she rage quit in the parking lot yesterday. Damn, that felt like it happened weeks ago. “Were you out all night with that food critic?” Brett asked, an unaccustomed clipped, stiffness in his voice. “Who Gwen? We went for drinks and dinner, but nah. She’s gay and married.” “That’s never been a deterrent before,” Paula growled under her breath before taking a sip from her coffee cup. “That’s not entirely true,” I said meeting her sulphuric glare. “I know you love to think the worst of me, but I can and do understand boundaries.” “Is that so?” She asked, setting down her coffee cup. “Exactly where did you spend the night, Saxon?” I clenched my teeth. I wanted to share my news with her, but not like this. “Why are you here, Paula? Didn’t you quit yesterday?” Sensing that a big argument was about to go down, Brett and Noah quietly took their coffee out on the patio for a smoke. “Unfortunately, when I called to inform Steve that I was quitting, he reminded me that I was under contract for the remainder of this production. And since we just started recording this season, that would mean I would need to reimburse the network for the balance of the $65,000 contract that you negotiated for me.” She threw up her hands. “So here I am. Working for you against my will.” I pushed my plate away and leaned back in my chair. “What do you want to do? Do you want me to payout your contract so you can leave? Is that what you

want?” Paula shook her head and laughed. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to play martyr or savior by buying your way out of this uncomfortability. Money literally means nothing to you so I don’t want it, Saxon.” This was the second time a woman has refused to take money from me this morning. But hold on… was that the reason why Birdie turned down my offer? Did she think that money was so meaningless to me that I just threw it around? How did people get that impression of me when what I felt was the complete opposite? “You can’t keep working for me if it’s going to be like this, Paula,” I said quietly. “No, I can’t keep working for you because you have never treated me with respect or value. I work so hard for you and you constantly undermine any progress or success I have helped you achieve with these childish fuck boy antics.” She was right. She was right and I couldn’t find a single thing to say to defend myself. “Who were you with last night, Saxon?” she asked again, her voice was softer now. Not any less confrontational but I wasn’t afraid she would fly into another tirade. “Birdie Malone,” I said softly. She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my God.” “It’s not what you think, Paula. I didn’t go out with any intentions on finding her, but now that I think about it, maybe Gwen might’ve orchestrated that, but… none of that matters now. She has my baby, Paula.” She dropped her hands and stared at me in open mouthed disbelief. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not what I thought at all. It’s infinitely worse.” “Don’t say that, Paula. I legit just found out that I have a little girl yesterday. You have to know that I’m just as stunned as you are.”

“So you had no idea this kid existed? Not even the tiniest inkling?” I laughed mirthlessly. “No, Paula. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I’m not that fucking soulless—” “That’s not some unfounded belief, Saxon. This is the man you’ve shown me.” She shook her head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” She stood, coffee cup in hand. “I’m setting some boundaries, Saxon. I will continue to perform my duties as your assistant, but we are no longer friends. We’re not even friendly acquaintances. In summation, I don’t give a fuck about your personal problems. Find a shrink. I hear there’s an app for that.” Without giving me an opportunity to respond, Paula and her coffee cup went out to Brett and Noah on the balcony. Brett tucked her under his arm and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Wait… were they…? Paula tipped her head back and smiled up at him and I watched my assistant and my cameraman share a kiss. Well, then. Message sent and received. A line has been drawn in the sand. The three of them were entirely done with my bullshit. Even if I came out of this with a job, I might be out of a crew that I’ve been traveling with for the last four years. And really, how long had I expected to be able to be this flagrant and reckless with everything and everyone? They probably tolerated me far longer than they ever should have. I knew I deserved this, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Chapter Twenty-One

Birdie

The moment Saxon entered the kitchen, I realized I may have overestimated my ability to be in the room with him and not want to push him into a corner and kiss him until we both forgot how to breathe. Especially when he was looking at me with those eyes and smiling that crooked, sly smile. The influence he had over me made me feel uneasy. I couldn’t decide if that was necessarily bad, but it was most definitely distracting. Ugh. God. Maybe I was wrong maybe I can’t win this competition and fuck him at the same time. This was just too damn much. “Morning, Birdie!” Corey chirped as she dropped her bag on her station. “Well, you’re in good spirits,” I said reluctantly dragging my eyes away from Saxon to greet my co-contestant. “Yep. I got a good night’s sleep and my husband gave me the best pep-talk on my drive over this morning,” she said with a smile on her face and a vibrant blush on her cheeks. “Oh, really? Share it with me I could use a good pep-talk too.” Corey turned to me and before she even said a word, I could tell that she and her husband loved each other very much. “Well, he just reminded me how much he loves me, and that I’m an amazing cook. That I’ve been invited to compete every time I’ve entered the competition, and it’s only a matter of time before I win. He also said to that all of us are only as good as our best dish.” For some reason, those words from Corey’s husband made my throat feel tight.

How must it feel to have that kind of ? Sure, I had my sisters and my daughter, but to have that from the man who loved you? Saxon knew that I was headed into a rough day, but instead of boosting my confidence, he focused on fixing things with us. He acknowledged that he knew being in the kitchen was something I loved, but instead of ing me, he offered to give me money so I could drop out of the competition and focus on rebuilding our relationship. Did he think I couldn’t win? Or worse, did he not want me to be this successful on my own? “Wow, that’s some guy you got there,” I said after I cleared my throat. “And he’s right you know. We’re all only as good as our best dish.” Or your worst mistake and apparently I like to smash into those mistakes face first. The emotions that had tried to surface in that Uber this morning, bubbled up in me. This was the source of the uneasiness I felt. This dynamic between us that always centered what he wanted. What he wanted would always trump everything. And if he didn’t get what he wanted, he would sabotage things in ways that hurt the people around him. God, how didn’t I see this before? “Good morning, chefs!” Marissa drawled into the mic. “And welcome to the third day of the Taste of the Upstate competition!” Myself and the other remaining contestants clapped when she paused because it felt like the right thing to do. “We are smack dab in the middle of this five day challenge, and today the competition ramps up! Today you be will separated into three teams and together, you will create a three course meal!” My stomach lurched. Fucking around with Saxon had distracted me from the fact that this was the one challenge I was nervous about in the competition. It was the equivalent of a group project and it was well known that I didn’t play well with others. What crashes, crashes, and what flows, flows. I lost my mojo bag at Atlas’s apartment. It was probably broken anyway since

Saxon had seen it and touched it, but I’d made sure to grab the citrine point on my way out the door, so I reached in my pocket and I fisted it in my hand. “These groups will be randomly selected by Chef Ransom.” Marissa stepped back and we all focused our attention on Ransom who was a digging through a bowl filled with slips of paper. “When I call your names come and stand on the spot that corresponds with your group.” I tightened my fist around the bit of citrine. “Group two — Todd Hendricks, Corey Phillips, Birdie Malone…” Ah, fuck. Hendricks was the sous chef that replaced me when I quit. No doubt he was going to be annoying to work with. I glanced at Saxon as I crossed the front of the room to stand on the decal for my group. The look on his face said that he didn’t approve. I shrugged. Neither did I but there was no way out of it. Corey smiled at me excitedly and honestly I was glad she was the third person in this group. My intuition told me that she wasn’t malicious. Corey was for Corey. That didn’t mean she was against me. She was just for herself. But Hendricks was someone that Breslin took under his wing. It was reasonable to assume that he would feel the same way about working with women in the kitchen. He didn’t even acknowledge us when he came to stand with our group. Arms over his chest, and jaw clenched, his body language broadcasted that he felt like he had been saddled with dead weight. Yay. I wanted to be wrong about him, but I probably wasn’t. What was the best way to handle this? He needed our team to win as much as we did, right? I didn’t think he would tank us on purpose, but how could I keep him from making it more difficult than it needed to be? “Contestants, these two people will be your teammates for today and tomorrow’s challenge,” Chef Ransom said while rubbing his hands together. “Today you will decide who will be head chef, sous chef, and line cook. As well as plan your three-course menu. Our sponsors, Lowes Supermarket and West End Farms, will supply the meat, poultry, vegetables and other sundries for the meals you will

prepare at Hunt House tomorrow evening for the second part of your challenge. West End Farms is a seasonal grower so be sure to use the list of foods available to you when we make the trip out there later.” “Great,” I murmured under my breath. This was destined to be a power struggle right off the bat. Not only did I have to work with Breslin’s lackey, I had to cook and serve this meal in his kitchen. Breslin was gone, but there was bound to be some residual animosity amongst the remaining employees. God, this is a fucking nightmare. Hendrick’s turned to me and Corey and gave us both in ingratiating smile. “Well, ladies. I guess we should get started.” Each group found a place to set up shop and start strategizing. The three of us found a group of picnic tables near the back parking lot. “I would like to volunteer to be line cook,” Corey said, as soon as we all sat down. “You both have experience in the kitchen so I’m willing to take instruction and not make the big decisions. I’m just a home cook.” “You realize that the line cook is the one who prepares the most food, right?” Hendricks said in a patronizing tone. Yep. This guy is definitely a fucking dick. “I…” Corey blushed hard with embarrassment. “I just didn’t want to assume that would be in a position of authority…” She gave me a confused look. “Was that wrong?” “Well, yes and no,” I said. “But for the purpose of this challenge, I think it would make more sense if we decide who will prep, cook, and expedite according to skill set. We only have three people so we’re all going to chip in at various points during the dinner service. What do you think, Hendricks?” He nodded but said nothing. “Well, you’re a monster on prep,” Corey said. “Thanks, I figured I would do a majority of that, but I’m also good on desserts.”

“I’m good on meats and fish.” Hendrix nodded. “And I can serve and expedite as well.” Somehow I managed not to roll my eyes. We both knew that he wanted to be head chef. The head chef would be the one to present the food to the judges, but it also meant he was the one on the hook for any fuck ups. Why not just let him have what he wanted? It wouldn’t change my performance any and it would keep my head off of the chopping block if this went sideways. “So Corey was right. You should be head chef. I’ll be sous chef, and Corey is line with the caveat that we all are going to chip in and help out during each course, right?” “Sounds good to me,” Corey said looking between me and Hendricks. Hendrick stared across the table let me with a smirk on his face. You don’t want to be head chef?” he asked. “I want our group to win,” I said, a completely non-committal response. “Hm,” he grunted. “That’s far more reasonable than I was led to believe you would be.” “You’ll probably find that a lot of what you’ve been told about me is untrue,” I said, drily. He grunted again, but didn’t say anything more. “Well! Glad we got that settled,” Corey interjected. “We should get started on the menu.” West End Farms was one of the sources I used for Kinfolks so I knew their spring selection pretty well. After ing the list around, we all pulled out or notebooks and started discussing potential menu items. “What about pork chops?” Hendricks suggested. I nodded. “That could be good. Thick and bone in?” “Yeah, with some sort of pan sauce?”

“I have a great recipe for smothered pork chops!” Corey added excitedly. “This isn’t some church cook off, honey—” “Don’t do that,” I snapped and Hendrick’s eyes widened slightly at my sharp tone. “We’re all here to contribute. Smothered might not be the way we wanna go, but hearing her recipe might spark something.” Hendricks pressed his lips into a thin line. “You’re right. Let’s hear it.” “Well…” Corey licked her lips. “I season the chops and dredge them in flour—” “Season them with what?” Hendricks interrupted. I glared at him. “What?” he challenged. “The seasoning is important.” “Salt, pepper, and garlic?” Corey said hesitantly. Then she shook her head. “But maybe you’re right. Smothered pork chops probably wouldn’t work.” She wasn’t wrong, but I was irritated that he had discouraged her from contributing. I wanted to redirect this somehow and build her back up, but we really didn’t have time for that. “Okay, so seared would probably work. We just need to elevate the flavors a little,” I said, giving Corey a wink. “But instead of smothered, why don’t we do a white wine mustard sauce?” “Oh, wow. That sounds amazing,” Corey said. I glanced at Hendricks who was scribbling in his notebook. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That works.” We took up the full hour debating the menu. Thankfully, Hendricks became less confrontational as it started to take shape. We settled on pork chops with a white wine mustard sauce; cauliflower, potato and parsnip mash; and crispy Brussel sprouts with bacon. “As a starter, I can do a fig, arugula, and kale salad. They don’t have fresh figs at the farm, but I know they have some dried,” I said.

“With a vinaigrette?” Hendricks asked. “No, just massaged with lemon juice, a bit of olive oil and salt.” He nodded. “Now what about dessert?” Next to me, Corey opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to decide against it. Hendricks looked at me then glanced at her. “We only have about fifteen minutes left. If you have an idea, tell us,” he said, sensing her reluctance. Corey reached for the list and read it silently for a minute. “There’s lots of citrus on this list. Lemons, grapefruit, tangerines, oranges…” her voice trailed off a little, still unsure of her suggestion. Hendricks nodded encouragingly and kept quiet for once. “I have a recipe for a citrus cake. It’s kind of a play on a pineapple upside down cake using navel oranges, blood oranges, and grapefruit.” He nodded more vigorously and began to scribble that down in his notebook. “And this is a recipe you know well?” he asked. “Uh, yeah.” “Good,” he snapped his notebook closed. “Sounds like the perfect ending to the meal. But it can’t be too heavy or sweet. It needs to be a light spongy cake, you know what I mean?” “Absolutely. That’s exactly how I make it,” she said with an eager nod. “Okay, then. Dessert’s all yours.” We were reviewing our grocery lists when Marissa found us. “You’re time is up! If you folks would come on back and side we’re moving onto the next part of this challenge.” Hendrix looked at each of us in turn. “I think this is solid what about you, ladies?”

“Yeah, it all sounds great to me. I wish I could eat it tonight!” Corey said her eyes twinkling. I nodded in agreement. “This actually sounds pretty fantastic.” Once we were back inside at our stations, but still waiting for the other contestants, Corey pulled me aside. “What’s with Hendricks? Why did he say all that stuff about you being unreasonable? Did you two used to work together or something?” I took a deep breath and tried to decide how much to tell Corey. “We didn’t work together but he was hired on after I quit my job at Hunt House,” I said. “Is that why he’s so nasty to you?” I chuckled. “He was equally nasty to you, so I think that’s just his disposition. But yeah… he may have heard some things and formed a negative impression of me prior to this competition.” Corey eyed me warily. “Do you think this is going to interfere with how we work together?” “I hope not. He wants to win just as bad as we do, so I don’t see why he would try to cause any problems.” Corey nodded. “I hope you’re right.” The doors swung open and the judges reentered the room. I could feel Saxon’s eyes on me as he made his way to his seat. He gave me a questioning look and I answered it with a nonchalant shrug and a smile, hoping that he understood that to mean that everything was okay. He didn’t seem convinced, but did that really matter? This was the group I had to work with him whether I liked it or not. It wasn’t the first time I had to cook shoulder-to-shoulder with a man who didn’t like me. I knew I could handle it. and he would just have to take my word for it. “All right, contestants,” Marissa began. “We are going to move this operation out to West End Village Farms. Pack up your things because we won’t be returning to this space until Friday.” “God…I hope I make it to Friday,” Corey mumbled.

“Me too, friend. Me too.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Saxon

Hiding under a tiny tree at the edge of the parking lot at West End Village Farms, I brought my cigarette to my lips and took a long drag. This wasn’t quite the smoking section, but I’d forgotten to put on sunblock and the midday sun was cooking me. I couldn’t mention it though. Putting on sunblock was something Paula always reminded me to do and I didn’t want her to launch into another rant about how much she coddles me. So I just stood in the minuscule shade and tried not to complain. From where I stood, I could see Birdie chatting with her two teammates, Phillips and Hendricks. Ransom had said that the group assignments were random, but that was hard to believe when she ended up in a group with Breslin’s sous chef. She tried to reassure me with a weak ass smile, but I could tell the arrangement made her uncomfortable. I swear… if Hendricks has so much as a stray thought about her, I’m gonna… I’m gonna do nothing. Fuck. Even if he came on to her right in my face, I couldn’t do a damn thing. Birdie wanted to be in this competition which meant I had to keep quiet. I hate this. Hated this easiness. I felt like anything I said or did could potentially fuck all this up. I was on such shaky ground with Birdie, and I couldn’t help feeling like I needed to check in with her every second to make sure we were still okay. And fuck, I knew that shit was annoying, but the urge wouldn’t go away. “Saxon, can you focus, please?” “What?” I snapped. “I’m waiting for Brett to set up the shot.”

“Well, if you were paying attention, you would’ve realize we were ready for you. But you’re too busy clocking every move your little girlfriend makes. Oops, I meant to say baby mama—” I rounded on Paula so quick that she flinched and Brett made a move to step between us. “Don’t fucking do that, Paula,“ I warned, my voice a low growl. “You know what could happen if someone found out about our relationship or baby girl. You need to keep your mouth shut.” “No need to get so hostile,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, we need a couple of soundbites about the competition. So get your shit together.“ Irritated, I flicked the cigarette away and stepped in front of the camera. Paula has been in this foul mood all day. I thought she would pull it together to do her job, but she’s been snapping at me since we left the condo. Sure, she was allowed to have her feelings, but if she was going to continue to work with me, this constant antagonism had to end today. I had enough on my plate without worrying about the wrong person overhearing one of her outbursts. Off-the-cuff, I came up with a few words to narrate today’s events. This time when I put on my genial southern drawl and fake enthusiasm it felt much more forced than usual. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, they made no comment. “So I guess I should get some b-roll inside and on the grounds. Then I think we can wrap things up here.” Brett said. I nodded in agreement. My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out to check my messages. Birdie had responded to my earlier message about our plans for the evening. She had to check in at Kinfolks and see about Amara before we could meet up. I figured I could make dinner for us at Atlas’s condo – maybe help her relax a little bit after working with Hendricks all day. Brett and Noah went to get their footage. I climbed into the Sprinter to escape the sun, but left the doors open to catch a breeze. Paula eventually climbed inside too. Without looking at her, I muttered, “I need you to get over whatever issues you have with me. You cannot have any more outbursts like that, Paula. I mean it.“

“Isn’t this rich?“ she muttered. “Saxon Turner is telling me to control myself.” “Paula,” I shook my head, “I don’t want to keep arguing with you about this.” “I fucking know that,” she snapped. “That’s the reason why I wanted to quit.” “You’re angry and you feel mistreated. I get it. I swear, I do. But this isn’t something I asked for, Paula. It just happened and I need to be careful with it. It’s not just me that I have to worry about anymore.” “Wow, it was never just you,“ Paula said. “But now I’m supposed to care?” “You don’t have to care. You just have to not be an asshole,” I ground out between clenched teeth. “You know what—” “Paula!” Brett barked as he and Noah walked toward the van. “I can hear you inside the goddamn market.” Paula blushed hard. I regretted bringing this up now. Reprimanding her in front of them wasn’t what I wanted to do. “He’s right. He offered you away out and you said no. If you’re going to stay, it can’t be like this. The way you’re behaving is making all of this worse. You need to stop.” They stared at each other until Paula’s body language finally softened. “Fine,“ she said with the frustrated huff “I’ll stop.“ “Good. Thank you,“ I said. Brett nodded. “Let’s get this shit packed up so we can head out.“ Birdie returned my text about dinner with some suggestions for what she would like to eat – mostly fish or seafood. Some of these things were available in the farmers market so I hopped out and went around to the back of the sprinter to talk to Brett. “Hey, thanks for being the mediator back there.”

“No problem,“ he grunted as he hoisted the heavy bags of equipment. “She’s out of line. I get that she’s pissed off. We’re all pissed off. But she doesn’t get to act like that.” “You and Noah are done with me too, huh?” Brett continued to load the equipment and didn’t answer right away. Finally, when he was done, he turned toward me with a contemplative frown on his face. “Saxon, you know I respect you. But things are probably reaching a natural end. It’s not that I don’t want to put up with your shit. I just think that you no longer want to put up with your own shit. It doesn’t seem fun for you anymore. And now that it’s not fun for you, it’s not fun for us either.” I nodded. “You’re not entirely wrong,” I itted. “This hasn’t been fun for me in a long while.” “I get it,” Brett said. “It’s just time for us to part ways. So maybe after all this is done we should reevaluate.” I nodded in agreement and stepped back to let him finish his work. The show was done. I knew that long before I came back stateside. But I’d been away from home and the kitchen for so long that walking away from Á la Minute, and saying no to another season felt like another failure. Now it seemed that the decision was out of my hands and I couldn’t find the energy to care. “Are you coming back to the condo?” Noah asked. “Nah,” I said shaking my head. “Y’all go on ahead. I’ll Uber back.“ Noah stepped in a little closer and lowered his voice. “Chef Malone wanted me to give you these.” He dangled a set of keys on his finger. “Thanks.” Excitement rushed through me as a pocket at the keys. I wasn’t entirely sure Birdie wouldn’t flake on me until this moment. Noah laughed and shook his head. “I have never seen you like this. Good luck with that.“ “Thanks,” I said with a laugh.

But I was going to need more than luck.

The two whole spotted bass I picked up for dinner were waiting on a cutting board to be filleted when a soft knock sounded at the door. “Come in! It’s unlocked!” I called out. Birdie came in, already in her PJs, with a backpack on her shoulder and her hair still wet and braided into one of those long, thick plaits that made me think of filthy things. “Sorry I’m so late!” she said, crossing the room to kiss me. “I had to read the same book three times to get Amara down. She hasn’t seen me in a day and a half so she’s acting super needy. What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at me. “What’s the derpy look on your face about?” “Kiss me again,“ I said. A shy smile came to her lips just before she pressed them to mine again. “Hey,” I whispered. “Hey.“ “You’re not late. I’m actually just getting things started.” “Okay.“ She dropped her bag and washed her hands. “How can I help?” “You’ve been in the kitchen or thinking about food all day—” “Not with you,“ she interrupted another sweet, shy smile gracing her lips. The way my heart just tripped at this cheesy domestic moment was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop me from leaning into it. “Open that wine over there,” I said. “Did you bring your knives?” “Yeah,” she said as she searched the drawers for a corkscrew. “Good, then you can help me filet this fish. You were always better at filleting than I am.”

“I’m not even trying to hear that. Weren’t you like… born on a fishing boat or something?” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know how you got this impression of me. My father used to force me to go fishing with him when I was small so that we could spend time together. I hated it. I came to like the drinking and sitting out on the water on a hot summer day a bit more as I got older, but all the other stuff you can keep.” “Well,” she said, pouring wine into two stemless glasses. “This country girl can do all the other stuff and then some.” She handed me my glass. “Cheers,” I said reflexively, making sure to make eye before I took my first sip. Cheers,” she echoed, bringing her glass to her lips. “Mmm… this is good.” She looked at the label and smiled. “You went to Pendleton Street Tap.” “Yeah, I saw that they were one of the vendors you work with.“ She nodded. “Village Farms too, but mostly for meat and fish. We get most of our poultry and vegetables from my mother’s farm.” “Wait… Your mothers farm is big enough to that?’ “Yeah,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not some backyard garden.“ “For some reason… I kept thinking of it that way.“ “Well, it was when I was growing up. But now she supplies several black owned restaurants in the area. Kinfolks is just one of them.“ “I’d like to visit your mother’s farm while I’m here – if that’s okay?” “Oh, yeah. I mean, of course that’s okay,” she said with an excited smile. Still smiling, she unrolled her knives and pulled out the filet blade then came to stand next to me. She examined the fish; looked at the eyes, and gills; smelled it. “Spotted bass?” “Yep.”

“What are we doing with it? Frying, poaching, or baking?” “Baking. Stuffing it with parsley, lemon rice and, crab.“ “Tail and head on?“ she asked while reaching for another night to get some scales that I’d missed. “Yeah, Gullah style.“ “Mmm... okay.” She took the two fish over to the sink and remove the few scales I’d missed, then brought them back to the cutting board. I stood at her shoulder to watch and just to be close to her. With a deft hand she split open the fish’s belly to remove the spine, and cut away all of the fine rib bones then ed it to me. “You might want to get started on that rice if you want to eat anytime soon,“ she said with a smirked. “Yes, chef,“ I said, swatting her ass with my free hand. For the next forty minutes, we moved around each other with ease and familiarity, punctuated by moments of intimacy. A dollop of cream sauce licked off the tip of my finger, I bouquet of fresh parsley held under her nose for her inspection. This was what I missed. Being with her like this made that restlessness that had dogged me since I left Charleston quiet down. I felt fucking content. “What’s your crew up to tonight?“ she asked bringing a forkful of fish and rice to her mouth. We were standing at the breakfast bar, eating from the same plate and drinking our wine straight from the bottle. “I assume they’re back at the condo we rented downtown or out at a bar or something,” I said with a shrug

“So you just abandoned them in a strange city for a piece of ass?” she joked. “Trust me, Greenville maybe new to them, but it’s completely unintimidating. They’re fine. Besides…” I looked her up and down and then bit my lip. “It’s not just any piece of ass…” Birdie blushed, then picked up her fork and pushed a particularly buttery flake of fish onto it, followed by a couple of pinwheels of okra and some rice to make a perfect bite. “Do they know about me?” she asked softly before putting the food in her mouth. “After last night… I kind of felt like they had to know. Was that the right thing to do” She nodded. “So you trust them?” My initial instinct was to feel insulted and defensive, then I tried to see things through her eyes. I realized how vulnerable this made her and Amara. “Yeah, I trust them. We’ve been through a lot of shit together. I trust them with my life.” “Even Paula?” she asked. Why was she asking specifically about Paula? Did she overhear our argument earlier? “We’ve had our disagreements, but… if you’re asking if she’ll out us, the answer is no. She wouldn’t do that to you.” She set down the fork and picked up the bottle of wine. “She wouldn’t do that to me. That’s a strange way to word it.” I shrugged and picked up the fork. The plate was nearly empty, but I managed to get some remnants on the tines. “Me and Paula aren’t in the best place right now. She actually quit yesterday, but was told that she can’t leave because she’s under contract. Needless to say, she’s been unbearable to work with today.” “Why’d she quit?” I ate the last mouthful and chewed while I gave that some thought. “Last night you said you heard about my… what did you call them?” “Exploits?”

“Yeah,” I said with a dry laugh. “Let’s just say some of those exploits have landed me in jail a few times and nearly got me and my crew fired more than once. When we got here and I saw you and started acting reckless… she felt like it was just more of the same.” “Sounds like she’s sick of your shit,” Birdie said with a smirk. “And she has every right to be. She’s not wrong and she says I’m reckless, but this is different.” Birdie frowned. “But how was she supposed to know that?” The question sounded sharp. Less of a question more of an accusation. “Are we still talking about Paula?” I asked gently. Birdie attempted to get one more swig out of the bottle of wine, but found it empty. “Guess it’s time to move onto the whiskey,” she said, dropping the bottle into the recycling and heading toward the bar cart. The kitchen was mostly clean. I rinsed off our plate, started the dishwasher, and wiped down the counter tops while she grabbed the whiskey and got cozy on the couch. “Are we in for another night of truth telling?” I asked as I walked around the big couch to her. “Are there more truths to tell?” she asked, wariness in her voice. “Maybe… what do you want to know?” I asked. There were things Birdie deserved to know about me, but if she didn’t ask…? I wasn’t going to tell her. It was stupid to think she wouldn’t find out eventually, but I was reluctant to let those secrets out into the open because I knew it would change her opinion of me. An opinion that was already pretty shitty. “Okay,” she said shifting toward me, and tucking her feet under her bottom. “I have a question.” “I’m listening.”

She stalled for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “Do you think I can win this competition?” “Of course, I think you can win. I know you can win. These people aren’t even competition for you. Why would you even ask me that question?” “This morning you seemed really hellbent on getting me to drop out. And then you offered me that money and I just…“ “Jumped to conclusions?“ I finished for her. “Did I?“ she asked with they raised brow, then she laughed at herself. “Okay, maybe I did. But you know that about me. You also know how important my career is to me. When we talked about it this morning, your first suggestion was for me to quit. I know it’s important that we figure this out, but if you really love me, why would you want me to give that up?” “I wasn’t asking you to give it up. I offered to give you the money so you could start a restaurant of your own, or a catering business, or whatever you want.” “It wouldn’t be mine, Saxon. It would be yours.” “Wow. Is that what you think of me? That I don’t want you to be successful apart from anything we might do together?” I pulled away from her a little bit stunned that she would think I’d want to steal her shine in that way. “Don’t do that,” she said reaching for me. “If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll it that it wasn’t really about me.” “No, it was .” “That’s not it either.” “What was it about then?” I asked, reaching for the whiskey that she was still holding, but hadn’t opened yet. “It was about you trying to find the shortest distance to getting what you want. It didn’t matter what was in your way. Even if the thing in your way was something important to me.“

I opened the bottle of whiskey and took a big swallow. This morning, in the back of that Uber, I felt helpless and vulnerable and all the suggestions I made were in an effort to shorten that tiny bit of suffering. She wasn’t wrong. I didn’t really think about how any of those things would make her feel. “You’re saying I’m selfish.” “Kinda?” But her tone said that she didn’t mean kinda. She definitely thought I was selfish. “Don’t backpedal now. Besides… you’re not the first person to tell me that.“ “Who else said you were selfish? Paula?“ “Yup. Several times today, in fact.” I took another swig of the whiskey and licked my top lip. “Funny thing is, I didn’t give a fuck until you said it just now. It kind of hurt my feelings actually.” This was what scared me about being with Birdie before. The way she made me confront the fucked up parts of myself made them hard to ignore and it that I needed to change them. “Oh, Sax…“ She scooted closer, practically climbed into my lap. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just wanted you to understand how I felt when you bulldozed over what I wanted.” “I get it. I just wanted to get to the part where we were back together,” I said, with a sad laugh. “I’m just not used to this.” “Used to what?” “This kind of wanting… wanting someone and not being able to have them? It’s new for me. And I gotta tell ya, I don’t fucking like it.” Her bottom lip pushed out in a comical, little pout. “I never said you couldn’t have me, Saxon,” she whispered before giving me the sweetest little kiss. “But if we’re going to work toward getting back together – get that stupid smile off your face,” she demanded. “Sorry!” I said, trying to wipe the dumb grin off of my face.

“If we’re gonna work toward getting back together,” she repeated. “I need two things from you.“ “Name them.” She looked in my eyes and stroked my cheek. “Well, first of all, I need you to be honest with me. I know you’ve probably done some things that you’re not proud of. I just want you to know that you can tell me anything, okay? I don’t want to hear it from someone else. Good or bad, I want to hear it from you.” I should probably just spilled my guts right now. Tell her everything. But hearing those words from her didn’t make me feel safe enough to share all of my dark dirty secrets. Because there was no way that could be true. If I told her that I fucked the governor’s newlywed daughter three days before coming here and professing my love to her, she wouldn’t want anything to do with me. No matter what her pretty little mouth said, there was no way she wanted to hear that shit. Knowing that would make this whole thing look different to her. I could be truthful from this moment on, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “I can do that,“ I said after I cleared my throat. “What’s the second thing?“ “I have to be in charge of this. I need to go slow. The thought of giving my heart to you again terrifies me, so know that if you stay, you can’t leave me again. Okay? Don’t break my heart again, Sax. I’m strong, but I don’t want to go through that again.” “Oh god, Birdie. Come here.” I pulled her into my lap and she straddled me, wrapped her arms around my neck so tightly that it nearly hurt. Take it slow? I definitely wasn’t used to this. When I wanted something, I went after it and I got it. I wasn’t the kind of person who liked to hear the word no. I definitely didn’t like being told to slow down. If someone told me there was something I couldn’t do or have, fuck that! I’d get two of them and do it twice. But this was different. I had to be careful with this – careful with her. Prove to her that I deserved this second chance. I had to put my wants on the back burner to ensure I didn’t trample Birdie’s wants and needs. This was definitely foreign territory for me, but I wanted to try.

“Okay, Birdie. We’ll go slow. You can be in charge.” I squeezed her tighter. She was crying now, and god, I just wanted to make it stop. “I promise you I want this. I won’t break your heart. I won’t leave you.” She kissed my neck then pulled away to set up. Her face was a little red from crying. “If you can keep those two promises we can work through anything else, right?” “Right.” I whispered. She smiled and wiggled in my lap. God, that smile. I could only think of one smile I might love more than hers and it belonged to our daughter. When she leaned in to kiss me – really kiss me – only one thought crossed my mind. God, I fucking love this woman. Please don’t let me hurt her.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Birdie

“It shouldn’t be this easy to forgive you,” I said. A rumbling laugh emanated from the curve of my neck where he was giving me wet, sucking kisses that made me want to his mouth other places. “What was it you said last night? Something like, of course, you miss me, I’m amazing?” “Yeah, well… I was talking about myself.” His hand slid under my clothes, one up the back of my shirt, the other hand slipped past my waistband to grope my ass — cradling me against him. God, it felt so good to be held by him again. “Besides, I was easy to forgive. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Saxon pulled back and stared at me, disbelief creasing his brow. “Are you serious?” “Absolutely. I wasn’t the trash human being who abandoned a poor girl at the airport who was so in love that she wasn’t going to tell anyone that she was leaving the country.” “No… You’re right. You’re not the trash human being,” he said, kissing my lips gently. “But you are the one who had a baby and never told her daddy.” I yanked away from him. “Wow. Really?” “Oh, so you didn’t keep the fact that I had a daughter away from me?” “But I only did that because you left me!” “Oh, two wrongs make a right?” he asked. “No, but I am clearly not a terrible person. Not like you!“

He went quiet for a moment. “If this is going to work, you have to forgive me for real. Can you do that, Bird?” He wrote circles on my back with his fingertips. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I really want this. I want to know our daughter, and I want to be with you. I didn’t realize just how much I missed you until I saw your name on that list of contestants. And then to find out we had a baby…can you imagine how much it hurts to know that I’ve already missed so much of her life? Her first words. Her first steps. Her first birthday…” My heart clenched. “I’m sorry, Sax. I forgive you,” I whispered and then kissed him. Saxon had apologized lots of times in the last seventy-two hours, but this one hit different. I would have never confronted him this way when we were together before. I was too afraid of losing him. I didn’t know how to be me and be in love with him. But this… it felt so different that the only way to respond was with my body. I reached over his shoulders and pulled his t-shirt up and over his head, parting our mouths just long enough to make him shirtless. “Did you bring condoms?” “Yes,” he growled, then stood with me in his arms and carried me back to the bedroom. The moment my back hit the bed, he stripped off every article of my clothing and attempted to kiss every inch of my skin. All of the restraint he exhibited yesterday was gone. His desire met mine head-on, and we crashed together like two bodies that were never meant to be apart. “Take off your pants,” I demanded. He laughed. “You won’t need to ask me more than once this time.” He took a pack of condoms and toss them on the bed. I pushed up on one elbow, sliding my hand down to my parted thighs as I watched the show. “No woman has ever looked at me the way you do,” he said as he unbuttoned his jeans. “How do I look at you?” Dragging my eyes up from his flat muscled belly to his freckled chest, to finally met his gaze. A blush painted his cheeks.

“Like you want to devour me.” “Maybe I do,” I said with a smirk. “Damn,” he whispered. He yanked his jeans off and stepped out of them just seconds before he covered me with his body. “Leaving you was the dumbest thing I ever did.” “I’m glad you finally realize that. Don’t ever do it again.” “I won’t. I swear… Never again,” he promised, and I tasted the truth in his kiss. I crushed him to me and drank that truth from his lips. God, I’d forgotten… How had I forgotten how wanting him inside of me made me feel? This consuming, needy desperation made me feel like I might come out of my fucking skin if he didn’t fill me up soon. Saxon’s dick twitched where it hung between my legs. So close, but not where I needed and wanted him. It made me roll my hips with every thrust of his tongue. When I couldn’t take the wanting anymore, I tried to create some space between our bodies so I could put him inside of me. Saxon caught my hand and pinned it to my side. “You sure are horny for someone who came so much last night. I thought you said your pussy was broken?” I laughed and traced his bottom lip with my tongue before sucking it into my mouth. “You did a very good job of proving me wrong. Now put your dick inside of me, please.” He pulled away just a little bit so he could look into my eyes. “Can we slow down a little bit?” “Why?” I groaned. “Because… I know the second I’m inside of you, I’m gonna come. I want to make sure you get yours first,” he said as if it were a joke, but knowing that he was so turned on from just kissing made me want him even more. “Okay,” I said softly. “We can slow down.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, then reached between us and wedged his dick between our bodies. His thick shaft split my pussy lips and rested against my clit. “Jesus… Your dripping wet, little bird.” He thrust against me, and his dick slipped over my clit, sending a bright spark of pleasure through me that made me gasp and bury my face in his shoulder. “Can you come like this?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper in my ear. “Yes,” but the word caught on another gasp as the tip of his dick dragged over my clit. “Fuck,” I cursed, arching against him at counterpoint, grinding my pussy against the underside of his dick to make that pleasure spark again. I was more than wet. I was a slippery, dirty mess that his dick slid through easily. Pressed between our bodies as he was, I felt every throbbing pulse of him, and I knew it was just as good for him. Saxon pressed his forehead to mine and squeezed his eyes closed. “God…why is this so good? We’re humping like teenagers, but it feels so, so good. Is it just because it’s you? Damn, baby…” My heart… my stupid heart that I’d tried to keep out of this took flight when I heard those words. “It’s because it’s us,” I whispered back. “I want you inside of me.” I tipped my hips on his next downward stroke, and the tip of him notched right at my opening. Saxon went completely still. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed. I encircled him with my arms, keeping him close because I felt him trying to pull away. “Please,” I begged, pulsing my hips as much as the weight of him would allow. He had me pinned, so I couldn’t move much more than that. “Shit…you are so wet and hot and fuckkkk… I can feel how much you want me inside.” He reared back and looked down between our bodies. I did the same. Seeing his dick and how my pussy lips fit around the tip of him made me moan. “Fuck, baby.” He grasped my hip, pinning me to the mattress with his firm hold. “The condoms are right fucking there… what are you doing? What am I going to do with you?” “Give me the good ass dick I’ve been begging for?”

He looked at me then, lust and mirth in his eyes. “You asked so prettily that I almost gave it to you.” The smile slipped from his face as he gave me just the tip. “Birdie, we should really use a condom.” “You’re already inside of me, Sax.” “It’s just the tip. That doesn’t even count…I can still put the condom on.” But then he gave me another inch, and the tip of him brushed against that flushed bundle of nerves inside of me. A hot rush of liquid want slipped from my pussy. When he felt it, an incredulous smile curved the corners of his lips. “I can’t… fuck, I have to be inside you like this. Just like this.” A frown creased his brow, and he moaned as he sank into me in one long, slow stroke. Stretching and filling me in a way that left me panting. “Are you sure, baby? I need you to be sure.” “I’m sure—” “Cause I’m inside of you, and you feel so fucking good, and I wanna believe I’ll pull out in time. But you feel so fucking good. I can’t promise I will… I can’t.” Seeing him so undone… it undid all of my good sense. I reached for him and pulled him down until his mouth met mine. I kissed him hard and clenched his dick with my pussy. “Just fuck me, Saxon. Make love to me. Make me come on your dick — oh, fuck!” Those last two words came out in a loud moan because he’d pulled out just and little and those strong muscles I’d shown off a moment ago rippled up and down the length of him involuntarily. “Hm… Birdie. You like it when I’m in this deep, huh?” “Yes,” I sighed. I haven’t even come yet; I wasn’t even close, but he felt so good that my head was swimming. But then… he made it even better. Saxon levered himself upward just the tiniest bit, and my eyes rolled back in my head because the fucker was barely moving, but he still managed to hit every spot.

“Right there, yeah?” He twisted his hips in this magical serpentine that somehow managed to hit my clit and my g-spot at the same damn time, and it felt so, so good. “Yeah, right there,” he sighed. He shifted his weight onto one elbow, and with his free hand, he cupped my cheek and traced my bottom lip with his thumb. I sucked it into my mouth, and he moaned when my tongue caressed it the same way I’d sucked his dick last night. I sucked harder, and my pussy mimicked the motion of its own volition. “Fuck, baby…” he moaned, then pressed his lips to mine. “I thought I’d imagined it. Thought I’d imagined that it felt this good. I laughed softly, then moaned and kissed every part of him my mouth could reach. “I thought the same thing…” I said, then let out a long, low moan as the heavy thickness of his dick dragged along my walls, and I felt it in every nerve ending. “Jesus, Saxon…it feels like your dick was made to fuck me.” “Goddamn, Birdie. I didn’t forget a second of how good you feel. You’re so close…you gonna come for me?” “Yes…fuck, yes.” Saxon pressed his hand on my lower belly, right above my pubic bone. Just the little bit of pressure intensified the feeling of each stroke, and oh, God… I was gonna come hard. It had been so long since I’d had an orgasm like this. I’d forgotten the well of emotion that surged up in me. The elation, coupled with fear. The need to cry when I didn’t feel sad at all. Or maybe I was? I didn’t know, but the tears came when I came, and Saxon didn’t stop fucking me in those deep, hard strokes. “Was that what you wanted?” he asked. “What you’ve been begging for?” “Yes…” I sobbed, drunk, and gone on the pleasure he gave me. “So, so good. God, I’ve missed this. I love you so much.” “I love you too,” I wept, gripping his ass in my hands and loving the flex of those hard muscles under my palms as he ground his hips against mine, chasing

his own release. He pressed his forehead to mine but kept his eyes open, staring into mine. My pussy was still clenching around his dick, and looking into his eyes, added another layer of intensity to what I was already feeling. “Saxon…” I whispered, feeling another orgasm building on top of the one I’d just fucking had. “Again?” he asked. “Yes… I feel you.” Every thrust ground against my swollen clit, and so deep inside of me that I could hardly breathe. Then he went completely still. So still and so deep inside of me before he took a deep breath and slipped out of me. Grunting softly, he thrust against my clit, and pushed me right over the cliff with him as he came, sliding through the mess he made of us. He collapsed onto me, and I hugged him with my whole body. Sex sticky and feeling a little drunk, I was glad for his weight. It was the only thing holding me down. “Was…was that one of those sex positions we researched?” “Yes…” he panted, then laughed and kissed my shoulder. “It had a weird name. What was it?” “Grinding the—” “Corn!” I finished for him. “Yes, that one has always been my favorite.” I was suddenly tired. More than tired— I was exhausted. Saxon tucked me under the covers and curled his body around mine so perfectly that it felt like a weighted blanket. I drifted right off to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Birdie

Saxon gripped my hip and shook me gently. “Babe,” he grumbled. “Birdie, your phone is ringing.” “Mm?” “You’re phone.” Startled by the jangling I now heard, I sat up and looked around. “Where is it?” “On the nightstand.” Groggily, I groped toward the offensive sound and brought the phone to my face. I frowned when I saw the number. “Ortega?” I grumbled, then glared my throat. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?” “I’m so sorry, Chef. I know it’s early, but I didn’t know what to do.” I sat all the way up in bed, wide awake now. “What’s wrong?” “When I got in this morning, Mr. Kemp was already here. He was disoriented and agitated. I called his wife, but the phone just rang and rang.” I threw off the blankets. “I’m on my way. Try Mrs. Kemp again, but try to keep him calm until I get there, okay?” I jumped out of bed — half-delirious with sleep and began to search for my clothes. “What’s going on?” Saxon asked, sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp. “Is it Amara?” he asked, a slightly panicked tone in his voice. “No, Amara’s fine. It’s Mr. Kemp. He was at Kinfolks when Ortega got in this morning. She said that he’s disoriented and agitated, but when she tried to call

his wife, she didn’t get an answer. I’m just gonna head over there to try and get him home.” Saxon climbed out of bed and started looking for his clothes. “What are you doing?” “Getting dressed. I’m coming with you,” he said, yanking on his jeans over his bare ass. “Saxon, no. You can’t do that. How do you think it would look if we showed up together? “Come on, Birdie,” he groaned. “No, Saxon. I’ve made it this far into this competition. I’m not risking disqualification because we showed up together looking like we just fucked.” “This is ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. “I know.” I crossed the room to slide my arms around his bare waist. “I love you for wanting to me, but it’s fine. Mr. Kemp has had spells like this before. I just need to get him calmed down and take him home.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Okay, are you going to come back here?” “Probably. We don’t have to be at Hunt House until eleven to start prepping for dinner service.” “Okay, call and let me know how everything goes if you don’t.” “I will.” I pushed up onto my tip-toes and kissed him. “If I don’t get a chance to tell you this before I see you later, good luck. Even though I know you don’t need it.” I grinned. “Thanks. I’ll check in as soon as I know what’s going on.”

Kinfolks was only about five minutes away from Atlas’s place. I made it there in

three, and when I turned the corner to get to the parking lot, I was met by the flashing strobe lights of an ambulance. I slung my old Corolla into the nearest spot and ran toward the back door, which was propped open. The first person I saw was Ortega. She reached for me, her eyes wide. “Oh, thank God. I didn’t know what to do. He was so disoriented, and then he started slurring his words and talking gibberish. I squeezed her hand. “You did the right thing. Did you reach Sarah?” “Yes, finally. She’s on her way.” “Good, I’m gonna go see what’s going on.” The EMTs were crowded around Mr. Kemp, trying to get him on the stretcher, but the old man wasn’t cooperating. “Mr. Kemp,” one of them said loudly. “We need to get you on the stretcher and into the ambulance. You are having a stroke. Every moment is critical.” My stomach somersaulted. A stroke? “Mr. Kemp?” I squeezed between the two men, and when he saw me, his eyes went wide with recognition. “B-birb!” he slurred. “Yes, it’s Birdie. These men are trying to help you. You have to do what they say, Mr. Kemp. Let them help you.” Mr. Kemp looked around the room, fear in his eyes. When he turned to look at me again, I saw that one side of his face was beginning to droop. “Please, Mr. Kemp. Get on the stretcher.” He nodded and looked to the EMTs who helped him get on the stretcher and get strapped in. “Thank you,” the taller one of them said. “No problem. Where are you taking him?”

“Greenville Memorial. Are you family?” “No, I'm a close family friend, but his wife Sarah is on her way.” Just as I said her name, Sarah burst through the back door. "Oh, Lord,” she cried and hugged Mr. Kemp, who even in this state tried to comfort his wife. “Ernie… I didn't even hear you leave! What happened? What are you doing here?” “Ma'am, if you want to ride in the ambulance with us, we can explain exactly what's going on. But we need to get him to the ER immediately," the EMT said sternly. “Yes, sir, thank you,” Sarah said as she followed the stretcher out the door. She caught sight of me and reached for my hand. “I’ll follow y'all to the hospital," I said, giving her hand a squeeze. She nodded and went out the back door to the ambulance, leaving Ortega and me in the quiet, empty kitchen. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I’m fine, but is Mr. Kemp going to be okay? It was a stroke, wasn't it?” Ortega rambled. “Okay, you're in shock.” I steered her into my office. “Sit down. I'm going to get you some juice or something.” I went back out to the kitchen, feeling shellshocked. A stroke? Was Mr. Kemp going to be okay? Ortega seemed fragile. Did I need to stay here and run the restaurant today? With a glass of orange juice in hand, I made my way back to the office, where I found her staring at the wall. “Here you go, Jenna,” I said and pressed the glass into her hand. I encouraged her to drink and waited until she had a little juice in her before I reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “Do I need to stay here and help you today?” Should I look up at me and blinks rapidly. “Oh, I'm fine. And you can't stay, you have the competition—”

“I can stay for a few hours this morning if you need me to.” “No,” she said, then stood up and straightened her chef's coat. "Absolutely not. I'm fine, everything is fine. Go and kick ass today. I've got everything here.” I scanned her face and looked her in the eyes. “It's okay if you're not okay,” I said. “Are you okay, chef?” I swallowed thickly and felt the tears that wanted to well up in me. “I have to be. I'm going to go to the hospital to check on Sarah. Then make some calls to make sure she has someone with her through all this.” “Okay,” Ortega nodded. She stilled looked unsteady, but honestly, I did need to leave. I couldn’t stay and comfort her right now. On the way to the hospital, I called my parents to let them know what was going on. Mama and Daddy agreed to come into town to sit with Sarah, but she was alone now, so I wanted to wait with her until they arrived. It took a moment to find Mrs. Kemp. They had her in a private waiting room by herself, and seeing her sitting there alone nearly broke my heart. “Hey, Mrs. Kemp,” I said as I sat down next to her. “Have you seen him since they brought him in?” “No, he lost consciousness in the ambulance, and they couldn’t revive him.” “Oh, no.” I put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders and hugged her close. I didn’t know much, but I knew that losing consciousness after a stroke wasn’t a good thing. Afraid to put those awful thoughts into the universe, I shook my head against them and took a deep breath. “That stubborn old man… he’s gonna be fine,” I said defiantly. “And when he comes out on the other side of this, y’all should sell Kinfolks and move to the coast.”

“You know doggone well that Ernest is never going to sell Kinfolks. He’ll definitely give it to you, though.” Sarah tried to smile, but her lips refused to turn up the corners. She finally gave up and just patted my hand. “Don’t you have that competition today? You should go on home and prepare for that.” “Mama and Daddy are on their way out here to sit with you. I’ll leave when they get here.” She nodded, and a silence thick with anxiety settled over both of us. Mama and Daddy showed up about forty-five minutes later. Sarah started sobbing the moment she saw her, and my mother just held her and rocked her in. “What are they saying?” my father asked, pulling me away from the two friends comforting each other. “It was a stroke. Sarah said he lost consciousness in the ambulance. And the nurse came in a little while ago to tell us that they were still getting Mr. Kemp settled in, but there’s been no change in his condition.” My father grunted and put his arm around me. “How are you doin’? You all right?” I shrugged and fought the tears that wanted to come up. “Just stunned, I guess. We were in the kitchen yesterday afternoon. He was a little disoriented, but I didn’t think it was anything serious. Was something wrong with him then? I just thought…” My father hugged me to him. “Let’s not start that,” he said, patting me on the back. “Baby bird,” Mama said. “You need to get going, don’t you? You’re competing today.” I pulled my phone out to look at the time. It was almost ten, and I had four missed calls from Saxon. “Yeah, I better get going,” I said softly. After giving them strict instructions to keep me updated, I hugged my parents and Mrs. Kemp and left the hospital. On my way to the parking lot, I called Saxon.

“Hey, baby,” he said, and I smiled in spite of the deep sadness I was feeling at the moment. “Mr. Kemp had a stroke. He’s unconscious. It might be a coma.” “Oh, Bird. I’m so sorry.” “It’s just so weird. He was in the kitchen with me a few days ago, and he seemed fine. I mean, he was a little disoriented, but I didn’t think much of it. Mr. Kemp was just like that sometimes.” “Birdie, you had no way of knowing this would happen,” he said, echoing the words my father had just said to me. “Where are you now?” “I’m just leaving the hospital.” “Okay, I’ll iron your coat for you so that you can just hop in the shower when you get here.” “Thank you,” I whispered. It was such a small thing, but it felt good to have him care for me in this way.

Shirtless with his hair still damp from the shower, Saxon was still ironing my chef’s coat when I came in a few minutes later. He took one look at me then took me in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Bird,” he said again, but this time he followed the sentiment with kisses. “I don’t want to cry,” I said, burying my face in his chest. “There’s so much riding on today. If I give into these tears, I might not stop.” “So what do you need me to do?” he asked gently. “Distract me.” “Hm,” he grunted. “Are you asking me to…” “Yes.” He pulled on my braid until I tipped my head back to look up at him. “Are you sure?” I nodded. “Okay,” he said, then lifted me into his arms. Saxon was ready the moment I asked him to distract me, and I loved that about him. His grip on my ass was possessive as he carried me down the hallway, and it made the tiny hairs on my body stand up. In the bedroom, he set me down on my feet and undressed me, covering my skin with kisses and little love bites that made me so slick and ready that when he slid his fingers between my legs, I moaned and damn near sank to my knees. He caught me, and his free hand slid around the back of my neck, thumb tucked under my chin. He used that thumb to tip my head back so my eyes could meet his. “You okay?” he asked while caressing my clit with the thumb on his other hand. “Yes,” I breathed, my eyes sinking closed.

“Look at me, Birdie,” he ordered. I opened my eyes and looked right into his, and he slid two fingers into my pussy. My mouth opened on a silent gasp. It felt so good that I just wanted to lay flat on my back and let him do that for hours, but we didn’t have hours. “We don’t have time for this,” I whispered. “Just make me come.” “You can’t be serious,” he whispered against my lips. “We always have time for this. Get on the bed.” I backed up until the backs of my knees met the mattress, then I sat down and crawled to the middle of the bed. The sheets had been changed, and the bed was made. He’d been busy while I was gone. Saxon stood at the foot and took off his jeans. I damn near held my breath, waiting for the moment when his dick came out of that well worn soft denim. God, I could watch him undress for me every day for years and years. “Turn over and put your ass in the air,” he said when he finally made himself naked. “Sax—” He grabbed me by my ankles and flipped me onto my belly, startling a little yip out of me. “Get up on your knees, baby.” This time I recognized his words for what they were —not a request but an order. I tucked my knees under me and went on all fours. “Yes… ” he whispered, and I felt the bed dip as he climbed onto the mattress behind me. “Spread your knees wider.” I did as he asked, and he moaned softly. The fine hairs on my body stood up at his reaction. It was midday. The blinds weren’t drawn. He could see everything with me in this position. His lips met my spine, and he gathered my braid and settled it in the middle of

my back. “I’ve been thinking of you just like this with this braid in the middle of your back since that night in your restaurant when you were twirling your finger around the end of it.” His lips landed at the place where my braid ended, and he kissed his way down my spine to my ass. We really didn’t have time, but fuck time, because my back arched without my permission when his lips landed at the base of my spine. “Get your ass in the air, baby.” Wow, fuck… okay. I fisted my hands in the freshly washed duvet and buried my face in it. “Goddamn,” he cursed softly, gripping one of my ass cheeks and lifting it so that my pussy lips parted. “I’m gonna revisit this later, but I just wanna say… you’re thick is fuck now, Birdie and I love it. God… your ass looks so juicy and perfect right now.” His hand skimmed my pussy right before the blunt thickness of the tip of his dick met the wet, eager place between my legs. Like a fucking sadist, he dragged his dick from my clit to my ass and back again before he sank into me. The stroke was so swift and deep that my arms collapsed. Saxon made that sound in the back of his throat —the sound that was arrogance and fucking delight all at the same time. He wasn’t fucking wrong —he knew my body. The way his dick found all of the places inside of me that obliterated my worries and made me focus on pleasure was perfect. In the space of two strokes, I was so close that I was meeting his thrusts, and the room was filled with the obscene sound of our bodies meeting. “Fuck…please,” I begged, as my pussy tightened around his dick. He crowded against me and brought one hand over my hip to play with my clit and… “God, Sax… oh, fuck!” I panted, collapsing under him, face in the mattress, ass high and coming so wetly that it sounded like someone had turned on a faucet. “Shit, Birdie… ” he cursed before thrusting deep, burying himself in my clenching pussy. “Fuck, I can’t….” His dick pulsed deep inside of me, and I knew he was coming and knew he wasn’t going to pull out, and it felt so good that I couldn’t find a reason to care.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Birdie

“I can’t believe you’re getting out six blocks from the restaurant right now,” Saxon complained as our Uber slowed to a stop near the park. I turned to him, took his face in my hands and kissed him gently. “I’m almost finished with this competition. After today, there’s one challenge left before it’s over and I win that cash.” He smiled against my lips. “So you feel confident about tonight? You feel like it’s a win?” I shrugged. “I feel like I steered the menu in the way I wanted to go. Almost every dish but the dessert plays to my strengths so I’m not super worried.” “Good,” he said, swiping his thumb across my bottom lip to fix my lipstick. “I know you’re going to win this but I’m glad to see you’re finally on board.” I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Saxon. See you there.” He grabbed my hand and yanked me back inside of the car before I could get out. “I believe in you, lil’ Bird. You got this,” he whispered, before giving me a hard, deep kiss that nearly made my panties incinerate. “Now get going.” Saxon pushed me out of the car and slammed the door closed. I stood there for a moment, patting myself on the back for letting him take my mind off of Mr. Kemp before I walked toward Hunt House and the group challenge. Entering the kitchen at Hunt House was surreal. It wasn’t only my last place of employment, but it was the only kitchen I’d been in for six months straight. When I got hired on under Breslin, I thought this was a long term assignment. I thought I would be happy here. I worked hard to shake that off as I walked

through the kitchen doors. All of the competition’s participants had been corralled into a space outside of the kitchen but away from the regular employees. I spotted Corey and sat next to her. “Oh, thank god,” the other woman said, and immediately hooked her arm around me. “I’m so fucking nervous.” “Of course, you are. I am too. It’s fine,” I said, rubbing her back. “We’re fine.” “Of course, we’re fucking fine,” Hendricks said as he sat on the opposite side of Corey. “We’re the only team here that has two actual chefs that have worked this kitchen. This is an easy win.” I felt my top lip curl in disgust and I had to work hard to relax it before I looked at Corey again. “He’s right. This isn’t as hard as it seems. They pump this up as the challenge that sends everyone home but with two working chefs on your team, you are completely safe.” “We got this,” Hendricks said, rubbing his hands together. The culinary art students came to collect us from the holding area and directed us to our assigned work stations. The stations were small — too small for one person let alone three. Once we were left alone, I turned to my two teammates with my hands on my hips. “So… we already know what we’re cooking and the prep that we need to do. Let’s just get started.” They both nodded and we went to our respective corners. The starter salad was all mine. I carried two big metal bowls over to my station and went to work. Time ed strangely when I was in the kitchen and focused on getting shit done. Faster than seems possible, myself and my teammates are plating our food as the first group of chefs took their dishes out to the dining room. “How are those chops looking, Hendricks?” I asked as I filled small salad bowls. In my peripheral vision I saw him testing each piece with the tip of his finger instead of using a meat thermometer. “You’re going to check the temp on those,

right?” I asked. “You just handle the salads and the mustard sauce. I’ve got this.” I rolled my eyes. “What about you, Corey? You’re good on the mashed?” “Yep! Just waiting to plate once the chops are done.” “And those Brussels are probably ready to come out of the oven… so great! This is all coming together.” Once I had the salads plated I threw together the white wine mustard sauce. By the time it had reached the right consistency the chops, mash, and Brussels sprouts had been plated. I poured a generous amount on each chop artfully. “God, this smells so good,” Corey said. “It does. Let’s just hope the judges think it tastes as good at it smells!” Wait staff went out to the dining room and bussed the tables, clearing away the last group’s plates. When they came into the kitchen, we all saw that the plates had barely been touched. “Shit… they must have really bombed,” Corey said as she examined the plate of boneless, skinless chicken breast swimming in a creamy sauce. “Good. That works in our favor. We’re ready to serve, right?” “Judges and diners, I present Chefs Hendricks, Malone, and Phillips,” Marissa announced. My heart kicked in my chest and I had to remind myself to breathe as I followed Hendricks into the dining room. Concentrating on holding the plates steady and not tripping over my feet, I didn’t look up until we were at the judges table. Saxon caught my eye as I set a plate in front of Chris Hunt and the look he gave me made both of our cheeks flush. I came around to the right of him and set a small plate and a salad in front of him. “Enjoy, chef,” I said in a low, unintentionally husky voice that reminded me of what we had done just hours before I arrived here.

“Good evening, judges,” Hendricks intoned with hands behind his back, peacocking for the table. “Your starter is a date, kale and arugula salad, massaged with lemon and olive oil. On your plate you have seared, bone in pork chop with a white wine mustard sauce, mashed — a mix of cauliflower, parsnip, and potato — and Brussels sprouts with bacon.” “This looks beautiful,” Gwen said as if she was relieved to see something that actually resembled edible food on her plate. “Thank you, chefs,” Saxon said with a nod and we left the dining room. Having worked here for nearly a year, I knew the perfect place to watch the judges to try and gauge their reactions. Corey and Hendricks crowded into my hiding place behind a crate of glasses stacked higher than my head. I watched as the judges dug into their plate. The first group had clearly bombed and that made me a little nervous. But I was also sure that the three of us had more skill than they had. Our menu was cohesive and the flavors married well. “What are they saying?” Corey asked. “Does it look like they like it?” “She’s not a lip reader,” Hendricks snapped. “No, but I can read body language just fine. The salad is a hit. Everyone ate it all.” “That’s awesome!” Corey chirped patting me on the back. I watched Saxon taste the mustard sauce. The look on his face was slightly imperceptible, but then he went in for another taste and his eyebrows twitched upward and he gave a little nod. “The mustard sauce too.” “What about the chops?” Hendricks asked and tried to push me out of the way so that he could see what was going on. I elbowed him back and watched as Saxon cut into his chop. A frown creased his brow. He cut another piece and then another. Finally, he brought a small morsel to his mouth. The frown deepened.

My heart dropped into my shoes. “Something is wrong with the chops.” “What?” Hendricks barked I stepped back and Hendricks moved into the space, and pressed his face to the gap between the crates. “How can you tell? Everyone is eating it,” he asked. “Is everyone eating it or cutting into it over and over?” I asked, stating the obvious. He went quiet for a moment. “Oh, shit,” he whispered finally then turned toward me. There was only one reason why someone would cut up a piece of meat the way the judges were without eating it. It was undercooked. So undercooked that Saxon could only find a small piece that was safe to eat. “Did you check the temperatures?” I asked, feeling rage and helplessness bubble up inside of me. “I cook meat every fucking day in the kitchen—” “That’s not what I asked you,” I growled. “Yes, of course I fucking did.” But he didn’t sound sure of himself. In fact, it sounded like he was lying. “What?” Corey asked. “What’s going on?” “Hendricks undercooked the chops,” I spat. A nervous, incredulous laugh tittered out of her. “What? How could they be undercooked?” “He just served the judges table raw fucking chops,” I clarified. Corey questioned him and Hendricks tried to argue his case. I just backed away from both of them and leaned against the opposite wall. This was why I hated fucking group projects. Men like Hendricks who show up like arrogant, know it

alls and proceed to do subpar work. “Maybe it wasn’t all of them,” he said weakly. “I guess we’ll find out when the plates come back. We should get started plating the cake.” Dazed I made my way back to the kitchen. I knew that the first group had pretty much tanked their meal. They didn’t have a starter because they burnt it and their main dish looked inedible. Hopefully, that meant that we didn’t score worse than them, but I didn’t know. No point on focusing on that now. We still had a dessert to present. “Are we fucked?” Corey asked as she brought a stack of dessert plates to the tiny station they’d given us to work in. “I don’t know.” “Of course we aren’t fucked,” Hendricks said. “All of the chops weren’t undercooked—” “Why were any of them undercooked?” I snapped. “You know…the right thing for you to do in this moment is apologize and accept responsibility for dropping the ball, but I guess I’m not surprised that Breslin’s lackey isn’t man enough to do that.” He swelled up for a moment as if he were going to argue a point he’d already lost, but I glared at him so long and so hard that he reconsidered it. “I need some air,” he said finally. “Fine. We don’t need you to do this anyway.” Once he was gone I turned to Corey who looked like she was about to cry. “This is so fucked up. I was for sure that we would be the winning team.” “Me too, but let’s not focus on that just yet and plate this gorgeous cake of yours. We might still have a chance.” Corey’s citrus upside down cake had come out light and spongey with a delicate sweetness. Topped with pinwheels of blood oranges, clementines, and oranges, it

was equally beautiful to look at. We plated it and presented it alongside the desserts of the other groups without Hendricks. That guy was officially on my shit list. How dare he? Mr. Kemp, a dear family friend, was in the hospital and I showed up ready to perform. This fucker couldn’t even show up to it to the very obvious mistakes that might get us all sent home today. “All right! Judges you all can take a moment to finalize your scores. Contestants, you can take a much needed break!” Instead of following the rest of the contestants, I went out into the dining room to see my sisters and Atlas. Soni stood and pulled me into a hug as soon as she saw me. “Any word on Mr. Kemp?” I asked. “No change,” Atlas said with a shake of his head. “Mama and Daddy are still up there with Sarah so at least she’s not alone. How are you feeling?” “To be honest? Pissed off and just a little scared that being here was a waste of time and wondering if I there was something more I could have done for Mr. Kemp—” “Birdie,” Soni said. “You know he’s had high blood pressure for years and hasn’t done much of anything to keep it under control. There is nothing you could have done to change this. It’s just what happens when you don’t take care of yourself.” I nodded, knowing she was right but I still felt guilty. “Did you guys get undercooked chops too?” They all looked at each other but didn’t say a word. “Fucking Hendricks,” I cursed under my breath. “But the other two groups didn’t do that great either, Bird. Everything else from the sauce to the sides was perfect on your plate,” Atlas said, trying to reassure me. “He served raw meat!” I snapped, then felt immediately guilty. “I’m sorry. This whole day has just been fucked.”

Aggie reached out and rubbed my back. “What crashes, crashes,” she said softly. “And what flows, flows,” I finished. And I guess if I was meant to win this competition, that would have flowed to me. The judges filed back into the room and our three groups came to stand in front of the waiting diners. Hendricks stood silently on the opposite side of Corey. He didn’t even have the balls to look contrite. I wanted to rip his fucking head off. “So the judges have deliberated and we also collected the scorecards of our lovely diners. We look to have a pretty clear winner!” Marissa chirped as she pulled out what I assumed was a tally of our scores. “Before I announce the winner, I just want to say that you all showed up and did your best work here tonight, but unfortunately, only one team can come into first place. And that team is….” I clenched my teeth. Why was she dragging this out so much? “Group two!” she finished finally. For a moment what she said didn’t . But then I heard Atlas whoop and looked up to see Soni and Aggie on their feet clapping excitedly. “We won!” Corey said, yanking me into a hug. Stunned I hugged her back, but I didn’t even bother looking at Hendricks. We won the challenge, but that didn’t mean someone on our team wasn’t going home. “Unfortunately,” Marissa continued, once the cheering died down, “only three contestants will move on to tomorrow’s challenge — final challenge that will determine the winner of the Taste of the Upstate. The chefs that will go home tonight are…” To no one’s surprise, every chef in group one was eliminated. Two from group three. Corey grabbed my hand and squeezed. I was so sure that these two would be my competition going into the final challenge, but now I wasn’t. “Chef Hendricks,” Marissa said solemnly. “You were the head chef and while everything else on your plate was prepared perfectly, your pork chop was

undercooked. Thank you for participating, but you will not be moving on to the next round.” A tense moment of silence descended when Hendricks didn’t budge from his spot. “Excuse me?” he asked finally as if he was sure he didn’t hear her correctly. “You won’t be moving on to the next round, Chef Hendricks,” Marissa said again. He looked around the room and his face went red with rage or embarrassment — I couldn’t tell which. Then he turned to leave, making sure to glare at me before he left the dining room. “Well,” Marissa said then cleared her throat. “Diners, thank you so much for eating with us tonight.” Taking that for the dismissal that it was, the remaining diners who hadn’t left with their family stood to leave the dining room. Soni, Aggie, and Atlas waved as they exited, but they would probably wait for me downstairs. “Chefs?” Ransom called, signaling for us to have a seat at a table very near where the other judges were sitting. I could feel Saxon’s eyes following me as I grabbed a seat. God, I couldn’t wait to talk to him about all of this. “Congratulations, chefs,” Ransom said. “You’ve made it to through to the last challenge and you all should be proud of what you accomplished.” The judges clapped for us and the fact that I’d survived the group challenge finally sank in. “Tomorrow’s challenge is for you to present a dish that represents you. I know you all have been dreaming of opening your own restaurants for a long time. We want you to make us a signature dish that would represent your personality and your philosophy on cooking. See you at the Culinary Arts kitchen tomorrow at three pm!” “Thanks, chef!”

Corey and I went back to the break room where we left our personal items then walked out of the restaurant together. Dinner service was in full swing and a few of the eliminated chefs were at the bar, drinking away their woes. Now that the challenge was over, thoughts of Mr. Kemp creeped back into my mind. “Are you heading home? Do you want to grab a couple of drinks with me?” I looked into Corey’s hopeful face. It felt shitty to blow her off, but I had no choice. “I wish I could, but a close family friend was rushed to the hospital today and I really want to see about him.” “Oh no! I’m so sorry to hear that! I hope it’s nothing serious.” The sadness I’d avoided all morning swamped me. “It… it doesn’t look good,” I said, shaking my head. “Birdie?” I turned and Soni was rushing toward me with a scared look on her face. “Oh no,” I moaned. “Let’s just get to the hospital, okay?” she pulled me against her and hustled me toward the nearest exit.

Mr. Kemp’s condition had deteriorated severely since they brought him in this morning. He was in ICU on a ventilator and only two of us were allowed in at a time. Sarah refused to leave his side, so us Malone’s came in one by one to say our goodbyes. Sarah looked up and gave me a tired smile when I came in. “Did you finish up your competition?” I nodded and sat down next to her. “I won today’s challenge and I’m one of three finalists to move on to the final day of the competition.” “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said, pulling me into a hug and giving me a hard squeeze. “Ernie was so proud when you entered. He would be tickled that you made it this far.” “I know.” She patted me on the back and we both turned our attention back to the once boisterous man lying still in the bed. “That thing you said earlier about selling Kinfolks…I just wanted to let you know, Ernest wants you to have it.” “What? I couldn’t—” “I told you that the goal was to always the restaurant on to you.” A sad smile quirked the corners of her mouth. I shook my head. “I never thought y’all were serious.” “We were. I just didn’t realize that it would happen so soon.” She sighed and took Mr. Kemp’s hand in hers. “They’re saying there’s no brain activity. He’s had a series of tiny strokes since this morning. He’s already gone.” Sarah patted me on the back and stood up stiffly. “I’m gonna go to the restroom. Say your goodbyes, sweetheart.” Ernest Kemp died at eleven forty-five — three hours after I had been told that I was one of the finalists in a cooking competition that I would have never entered without the confidence he instilled in me in his kitchen. Stubborn right to the end, he held on after he was taken off the ventilator and that was the most

agonizing thing I’d ever witnessed. I never did find the words to say goodbye to him because how do you even know what to say to someone who played such a large part in your life? I was pulling into the driveway at Soni’s when my cell phone rang. “He’s gone, Saxon,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m so sorry, Birdie. Where are you right now?” “In Soni’s driveway. I feel so torn. I want to hug Amara and I want to be with you…” He sighed and that sound made me wish I was already in his arms. “Go hug Amara. I’ll be here. She’s probably sad and confused right now too.” I nodded even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “Maybe I’ll come by in the morning once she goes to school.” “Okay, but… don’t you need to get ready for the final challenge?” “Yes, but I can bring my cookbooks over with me in the morning.” “Okay, well. When should I expect you?” “Maybe around eight or nine?” “Sounds good. I’ll have some breakfast ready for you.” “You don’t have to do that, Saxon.” “I know I don’t. I want to make you breakfast because I love you.” “I love you too.” “See you in the morning.” I let myself in through the front door because the garage door was so loud and creaky and I didn’t want to wake anyone up. Turns out that was a wasted effort because I found Soni, Aggie, and Atlas in the kitchen. Drinks in hand and shellshocked looks on their faces.

“Birdie,” Aggie said then immediately crossed the room to give me a fierce hug. I held onto my sister and finally let all of the tears go.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Birdie

In the morning, after a night of restless sleep, I dropped Amara off at school and went straight to Kinfolks. The staff knew some of what happened, but they deserved to hear the news of Mr. Kemp’s ing from me. When I arrived, they were already in full swing, a well-oiled machine baking and prepping for breakfast service. I surveyed it all for a moment and thought about what Mrs. Kemp said about ing the restaurant on to me. Was that something I was even ready for? “Chef!” Ortega called out when she noticed me standing in the doorway. “What’s going on? Do you have any news about Mr. Kemp?” “Gather around everyone,” I said. My staff set down their tasks and gathered around me in a semi-circle. “I’m sure you all heard about what happened with Mr. Kemp yesterday morning — about him being rushed to the hospital.” “Is he all right?” Benny asked. “No, Benny, He’s not.” I shook my head and took a deep breath. I wanted to get this news out without crying. “Mr. Kemp suffered a series of mini-strokes yesterday. He lost consciousness in the ambulance and died late last night.” “Dios mío!” Ortega gasped, her hand flying to her heart. “I don’t know what this means for Kinfolks yet, but we’ll keep the doors open in the meantime. Business as usual until further notice, okay?” “Yes, chef,” echoed around the room. I nodded and turned to head into the office.

“Wait, Birdie,” Benny called out. “The competition… did you move onto the next round?” “Oh, yeah. I’m one of the three finalists.” They all clapped and whooped for me, and as much as I wanted to feel good about it, it was hard for me to muster up the strength to meet their enthusiasm. “What’s the final challenge?” Ortega asked. “I have to cook a signature dish. Something that would speak to my personality and my philosophy on food.” “Well, that should be easy,” she said with a shrug. “Homegrown, elevated comfort food, right?” “Yeah, but… which dish?” “If you want, I can brainstorm with you—” “Thanks, but you’ve been such a great help to me here. Thank you so much for pulling all of the weight while I participated in this competition.” “Of course, chef,” she said with a nod and a small smile. “I’m just going to grab a couple of cookbooks from the office, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” Ortega’s assessment of my cooking style and philosophy wasn’t wrong. As much as I tried to escape it, I was a country girl who spent most of my childhood on my mother’s farm — barefoot, with red clay under my nails and ground into the knees of my jeans. Everything we ate was raised and grown in my mother’s fields. My dish would have to speak to that. The condo smelled of warm biscuits, coffee, and bacon when I let myself in. Saxon was at the stove shirtless and stirring a pot of grits. I dropped the cookbooks on the center island and went to him, hugged him around the waist, and kissed the middle of his bareback. “Morning,” he said.

“I’d forgotten one of the best perks about being with you.” “And what was that?” “That you’ll be in the kitchen shirtless and cooking up those creamy ass grits that I love.” His laughter rumbled against the palms I’d spread across his chest. “Stone ground because I know they’re your favorite.” “Now you’re speaking my love language.” “Grab some plates and a cup of coffee. Everything is ready.” For once, we actually sat at the breakfast bar to eat our food. While we ate, I spread out the cookbooks and all of the notebooks I had scribbled recipes into in front of us. “Still keeping your diary, I see,” he said with a smirk as he took a sip of his coffee. I rolled my eyes. “Yes, chef. It’s one of the few useful things you taught me before I was kicked out of culinary school.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Just a few things?” “Well, most of the stuff I learned from you didn’t happen in the kitchen, so yes.” “Fresh,” he said in faux disdain while clutching his imaginary pearls. He picked up one of the notebooks and flipped to a random page. “Mama’s crop of acorn squash is especially good this year,” he read. “I sliced them into fun little rings and seasoned them with salt, pepper, garlic, and a little nutmeg. Amara really liked them. They had a sweet, nutty flavor that would work well in a winter hash. Hmm…” he hummed thoughtfully. “Did you make this hash?” “I did! With sweet potatoes and Vidalia onions. It was really good.” He nodded as he traced the pictures of the squash that I’d drawn. “These drawings are really lovely. What’s all this health-related stuff down here, though? Boosts your immunity, regulates your blood pressure… why write that

in here?” “Well… it’s kind of the format that my sister Soni and my mom use for their herbs and all of their tinctures and remedies. I thought it was a good idea to write about food in the same way.” “Ah… that’s right. Your sister’s the rootworker.” “Mama too. You never did tell me how you know about all of that.” He smiled and picked up a strip of bacon. “You’d be surprised what this Charleston boy knows,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “And now that I know about your Gullah roots, all of your resistance to recipes makes sense. I wish I’d known about it then.” “Maybe… my sisters take after my mother, but I don’t. That’s why I don’t bring it up much.” “What makes you think you don’t take after her?” he asked. “Well, my sisters really are sort of fucking magic. Soni is this amazing garden witch, and now she has this career based on the medicinal Gullah herbal recipes that she and my mother make. My sister Agostina is deeply empathic and maybe even a little psychic. She has the ability to see, feel, and know things that most people can’t see, feel, or know. She’s a brilliant artist that can create almost anything she puts her mind to. I am none of those things. I just know how to make good food,” I said with a shrug. Saxon leaned his chin on his hand and gave me a bemused smile. “But don’t you think that’s your own personal magic?” I rolled my eyes. “Plenty of people can cook, Saxon. What I do isn’t special.” “You say that, but you haven’t seen yourself in the kitchen.” He reached out to stroke a hand down the middle of my back. “The way you bring flavors together — like that little dash of curry in the white wine mustard sauce last night. Your creativity in the kitchen… that’s your magic.” I shook my head at him and laughed.

“What?” “I love you, is all. And I missed you. I missed this.” Saxon turned on his stool and pulled me into his arms. “I missed you too, Birdie.” He kissed me, and it was sweet and reverent and made me ache for the moment when we could be like this always. “I want you to meet Amara tonight after the competition is over,” I blurted. He pulled away, slightly surprised. “Are you sure?” “Yes, you’ve been so patient and understanding. I don’t want to make you wait anymore.” The biggest smile stretched across his face, then he picked me up and swung me around. “Let’s figure out this recipe so you can win this thing, and I can meet my baby girl.”

Feeling confident and well-cared for by Saxon, who allowed me to brainstorm with him for hours until I settled on a recipe, I entered the kitchen with my knives, a brown paper bag full of foraged greens, and my notebook — ready to cook. Saxon had helped me narrow down my recipe idea, but he didn’t know exactly what I decided to make — which I insisted on for the sake of the competition. He was still a judge, after all. The dish I had settled on spoke to my heritage and all the foods that I loved. But it also was a tribute to Mr. Kemp and Kinfolks. “Hey, Corey!” I said as I set my knife roll and grocery bag on My prep station. She looked up and gave me a nervous smile. “Are you ready to get this thing done and over with?” I shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” “Same,” she said with a nod. “No matter how things shake out, I want you to know that I am so glad that I got the chance to meet you and cook with you. I’ve learned so much this week. You are amazing.“ “Oh, that’s so sweet. Come ‘ere,“ I said, opening my arms to give Corey a hug. “Being in the trenches next to you has been a pleasure.“ “Well, welcome back, finalists!“ Marissa crowed as she came into the room. “This is the day y’all have been waiting for. The challenge that will determine the winner of this year‘s Taste of the Upstate!“ She paused for us to clap again, which seemed even weirder this time around because there were so few of us in the room. “As you know, this challenge is your signature dish,” Chef Ransom intoned. “The one meal that you think adequately portrays your personality and food philosophy. You will have an hour to prep and cook your dish.” He looked up at the clock above the swinging doors. “You may begin,” he said when a secondhand struck twelve. Next to me, my fellow contestants began to rush around. My dish wasn’t going to take long, so I took my time.

So much of our beloved southern dishes harkened back to a time when we were forced to make good food from what was leftover. A lot of that was supplemented with things that grew wild in the yard, like onion grass and pokeweed. These weren’t things — especially the pokeweed — that you would typically see on a restaurant menu. In fact, most people are afraid to ingest it because they believed that it was toxic. But I’ve eaten it my whole life, and the first person to teach me how to prepare it was Mr. Kemp. Tears flowed as I cleaned and chopped the greens that I rooted around in the Kemp’s backyard to find. I added it to the pot of rendered fatback, added in the onion grass, garlic, salt, and a pinch of cayenne pepper to give it a little bit of bite. When the greens were wilted, I poured a little broth into the pot and turn the fire down to a simmer. Next… the hoecakes. Most people like them served sweet as a breakfast dish with lots of maple syrup. But I prefer savory hoecakes with bacon, peppers, and more of that wild onion I used in the poke sallet. I took my time making them into perfect silver dollars. I nibbled one misshapen cake and knew that it was something I would add to the menu at Kinfolks. “Seven minutes!“ Chef Ransom called out when I was in the middle of plating three golden, silver dollar sized hoecakes next to a big ole pile of poke sallet. For garnish, I added a couple of slices of juicy, red Roma tomatoes because Southerners loved to eat tomatoes with almost every meal when they were in season. “And that’s time chefs!“ Marissa said cheerily. “It smells so good in here! My tummy is a’rumbling. Let’s get these dishes to the judges!“ The culinary arts students came around to each station and loaded their individual cards with our food. “Contestants, please step forward and tell us about your dish,” Ransom said once they each had three small plates in front of them. Corey made smothered pork chops. I kind of figured she would. The third contestant, a quiet, unassuming guy named Damon, made sautéed shrimp,

tomatoes, and okra over rice, which looked and smelled delicious. Might need to add that to the menu too… but make it spicy. “And last but not least, Chef Malone.” I stepped forward. “Good afternoon, judges. My food philosophy is homegrown, elevated comfort food. I don’t know how much you all know about me, but I grew up on a farm just outside of town. The meals we ate were simple and filling and often made from what we grew and raised on our land. That’s why today I have made you savory hoecakes with a big ole pile of poke sallet greens.” “Excuse me, did you say poke sallet? As in the dangerously toxic pokeweed?“ Chris Hunt asked. Nervousness and embarrassment made my underarms prickle with sweat at his reaction, but somehow I held on to my self-confidence.“ It’s only toxic when eaten raw. I’ve grown up eating it. I don’t know if you all know Mr. Kemp, the owner of Kinfolks, but he was a close family friend. It was one of the things he used to make for me whenever me and my sisters stayed the night. And he was the first want to teach me how to prepare it.“ “I heard of Ernest’s ing. I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great man,” Chris Hunt said. “Thank you.” “And this was something he used to make for you?” Gwen asked. “Yes, ma’am.” “Then I’ll give it a try,” she said with a shrug. “Most people think it takes a little like asparagus,” I volunteered. While Chris and Gwen were still debating the poke sallet, Saxon forked some into his mouth and chewed slowly. “Is that spring onion?” “Wild onion.” The rest of the judges followed suit and raved a mouthful of the sallet before

moving onto the hoecakes. “Hm. Savory. Not what I was expecting.” Gwen said with a nod. “And why do we call them hoecakes again?” Marissa asked. “Because field hands would remove the handle of their cotton hoe – the garden tool – and turn it into a griddle to cook these cakes on them.“ “Is that true or some sort of old wives tale ed out from your granny?“ She said jokingly. Well, she meant it as a joke, but I’m not laughing. “Is absolutely true, Marissa,“ Saxon said with a sharp edge in his voice. “The hoecakes are definitely a delicious twist on traditional southern food. Thank you, Chef.“ I nodded. “Well, this is a very interesting and delicious plate. You’ve given us a lot to think about, Chef Malone,” Chef Ransom said before bringing a forkful of hoecake and poke sallet to his lips. “It most certainly is! If you contestants would please step out into the hallway while myself and the judges deliberate,” Marissa said. The three of us stepped out into the hallway. Chef Ransom’s words circled in my head. Interesting? He said my plate was delicious but interesting? That made me feel uneasy. And Chris Hunt’s reaction… would that count against me somehow? Fuck. Maybe I took too big of a risk. I leaned against the wall outside of the double doors and cradled my head in my hands. “They didn’t have much to say about my smothered pork chops,” Corey said. “Or my shrimp and okra,” Damon said morosely. I could feel them looking at me, but I couldn’t give them my energy right now. Did I fuck this up? Did I take it too far I bringing foraged greens into the kitchen?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Saxon

For the first time since the start of this competition, the judge's table was almost completely quiet as we considered the dishes in front of us. All of them were technically good, but none of them were nearly as creative or well thought out as Birdie’s. Foraged greens? We talked about food for hours this morning, but I had no clue that this was where she was going with all of those questions about local and sustainable foods. Damn, baby, you really did risk it all. “I have to say,” Chris Hunt began. “This has to be the most interesting plate of food I’ve eaten in the seven years that I have been a judge of this competition.” No one needed to ask which plate Chris was talking about. We knew it was Birdie’s. “It’s the most creative dish I’ve encountered,” Ransom agreed. “Brave of her to select something that could possibly be poison someone. Pokeweed is a nightshade and could have triggered an allergic reaction —” “White potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, bell peppers, cayenne pepper, paprika — all nightshades. And I don’t know how you grew up, but poke sallet is not foreign to a certain demographic of folks in the southeast,” I interrupted, trying but failing to keep the irritation out of my voice. “So your vote is clear,” Gwen mumbled with a chuckle. My ears went hot, and I knew I was blushing, but so the fuck what? “Isn’t yours?” I challenged. She shrugged. “Most likely, but I think it’s smart to consider the other dishes

critically so we’re not jumping to conclusions.” I looked around the table to gauge everyone else’s reaction. I wanted to say more, but what more could I add without looking like a fool who was so in love with this woman and her creative mind? Brett and Noah were here, recording every moment for the show, and I felt their focus on me. It felt acute and too specific. Like they were waiting for an outburst. So I sat back in my chair and closed my mouth. Let them debate the merits of the other two dishes. “I enjoyed the shrimp and okra dish but felt it was under seasoned,” Chef Ransom said. Because it was… “The shrimp were also a tad chewy?” Gwen said with a grimace. Because he executed the dish like someone who found the recipe online and not one who had it ed down through her ancestors like Birdie. “And I don’t really have much to say about the smothered and covered pork chops. They’re good but not as good as what my wife makes, and wasn’t the point to make a restaurant-quality dish?” Chris said of Corey Phillip’s dish. Was it? Was it the point? I thought it was meant to speak to their personality and their food philosophy. Only one dish did that! I was going to explode if they went on like this much longer. Birdie was the winner. Just. Fucking. Say. It. “The pan gravy was a bit too greasy and lumpy as well,” Gwen muttered. “But it did have good flavor.” “It was unremarkable to me,” the previous year’s winner whose name I’d already forgotten said. I stifled a sigh of frustration. They should get real and it what they already knew. Phillip’s smothered chops was clearly a makeup dish for the chops Hendricks ruined during their restaurant challenge. A challenge that I was almost certain he threw in hopes of getting Birdie sent home. I mean, what sou chef at a steak house sends out plate after plate of raw chops? “So what are we saying here, people?” Marissa asked tiredly.

And to be honest, I was right there with her. I was just as done with all this posturing. “Chef Malone. She’s the clear winner. It’s the most creative, bravest, wellexecuted dish,” Ransom said. Ransom looked to each of the judges at the table, and no one made any sounds of descent. “So it’s decided then! The winner is Chef Malone!” Marissa cosigned. This time everyone at the table nodded in agreement. “Bring the finalists back in here so we can get this over with,” Marissa said to the culinary art students who have been assisting during the whole competition. The double doors swung open, and the three contestants filed back in. Birdie was last, and her head hung low on her shoulders. That shit pissed me off. She should feel confident and validated. We questioned her, examined, and discussed her plate in ways we didn’t even consider for the other contestants. Didn’t she know that this intense scrutiny was a sign of approval? We asked questions because we wanted to know her thought process behind the dish and how she came to this end product. If she didn’t, I would be sure to let her know when this was all over. Don’t be afraid to be questioned, baby Bird. You do things that people don’t understand. That’s your gift. That’s your magic. “Well, finalists, the judges have come to a decision,” Marissa said with manufactured gravity. “You all really presented your best work and gave us a lot to contemplate.” She walked forward and stood just a few feet from them. “And while we enjoyed all of your plates, Chef Malone’s savory hoecakes and that big ole pile of poke sallet won our palates. Congrats, Chef Malone!” Corey Phillips responded before Birdie did. She stood quiet and stunned while the other woman jumped up and down and hugged her. Could she really believe she was so unworthy of this prize? Gradually, Birdie reanimated. Her face went from elation to a well of emotion that resulted in tears. She went down to her knees and sobbed, and I wished I could go there and hold her up. Instead, it was Chris Hunt that gathered her up.

“Chef Malone, you earned this recognition. Your dish was the sort of thing one only experiences when they are in the presence of true creative genius. You earned it,” Chris said. The exterior doors opened, and local TV crews entered the room to capture this moment when the local girl, the head line cook of a restaurant that they all frequented and loved, received a sweepstakes sized check with happy tears pouring down her face. “Thank you all so much. I wanted it, but for awhile there, I wasn’t sure if it would happen for me. Thank you so much for this opportunity,” she said when the microphones were thrust in her face. I wanted to absorb every moment, but I knew the emotions were showing on my face. Birdie had won, but it wasn’t over. I needed to hold it together until the night was over, and I couldn’t do that inside this room. Birdie had given me the address to Soni’s house. Win or lose, I was supposed to meet her there so I could finally meet Amara Rose. It was probably best to head there now. I signaled to Brett that I wanted to head out to the parking lot. He nodded and tapped Noah. I headed toward the door. They met me in the side lot. “Can we get the sound bites you need right now?” I asked, digging around in my pockets for my lighter and cigarettes. I found the former, but the pack was empty. Whatever. I’ve been stress smoking this whole week. I had a daughter now. It was probably time for me to quit for good. Brett looked around, searching for good light. “I mean, yeah. We can do it now, but what’s the rush?” “I’m done with this. Aren’t you?” I asked, running my hands through my hair. He looked around the empty parking lot then back at me. “Yeah, actually I am. Let’s move over here.” Brett positioned me under a street lamp. The orange light added a bit of gritty ambiance to my quick little riff about the competition. “This side trip to Greenville, South Carolina, has been enlightening. A lot of chefs talk about the moment when they experience something or meet someone who reminds them of why they love food and the art of cooking. Judging these

home cooks and amateur chefs was exactly that. And the winner, Chef Birdie Malone, has reminded me of my connection to this land and my roots. Reconnection and validation… this trip has been that for me, but not in the way that a lot of my experiences on Á La Minute have been.” I paused for a moment and considered the five days and four nights I’d spent in this small city in the foothills of the Blue Ridges and how much it had changed my life. Emotion made my throat tight, and tears welled in my eyes. “You know? Maybe now I understand why you need to come home to know who you are.” A few seconds went by, and both Brett and Noah nodded. “That was good, Saxon.” I nodded in agreement as I tried to gather my composure. “It’s my true feelings,” I said finally. “My girl won this competition and got the recognition she deserves and… I’m gonna meet my daughter tonight. It feels like all of this shit is finally making sense.” Noah clapped me on the shoulder and grinned real big. “You know… I figured it was just time for you to settle down. Birdie Malone seems like the perfect girl for you.” I nodded in agreement. “She always has been.” I shook hands and hugged my cameraman and sound man. “We’ve been through a lot,” I said. “And if things end here—” “This is not the time for goodbyes,” Noah interrupted. “We’ll have plenty of time for those. Go meet your daughter. Celebrate your girl.” Swallowing down the emotional goodbye, I clapped Noah on the shoulder. He was always the more solid one. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen after all this, but if either of you needs anything…” “We know,” Brett said with a nod. The two of them went inside to collect Paula from wherever she was hiding during the production. I turned toward the empty parking lot and sent a text to Birdie.

Me: Should I head to Soni’s or wait for you?

Birdie: Head to Soni’s. I’m already on my way there.

Me: Okay. I’m nervous.

Birdie: Why?

Me: I’m meeting my daughter. I’m afraid she won’t like me.

Birdie: LOL. I promise you it will be fine.

I had no choice but to believe her. But when my Uber pulled up in front of her sister’s house, my stomach plummeted into my asshole. The driver had to threaten me to get out of the car, and when I did, I just stood on the sidewalk, staring at the brightly lit house. I pulled out my phone and called Birdie. “Hey!” she said, her voice breathless and excited.

“Hey… are you at your sister's already or—” “Yeah, where are you?” “I’m outside.” “Did you ring the doorbell? Don’t bother. Just come in.” “No, I haven’t rung the bell yet. I’m standing on the sidewalk…” I swallowed, trying to stuff the nervousness down again. “Can you come out here? Can you come out and like… walk me through the door? I know this is really pathetic, but—” “No, I get it. I’ll be out in a second.” She hung up, and I stuffed my phone in my back pocket. It felt weak to ask her to come out and escort me in, but everyone in there knew her, and because they knew her, it was safe to assume they knew about me. Probably none of it was good. And then there was my daughter… why was I afraid a five-year-old wouldn’t like me? Maybe it was that I hadn’t spent much time with kids. Or maybe it was just that I really fucking needed this kid to like me because I already loved her, and I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if she didn’t. After what felt like too long, Birdie finally opened the front door of her sister’s house and stepped out on the front stoop. She was still in her chef pants, but the coat was gone, and her hair was down around her shoulders — full and curly and begging for my hands. The smile she had on her face as she ran across her sister’s immaculately manicured lawn on her bare feet made me grin and open my arms. She leaped into them and wrapped herself around me. “Congratulations, baby,” I said with a laugh. “Thank you,” she whispered, then pulled back, bracing herself with her tightly wrapped thighs around my waist. “I’m so glad you were there for this. I don’t know what you said to them—” “I said nothing. You won on your own merit, Birdie. That plate… your food…” I shook my head. “It was brilliant.” She smiled a smile so big that it made my heart leap right into my throat.

“I fucking love you, Saxon. This is it for us, yeah? We’re gonna be together?” “Yes, lil’ bird. Forever and ever.” She kissed me hard and jumped down with the spring of a teenager. “Good. Come meet our daughter.” She grasped my hand and dragged me toward the door. “So you told her about me?” “Kinda,” she said, holding out her free hand and wobbling it a little bit. “Kinda?” I yanked her hand and pulled her up short. “Talk to me, Birdie. I need to know what I’m walking into.” She sighed and turned toward me, eyes down, but still holding my hand. “I was too much of a punk to tell her the whole story,” she said. “So basically, I’ve been reading books about daddies and drawing attention to them and asking questions. She’s a smart girl, and I’m sure those questions are right there on the surface, and I’m hoping that introducing you will do the last little bit of work.” I took in her posture, the embarrassment and fear in it. “Is our daughter this frightening?” I asked jokingly. She looked up at me, dark brown eyes sparkling with her good mood and probably some alcohol. “Yes, she is. She’s formidable. I never want to disappoint her. No pressure!” She turned, opened the door, and yanked me across the threshold of her sister’s house. The smell of the place met me first. It was familiar — like a conjure oil, but I didn’t know what that oil was meant to do. Paired with the haint blue ceiling in the foyer and hallway and whatever that energy was that rootworkers had about them suffused the air, and my shoulders descended from where they’d crept up to meet my ears. Sound met me next — joyful noises, laughter, and melodic sounds that weren’t music but might as well be. Birdie drug me by the hand into the kitchen, and that’s where we found her older sister Soni and Atlas, and a few other guests. Soni, who had previously harbored some obvious disdain for me when I last encountered her, greeted me with a smile. “Saxon! So glad you’re here! Come

in,” she said, her arms open to welcome me into a hug. Hesitantly, I walked into her open arms. “Are you hiding a knife? Is this safe?” I asked when she enfolded me in her arms. “Keep my sister smiling like this, and maybe your internal organs remain… internal?” she murmured before pushing me away to look me in the face. “Hm… I guess you’re cute for a white boy.” My cheeks went hot, but I laughed anyway. “Okay. I’ll take that.” I turned to Atlas and held out my hand. “Atlas…it’s nice to finally meet you. I want to thank you for your hospitality this past week. I probably wouldn’t be here if you didn’t let me and Birdie stay at your place, so I deeply appreciate that, man.” “Aww, it was no problem, Saxon. I’d do just about anything for our baby Bird.” “Still, it was a big ask.” “Nah, don’t sweat it.” The big man smiled and shook my hand, then yanked me into a half hug. Birdie came up beside me, a shy, happy smile on her face. “Hey, everybody!” she said loudly, making everyone’s attention in the ading family room turn to us. “This is my baby daddy, Saxon Turner, so y’all can stop asking me about him. Where’s my daughter?” A young man in the far corner started laughing. He looked like Soni, so he must be Birdie’s nephew. “She’s outside with Naddy and Aunt Aggie,” the boy said, barely holding himself together. “Okay, thanks, Winston,” she said, yanking me by the hand again and drawing me out the back door. “Who’s Naddy?” I asked as Birdie dragged me through a screened in porch. “My niece Nadia. Amara loves her. She’s her favorite person.” I nodded as we entered the backyard to find our daughter playing with her

cousin. Nadia was teaching her a cheer, and Amara struggled to keep up with all of the steps, and it was damn cute. Birdie’s other sister Agostina was recording the whole thing on her phone. “Yeah, that’s good, Mara! Then you do the kick like this!” Her older cousin demonstrated, and Amara stepped back, frowned, and put her hands on her hips. “Are you crazy? Legs aren’t supposed to bend like that, Naddy,” she said, and both me and Birdie cracked up. Now I understood exactly what she meant when she said that our daughter tested her every day. That big personality probably didn’t have an off button. I was still laughing when her cousin Nadia noticed us, and I could tell by the look on her face that she recognized me from the show. “Auntie…” she began hesitantly. “Why is Saxon Turner from Á La Minute standing in our backyard?” “Well, you know that he judged Taste of the Upstate, right?” “Yeah, but that doesn’t explain—” “Nadia?” Agostina said in that stern tone that women acquired whenever kids or hard-headed men were around. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain everything to you.” “But there’s a celebrity in our—” “Naddy, now.” Birdie’s niece clammed up and followed her Aunt to the door, which left me and Birdie standing in the backyard, hand-in-hand, while Amara stared up at me with a strange look on her face. “Hey, Amara,” I said, my voice shaky and almost too soft. “Hey…” her little eyebrows dipped into a frown. “Have we met before?” “Come here, Amara Rose, I need to tell you something important,” Birdie said, beckoning to our daughter as she sat down in the grass, pulling me down next to her. “Sit on mama’s lap,” Birdie said, and I noticed her voice was shaky too.

Amara went to her mother, but she didn’t take her eyes off me for one second. The expression on her face was hard to read. Was she scared? Curious? “So you know how mama’s been reading you all those different books about families?” Amara nodded, then looked at her mother and back at me. I could practically see the question in her eyes. “And how in some of those stories, the babies didn’t know their daddies at first, but those daddies still loved them even though they were apart?” “Yeah?” Amara turned in her mother’s lap, big tears forming in her eyes. “Are you my daddy?” she whispered in the smallest, sweetest voice, and I swear, I heard my fucking chest crack open. All I could do was nod. I nodded and smiled, and Amara let out a happy sob and launched herself at me, knocking me to the ground. I clutched her to my chest. “My baby girl,” I whispered, crying like a fool.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Saxon

My cellphone rang as I bounded down the stairs to hop into my Uber. Today was Mr. Kemp’s memorial service, and I was headed to Birdie’s sister’s place. I pulled my phone out of my pocket as I climbed in the backseat, and when I looked at the caller ID a smile spread across my face. “Big sexy!” I said after accepting the call. “What’s up?” “What’s up with you, Sax? The competition has been over for a damn near a week now. Me and Keisha were expecting you to spend some more time here before you head off to…wherever.” “Yeah, my bad, man. That was the plan, but you’ll never believe what happened —” “God damn it, Sax! You were supposed to go up there and judge the competition. If you fucked this up. So help me—” “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s…” I sighed and smiled to myself. “It’s Birdie. Birdie’s here in Greenville, and we have a kid.” Myles went quiet for a long time. I could hear the sound of the kitchen at Big Lawson’s in the background. “I haven’t heard that name in a long while,” he said finally. “This is the girl you were running away from when you left?” ”Yeah…she was a contestant in the competition, and she’s this brilliant chef and… I’m still in love with her. And she’s got my kid.” “A kid…” Myles echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Yeah, a little girl. Her name is Amara. Amara Rose. She looks just like me,

Myles. Red hair, freckles, all of it. I’ll send you a picture.” I thumbed through the most recent pictures on my phone and sent him one of Amara and me together. I stared at it as I waited for him to receive it. It was still miraculous to me that this little person existed. That she was the physical embodiment of the love, I shared with Birdie. “Jesus, man. She’s your fucking clone,” Myles said. “I can’t believe this.” “Me either. I fucked things up with Birdie the first time around, and I really believed that it couldn’t be fixed, but it might be fixable. It might be fixable, and I…” “You really want to fix it.” “Yeah, I really want to. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted.” A surprising fount of emotions that I’d barely allowed myself to feel bubbled up, making my voice quaver. Myles chuckled. “Wow, tears? From the man who hates to feel his own feelings?” “Shut the fuck up.” “No, I think this is wonderful. I mean, it’s a complete one-eighty, but… are you ready for this?” “Of course, I am. You don’t think I am?” I asked, a thread of doubt creeping in. “Let’s put it this way, you sound like you want to be ready. But Saxon, before you go making any promises or life-altering decisions, make sure you’re absolutely ready for this. You put that girl through a lot. She doesn’t need you to disrupt her life if you’re still trying to figure things out. That’s something you need to do on your own.” I nodded. “You’re right.” “Listen… I gotta go, Sax. But gimme a call before you head to your next assignment. Maybe you can bring your lady and your little girl down here for dinner or something before you leave.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. Love you, man.” “Love you too, brother.” I ended the call just as my Uber slowed to a stop in front of Soni’s place. After thanking the driver, I climbed out, stood on the sidewalk, and took in the quiet, historical neighborhood just blocks away from Main Street. Was this the kind of life Birdie wanted? She seemed quite comfortable at her sister’s place and hadn’t mentioned anything about moving, but if I did stay — Wait… am I staying? The front door opened, and Birdie stepped out on the porch barefoot and dressed in a simple black dress. “Are you coming in?” she asked, folding her arms. Little hands tugged at her skirt, and Amara appeared at her side. “Yeah, daddy. Are you coming in or what?” she asked, mimicking her mother. I laughed. “Yeah, baby girl.” I crossed the yard and scooped her into my arms. Birdie looked up at me, a soft smile on her lips. I wrapped my free arm around her and pulled her in close. She pushed up on her tip-toes and gave me a sweet kiss. With my two girls in my arms, the question Myles asked me was answered. I was definitely ready for this.

Mr. Kemp was cremated, so instead of a funeral, his wife Sarah decided to have a memorial service at Kinfolks. The entranceway and dining room were filled with folding chairs — a person in every one of them — and still people were pouring in. It definitely seemed like he was loved and respected. It made me wish I’d met the man. A podium was set up near the cash wrap with a giant photo of Ernest Kemp in his younger days standing on the sidewalk in front of Kinfolks with a big grin on his face. Birdie stepped behind the podium; beautiful, tiny, strong. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and grasped at the edge of the podium and leaned her elbows on it. “Ernest Kemp and my father served in the military together,” she began. She glanced at her father, Abraham — the stern, quiet man I met on the Malone farm earlier this week who sat in the front row of chairs. “Back then, our families were tight. Lots of weekend barbecues and impromptu late-night porch sitting. I was seven years old when they bought Kinfolks, and according to the Kemps and my parents, I wanted to be involved from day one.” Her lips quirked into a sad smile as she looked at Sarah, who sat shoulder to shoulder with Birdie’s mother Eudora, holding on to each other. “My mother is an amazing cook, but she’s definitely one that only wants one cook in the kitchen — in fact, I think that might be my first real sous chef gig. And true to character, I was fired from that position too.” I laughed along with the rest of the room, and after that, she settled into her storytelling. The room loved her little anecdotes about Mr. Kemp, and when she walked away from the podium in tears, my arms, my embrace was what she sought. She was just as strong as she was weak with grief at that podium. Wanting to give her a chance to pour her grief out in private, I walked her through the kitchen to the side street out back. The wind kicked up as we stepped outside, blowing her curls all over her head. I smoothed them back. Kissed the tip of her nose. Kissed her lips. “Are you okay, baby?” I asked softly.

“I’m fine,” she said reflexively. “I’m fine. It’s okay.” I slid my hand around the back of her neck and massaged it gently. Giving her the space to work out her feelings. “There’s just so many people in there. They all love Mr. Kemp and Kinfolks, and he left this to me. He left this to me, and I don’t know if—” “You can do this, Bird. You can absolutely do this. He wouldn’t have left it to you if he thought you couldn’t handle it.” “I know. I’m just…I’m scared, Saxon. I’m scared I’m gonna fuck this up.” “You’re not gonna fuck this up.” She shook her head, and more tears fell. “You’re not going to fuck this up,” I said again, then I cradled her face in my hands and kissed her again. Softly. Sweetly. Birdie sighed and kissed me back, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Will you help me?” she whispered against my lips. I frowned. “Help you do what? Run this place?” “Yes, help me run this place.” “Birdie… you don’t need my—” “Well, what the fuck is this?” a voice said just off to the right of us. I was so focused on Birdie that I didn’t the question at first. She was crying. She was hurting. Doubting herself. I wanted to stop that hurt and those tears. Convince her that she doesn’t need my help. Convince her of her magnificence. Birdie cursed under her breath and pushed against me, and that got my attention. “I knew this shit wasn’t right. I knew Birdie Malone wasn’t that good of a chef, but seeing you together… it all makes sense.”

Birdie’s brow furrowed. She turned her head, and my attention followed her gaze. My entire body stiffened with rage, and I maneuvered Birdie behind me. Breslin and Hendricks were standing a few feet away. The chef had his phone out, pointed at the two of us. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ground out between clenched teeth. “I’m just capturing some footage of the sweet couple.” “Are you recording us?” Birdie asked. “Turn that shit off,” I demanded. “Why? Don’t you think the citizens of our fine city deserved to know that our local competition, Taste of the Upstate brought these two chefs together?” I moved toward them. “Are you live right now? Turn that fucking shit off —” “So how did this work? Did you find out from your friend Lawson that she was going to be here and then you… what? Fucked the governor’s daughter to cause a big enough scandal to get kicked out of Charleston? I can’t quite figure out why you did that,” Breslin asked. “What?” Birdie grasped at my jacket. “What did he say?” Fuck. Oh, fuck… “I mean, the governor flew you into cater his daughter’s wedding, and six days after that, you fuck said daughter? What reason did you have for fucking her? I mean…she’s no Birdie Malone,” he said with an arch of his brow. “Keep her name out of your fucking mouth,” I growled out. “Saxon…” Birdie said, gripping my suit jacket in her hand and forcing me to turn to her. “What the fuck is he talking about?” “Oh, she doesn’t know?” Hendricks asked, his face splitting into an incredulous grin. “I mean, that’s smart. That’s really smart. How else would you get that

genuine reaction from her when you walked through the door?” “Is this true?” she asked. “What he’s saying about the governor’s daughter and all that… is it true? Did you do that? Is that the real reason why you’re here?” “Wow. If she did know, this is some good acting. But tell me… when did you two decide to rig the contest?” “What?” Birdie squawked. “I mean, you’ve been fired from every kitchen in Greenville, Birdie. It makes no sense for you to win this competition. But a famous TV chef might be able to make that happen. I just can’t figure out how you managed it—” “You son of a bitch. You disgusting predatory, no talent, son of a bitch.” Breslin could say what he wanted about me, but I wouldn’t allow him to make that kind of accusation about her. “Turn that shit off.” “Nah… this is must-see TV! Right?” Breslin said, elbowing Hendricks. “Hey… that little girl in there with the red hair and freckles. She’s yours, huh?” “Saxon,” Birdie warned, pulling at my shoulder. “Let’s just go inside.” “Breslin… I’m warning you. Turn it off or —” “Or you’ll what?” he asked, his mouth tipping into a smirk. I didn’t even have to think about it. I charged him. Knocked him to the ground and sat on his chest, and tried to bury my fists in his face. “How fucking dare you? You shit stain. You aren’t fit to sit at her feet. I didn’t have to rig a damn thing for her. Your little lackey never had a chance!” I roared. “Saxon! Stop!” Birdie grabbed at the collar of my jacket. I jerked away from her and pounded my hand into his face again. Fuck him. Fuck this piece of shit. How dare he form his lips to say Birdie didn’t deserve this? That she didn’t deserve everything. How dare he? How…

Someone yanked me off him. Someone stronger. Someone, not Birdie. Whoever they were, they threw me against the wall. “Oh my god! Is that necessary!” I heard someone else shriek. Soni… That’s Birdie’s sister, Soni’s voice. Slowly, the red fog of rage cleared, and first I saw the crowd… then the flashing lights of the police cruiser. Breslin was barely conscious and his face was a mess. Fuck. Aw, fuck. “Birdie? Where’s Birdie?” I twisted in the officer’s hold because that was who had me pinned and was now bending my arms at an impossible angle to get the cuffs on my wrists. “Stop resisting!” the cop bellowed. Pain shot through my shoulders as he jerked my arms upward. “Birdie!” I twisted in the opposite direction, and there…there she was. Amara was in her arms, and she was forcing her head into her mother’s shoulder. And Birdie… her face was twisted into a tortured expression. Tears streaming down her cheeks. “Birdie, I…” She shook her head and stumbled backward with her eyes stretched wide. Her sisters rushed to her side, held her up. Aggie lasered me a with a look. A look that said everything that needed to be said. I fucked up. I fucked this up. Again.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Birdie

Amara clung to me so tightly in the backseat of Soni’s car that it was pointless to try and get her into her car seat. And honestly, I knew it was unsafe, but it was just a few blocks and comforting her was the only thing keeping me grounded right now. “Why did my daddy beat up that man?” she asked around hiccupping sobs. The way she always claimed him as hers — not just daddy, but my daddy. I thought it was cute at first but now it just broke my heart. “That man was saying unkind things about me and Daddy.” Or was he just trying to get Breslin to shut the fuck up? “There’s gotta be some sort of way we can get that video taken down,” Soni said. “They do that don’t they? He can’t just make a video like that and blast his lies all over the internet.” Atlas reached across the console and squeezed my sister’s knee. “I’m gonna take care of it when we get to the house. I’ll Facebook and see if we can get it taken down.” “Why bother?” I asked with a scoff. “It’s already out there and has probably been viewed and shared thousands of times by now.” Atlas’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “What do you want to do about it then?” I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at my daughter who was still crying with her face buried in my lap. “I just want to go home. That’s all I want right now.”

“Is my dad gonna be in jail forever?” Amara asked and my heart clenched. I brought this into her life. I allowed him to disappoint her this way. “No, honey.” “But when is he gonna get out?” “I’m gonna go check on him, princess,” Atlas said. “You promise?” “Yes, I just need to drop you guys off at home, and then make a few phone calls so I can find out where he is,” he promised. “Atlas, you don’t have to —” “It’s Saturday, Birdie. Do you want him to stay in there until he’s arraigned on Monday morning?” he asked. After the way he hurt and embarrassed me today, I really shouldn’t care, but the thought of Saxon in a cell made me feel nauseated. “Okay. Thank you, Atlas.” Hearing that Uncle Atlas would get her dad out of jail helped Amara calm down a bit. We were quiet for the rest of the ride and she fell asleep against me as I tried to figure out how I found myself here again. How had I allowed myself to get caught up in this stupid, childish fantasy where he swooped in to be the man that I needed? “I can’t believe I fell for this again,” I muttered, shaking my head. Soni turned in her seat to look at me. “What we’re not gonna do is this thing where you wear his shame like it’s your own. He did this, Birdie. Not you. Do you hear me?” I nodded, but what could Soni possibly know about this? He didn’t do this by himself. Just like before, I allowed this. Saxon was the same reckless, heartless fuck boy he was six years ago when he left me at the airport. And I… I was still that dumb girl who made stupid mistakes that took years to correct. But this time it hurt my daughter and I might never forgive myself for that.

Atlas pulled into the garage and I carried Amara upstairs. I put her in my bed instead of the twin bed in Nadia’s room. I needed her with me right now. In the bathroom, I washed my face, dropped the black dress into the dirty clothes hamper and pulled on the pajamas I took off this morning. I was wrung out. So hurt that my bones and ts ached, but I was too tired to cry about it — or maybe I just couldn’t cry anymore. Exhausted, I crawled into bed next to my daughter, pulled her into my arms and went to sleep. My sleep was deep and dreamless until someone shook me awake a few hours later. “Birdie…wake up.” I startled awake, reaching for Amara instinctively. She was stretched out horizontally across the bed, buried under the covers next to me. “Come on,” Soni urged, pulling the covers off of me. “What is it?” I asked groggily as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Saxon’s downstairs,” she whispered, already walking toward the door of my bedroom. “Aw, hell no, Soni. Tell him to leave. I don’t want to see him.” “That man just spent eight hours in jail for defending your honor—” “My honor? That’s not what that fight was about and you know it—” “I don’t know anything except the fact that there’s a stricken man in my kitchen who wants to talk to you.” I stood up and adjusted the blankets around my sleeping daughter before following my sister out into the hallway. “I don’t give a damn how stricken he is. I don’t want to see him.” “Well, be a grown up and come downstairs and tell him yourself.” I clenched my teeth and tried to glare a hole in my sister’s back as she made her

way back down to the ground floor. Low voices came from the kitchen and I listened, trying to pick out Saxon’s. And then he was there, standing at the foot of the stairs in a rumpled suit and looking up at me with red rimmed eyes and regret deepening the wrinkles in his face. “You gonna come down and talk to me?” he asked, his voice rough. “I have nothing to say to you.” “I know. But can you come down here and talk to me anyway?” “Why should I?” He shrugged. “Because I’m not gonna leave until you do.” I glanced down the hall at the closed door of my bedroom. Saxon was enough of an asshole to actually follow through with that threat, and if he did, it was more likely that Amara would wake up and see him. That there would be a long goodbye and more tears. I didn’t want to do that to her again. “Fine,” I said descending the stairs. “Let’s go out in the garden.” Soni kept a couple of cardigans hanging on coat tree just inside of the screened in porch. I grabbed one as I pushed through the screen door and made my way to the side garden. This little herb garden was my sister’s favorite place. It was still too soon for most of the herbs to bloom but the annuals had sprouted — basil, lemon balm, cilantro, dill, parsley and some chamomile. I pulled the cardigan around me and sat in one of the armchairs, breathing in the scent of the herbs in search of calm. “Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?” Saxon stood at the edge of the little raised deck with his hands shoved in the pockets of his rumpled suit. “I’m sorry, Birdie.” I gave him a tight lipped nod. “I bet you are.” “How’s Amara? Is she okay?” “She was upset and worried that you might be in jail forever. But she calmed

down when Atlas promised that he would get you out. Is that how you got out or…? “The network lawyer called, but Atlas pulled some strings to get them to let me out tonight.” “Is Breslin pressing charges?” He shrugged. “Don’t know yet. The network will probably pay him off. Or I will…either way, Amara doesn’t need to worry about me going to jail.” “Good. She’ll be happy to hear that.” “Can I see her?” “She’s sleeping.” “I won’t wake her up —” “You know, if this is all you wanted to talk about, we can just cut this short.” “Well, can I come see you in the morning?” “Are you fucking kidding me? Absolutely not.” “Birdie, don’t.” He moved in closer and dropped to his knees at my feet. “I know I fucked this up, but don’t push me away.” “Push you away?” I hissed. “All I asked was for you to be honest with me. To not make a fool of me or humiliate me again… but no, you couldn’t even do that.” He sat back on his heels and looked down at his hands, his unbound red hair falling into his face. “Tell me something…” He pushed his hair out of his face and looked at me. “Would you have even thought about trying again if I’d told you the real reason why I was here?” I shrugged. “Maybe not, but you didn’t give me the chance to make that decision did you?” “Do you even know how difficult it is to live up to what you expect of me? I

wanted this so bad, Birdie. So bad that I couldn’t bear the thought of some dumb thing I’d done fucking it up. So yes, I withheld the truth. I lied. But it wasn’t because she meant anything to me—” “What?” I laughed and then leaned in close and glared at him. “You think this is about her? I know you don’t give a damn about her. This is about you being a liar. About you claiming to love me and my daughter and then lying right to my fucking face.” He turned his head and I grabbed his chin and forced him to look me in the eye. “You’re a liar, Saxon. I can never trust you. Not with my heart and not with my daughter’s—” “Our daughter,” he corrected. “Were you thinking about our daughter when you jumped on Breslin earlier today? Did you think about how scared she would be when she saw you getting hauled off by the cops?” He shook his head. “I didn’t think. He was saying those things about you and I just reacted.” “Was it the things he said about me or the fact that he was revealing your dirty dick secrets?” Saxon’s brow furrowed. “Birdie—” “You know what? Never mind. You’ll probably just lie again anyway.” I leaned away from him, resting my back on the chair. “This is my fault,” I muttered, shaking my head. “What?” “It’s my fault. This is my fault. All of it’s my fault.” “It’s not your fault, Birdie. All of this is a result of my bad choices. How can you even think that?” “It’s my fault we’re stuck in this loop. Not just tonight, our whole origin story. I

forgave you. I let you back in. Hell, I never should have pursued you to begin with—” “Are you serious?” “Yes, what else could explain how badly things always end between us?” “End… so you’ve already decided that it’s over?” “How can it not be over, Saxon?” With a heavy sigh I pushed myself to my feet. “Are we done?” “Can we at least talk about what we’re gonna do about Amara?” he asked. “I’m going back to New York in the morning and —” “And what? You want to work out some sort of custody agreement?” He stood up and for a moment, I wanted to force him back down to his knees. I hated the fact that I had to look up at him right now. “She’s my daughter too, Birdie.” I stared at him in disbelief. “God, I fucking knew I would regret telling you about her.” He looked crushed by those words but I wouldn’t take it back. My life was much less complicated when Saxon Turner was on my TV and not in my sister’s side-garden. “It sounds like you’re going to keep her from me. Am I hearing you correctly?” I backed away from him and wrapped my arms around myself. Of course things couldn’t go back to normal. Amara knew him now. It had only been a few days, but they’d bonded. She would never forgive me if I tried to cut him out of her life. As much as I didn’t want him around, I couldn’t do that either. “Fine,” I agreed turning to him. “You can call and FaceTime with her and we can talk about making plans for you to see her, but I don’t want anything to do with you, Saxon.” I stepped around him to make my way back inside. “You said we would work through things, no matter what happened,” he said softly as I brushed past him.

“I guess I lied.” I grabbed a hold of the screen door handle and turned to look at him. “How does it feel?” I asked with a sneer. “Shitty,” he said, following me through the house to the front door. “It feels shitty and it hurts like hell that you want to give up on us so quickly. That you won’t give me a chance to make it right.” He was standing over me, blue eyes glowing in the low light. As much as I wanted to just give in, have him take me in his arms and apologize in all of those sweet intimate ways, I knew that I would just set myself up for more of this. “You don’t get it, Saxon. This was your chance to make it right. A chance you didn’t deserve.” “I know, and I’m sorry, Birdie,” he whispered, dipping his head low so that his words brushed against my ear. “I’m sorry for everything. For hurting you. For wanting this so much that I was afraid of being completely honest with you. For being someone you can’t trust. I’m sorry.” If he had lead with that, maybe this conversation would’ve gone differently. Now it just felt like a last ditch attempt from a liar to manipulate me and weasel his way back in. “Yeah… well. I’m sorry too.”

Chapter Thirty

Birdie

Two days later, when my alarm went off at five, I was wide awake and didn’t hit snooze for the first time in I don’t know when. I didn’t get a lick of sleep last night, and it wasn’t because Amara was in my bed. Having her close was actually the only thing that allowed me to get at least three hours, so I rolled over and cuddled her for a moment before I decided that I might as well get up and get the day started. Otherwise, I would just lay in bed, read all the gossip sites, and make myself feel ten times worse. All of my s had blown up after Breslin posted the video of Saxon and I kissing behind Kinfolks. I had to lock down my Instagram and Facebook pages because people were stealing pictures of Amara and speculating about her conception and whether or not Saxon had paid me off to keep quiet. And those were the nice posts. They got much uglier. When I got to the ones that labeled me as an opportunistic whore, I uninstalled all of the apps. I didn’t know what I was gonna do about all of this, but I knew I couldn’t let it touch my baby girl. It pissed me off that the video had made all of my attempts to protect her from all of this completely useless. God, and the Governor’s daughter. I couldn’t believe what he’d done to her and her husband just days after their wedding. Was I really in love with someone who could be so callous? “I can’t believe I let him do this to me again,” I whispered, pressing my lips to Amara’s sleeping cheek. “I can’t believe I let him do this to us.” Saxon was right. We brought the bad out of each other. For me, that meant abandoning my good common sense for bright blue eyes, a crooked smile, and a dick that could make me come on sight. I really thought I’d inoculated myself against this. But then I saw him with

Amara and… I couldn’t help it. All the daydreams that I’d barely allowed myself to indulge in came roaring to the surface again, and I allowed myself to believe in them. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Yeah, laying here wasn’t going to make me feel better. Might as well get dressed and head into work. With a shake of my head, I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bathroom—no more tears. There was no time to wallow. I needed to figure out how this changed things and how to adjust to yet another dark mark on my reputation. After a long shower and a short drive, I arrived at Kinfolks. The kitchen was quiet and dark. On a regular day, I went in at six, but after this weekend, I figured it would be better to get in ahead of the breakfast crowd. Staff would arrive in an hour, which gave me time to go over yesterday's P&Ls and maybe get started on some baking. Mrs. Kemp and her lawyer were supposed to stop by later on to review Mr. Kemp’s succession plan and bring the business work that I needed to sign. I bit back the anxiety that flooded me when I thought about that. Should I even accept this gift from the Kemp’s now? Mr. Kemp trusted and believed in me, but that didn’t make me the right person for the job — especially after all the drama that surfaced this weekend. It had been nearly two weeks since I won the competition, but now I felt like I didn’t deserve that money. The whole experience felt tainted. If I’d known all of this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have entered to begin with. Winning the competition and inheriting Kinfolks felt undeserved. “Morning, chef!” Ortega called out as she bounced in through the back door. “Mornin’,” I called over my shoulder. I glanced at her when she came to stand next to the prep station where I was peeling sweet potatoes for the pie I wanted to make. “You’re chipper this morning.” “Of course, I am! Aren’t you?”

“Should I be?” I asked with a confused raise of my brow. Ortega’s sunny mood faltered a little bit. “I mean… I thought…isn’t the lawyer coming today to give you the paperwork to assume ownership of the restaurant?” “I mean, yeah…” I tried to paint on a bright smile for her, but tears came instead. “Shit,” Ortega cursed, her eyes stretching wide. “I know you were close to Mr. Kemp, and you had a really rough weekend with the funeral and all, but I thought this would be a bright spot to overshadow all of that. Gah, I’m so sorry.” “No, no… your instincts were right.” I wiped at my tears, furiously. “I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.” “What can I do?” she asked, looking at the peeled sweet potatoes on my station. I blinked and looked around. “If it’s not too much to ask… can you expedite today? After this weekend, I don’t think I’m fit for public consumption, you know?” “Of course, no problem.” “I know it’s a headache to swap duties at the beginning of shift—” “It’s not a problem. One question though, we’ve been getting a lot of calls about interviews in the last few days.” “I don’t want to do any interviews. The last thing I need is to have some journalist skewing my words in some puff piece.” “Okay, I’ll just tell them you’re not interested.” “I know this is a lot to ask—” “No worries, Chef. Anything you need.” “Thanks, Ortega.” I fought the urge to keep explaining myself and apologizing. She wasn’t the person I needed to apologize to. Instead, I tipped my head toward the big bowl of apples on the next station, silently signaling for her to get started on those.

Staff arrived and the kitchen filled with noise, activity, and good smells. Time slid away, and the tension in my shoulders released as I baked my mother’s recipe for sweet potato pie with candied pecans. I nearly forgot about my midday meeting with Mrs. Kemp and her lawyer until Atlas showed up. “You ready, Bird?” he asked with a big grin, his big body and sunshine attitude crowding the space behind my prep station. God, everyone is so excited about this, and I’m just terrified. Why couldn’t I just be happy? Was this a sign that I shouldn’t do it? Something inside of me shifted, and I knew that was it. The prize money, the restaurant, I didn’t deserve any of it. I would only fuck it up. “Uh, yeah. Lemme wash my hands, and I’ll meet you out there.” “Cool, I’ll grab a table in the back so we can have a bit more privacy.” I nodded. “Be right out.” Instead of using the handwashing station, I stripped off my gloves and ducked into the staff bathroom. With the door closed, the kitchen noise quieted enough for me to try and calm down. The citrine point Aggie gave me was in my right pocket. I fisted it in my palm, digging the point into my hand as I took a deep breath. What flows, flows. What crashes, crashes… I said it to myself over and over until my head cleared. I knew what I needed to do. Citrine still fisted in my palm, I made my way out to the dining room. The table Atlas chose was in the far back corner in a cubby that made it a little bit more private than the other tables in the dining room. As I crossed the room to them, I decided to say what I needed to say before we even got started. I didn’t deserve this inheritance, and I didn’t want to waste their time. Mrs. Kemp smiled when she saw me and stood with her arms outstretched to give me a hug. “Hey, darlin’,” she said warmly as she crushed me against her bosom.

I squeezed her back, forcing down the tears. She held me for a long time, probably longer than was necessary. Apparently, I needed it because I didn’t even try to pull away until she rubbed my back and loosened her hold just enough to look me in the eye. “How’re you doin’?” she asked, giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Why are you asking about me?” I asked with a watery laugh. “I should be asking about you. How’re you doin’?” “I’m all right,” she said with a sad smile, the kind that turned down at the corners. “Getting by as best I can.” “Same,” I said with a nod. “This is Charles Gaskins,” she said, stepping back to introduce the older man sitting next to her. He stood and shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Malone. I’ve heard so much about you over the years.” “Really?” I asked. “I’ve only been working for the Kemps a few months.” “Well, that’s just not true,” Mrs. Kemp interrupted. “You’ve only been head line cook for a few months, but you worked here all through high school, and you were in the kitchen with Ernest long before that.” “Well…that’s true,” I said with a smile. Atlas pulled out my chair, and I sat down. “Ernest talked about you so much that anybody would have sworn you were his daughter,” Mrs. Kemp said, patting my hand. “Which must be the reason why he wanted to give you such a generous gift,” Charles said, segueing smoothly into the business at hand in that way lawyers had. “Uh… yeah. About that…I wanna say something before we get started.” I folded my hands and focused my gaze on them. I couldn’t look them in the eye if I was going to get through this. “First, I want to apologize for the incident that

occurred at the memorial service. I’m embarrassed and ashamed that Mr. Kemp’s homegoing was disrespected in that way.” “Chile, you had no way of knowing that was going to happen and have no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed. Those men had no right to show up here with such ill intentions.” “I know, but they were here because of me and Saxon, so it’s kind of my fault —” “I accept your apology, but I didn’t need one.” “Thank you,” I said with a nod. “Now… about Kinfolks. I deeply appreciate everything that you and Mr. Kemp had done for me over the years. Kinfolks has always felt like home to me. And… while I’m flattered by this gift, and your confidence in me, I don’t think I’m the right person to carry on Mr. Kemp’s legacy.” When I met Mrs. Kemp’s brown eyes, a confused frown had settled on her brow. She looked at Atlas, then Charlie, then back at me. “I don’t understand. You’re absolutely the right person to carry on Ernest’s legacy. You’re from this town. Your roots are deeply connected to this restaurant and this neighborhood. I can’t think of anyone more suited to that task than you.” “How can you say that after what went on here?” I asked. “You saw first hand how my poor decisions can run this business into a ditch. People in this town have real grudges against me. That’s not going to go away.” “Oh, chile, please,” Mrs. Kemp said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Every woman has made a bad decision a time or two. And those men and their grudges only exist because they can’t believe that you achieved the thing they weren’t able to do. Of course, they want to change that narrative to make it seem as if you won that contest on your back because they don’t want to believe that you won it on merit.” “Okay, but I’m not even a real chef. I didn’t finish culinary arts school. There’s definitely someone more qualified—” “Ernest Kemp wasn’t a chef either. He never went to cooking school. He just loved to cook and spread joy and love with his food. You’ve got that same thing

in you, Birdie Malone,” Mrs. Kemp countered. “If I could add another perspective to this conversation?” Atlas interrupted, his voice soft. “I have not seen you make one bad decision in the short time I’ve known you. Not in your personal life or your professional one. This decision you’re trying to make right now? Refusing this inheritance? This is the first time I’ve seen you use poor judgment.” I looked at him, and I saw that deep sincerity Soni was always talking about in his eyes. “So you got kicked out of culinary arts school,” Atlas continued. “So what? You just won a cooking competition and proved to everyone in this city that you can cook your ass off. And you run this kitchen every day—” “But Mr. Kemp has always been there to help me when—” “Oh no,” Mrs. Kemp interjected. “Don’t you even try it. You didn’t need his help. Your calls at the end of the day were just to fill him in on how things went. Before he died, he would tell me over and over how he’d made the best choice to the restaurant on to you.” I swallowed back tears. “I just don’t understand why he had so much faith in me.” “Because he knew you could do it, darlin’,” she said, squeezing my hand again. “We all do, Birdie,” Atlas added. “And more importantly, some outsider will swoop in and buy this place if you don’t. Is that what you want?” “No, of course not!” The very idea of it made me feel sick and angry. But knowing that I’d have to make sure whatever I did would live up to that legacy still felt daunting. “I don’t want to live in a world where Kinfolks doesn’t exist.” “Me neither. It’s just as much a part of my childhood as it was yours. That’s why you’re the right person to carry on the legacy. You know how important Kinfolks is to the people who live and work in this neighborhood.” “So enough about this,” Mrs. Kemp said. “I’m hungry. Let’s sign this paperwork, so I can get some of those bacon corn muffins and that fried fish

platter. My sister is gonna be around here to get me in a few, and I have too much packing to do to be wasting time on this foolishness. You hear me?” I laughed and wiped my tears with my apron. “Yes, ma’am.” I signed the paperwork. Mrs. Kemp was to retain ten percent ownership of Kinfolks. She would be entitled to the same amount in profits each year to sustain her retirement in Boca Raton. Basically, outside of social security and a pension Mr. Kemp collected for his military service, I was responsible for making sure she had a steady income. It was fair — more than fair actually since she didn’t ask for a lump sum payment of any kind. But the responsibility felt heavy. We shared a lunch of fried fish and a slice of the sweet potato pecan pie I made this morning. Afterward, I walked them to the door, and Mrs. Kemp turned to me on the sidewalk and gave me another hug. This one was more fierce than the last and felt like goodbye. I hugged her back just as fiercely. “I want you and that baby to come visit me when I get settled into my condo in Florida,” she said as she let me go. “It’s got a pool, and I’ll be close to the beach!” “We definitely will,” I said with a smile. A woman pulled up to the curb in a beige Buick SUV and rolled her window down. “I’m just in time!” “That’s my sister. I’ll come by before I leave, but if I don’t get a chance to see you, take care, Birdie.” “You too, Mrs. Kemp.” Atlas came and stood by my side as Charlie helped Mrs. Kemp into the car. Once we’d waved goodbye one last time, he turned to me with his hands in his pockets and a stern look on his face. “I’m not going to tell your sister how you almost backed out of this. I’ve seen how their help can keep you from working through these kinds of things on your own. But do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Who asked you to be so damn insightful?” I groused, irritated that he so easily dissected the dynamic between my sisters and I. “I’m scared. The legacy Mr. Kemp created with Kinfolks feels heavy, and I don’t want to fuck that up.” “And that stuff about cooking school and the competition?” “I don’t feel like I earned that prize money. Part of me knows that I did some of my best cooking during that week, but the other part wonders if Saxon skewed it in my favor some kind of way. It makes me want to give the money back—” “Now you’re just talking crazy.” “Am I? I really feel like I’m going to fuck this up.” “You’re not going to fuck it up, Birdie.” “You don’t know that. I could tank this thing, and Sarah could end up homeless —” “Excuse me, but I kinda do know that you won’t fuck this up. I helped you with that business plan, and honestly, it’s a little insulting for you to keep doubting my instincts. I have a solid track record, and I wouldn’t waste my time and reputation on something I didn’t believe could succeed.” “Not even if my sister bribed you with sexual favors to do it? You know…the butt stuff?” I joked. Atlas’s brow furrowed into a deep, angry frown. “Birdie —” “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” I said before he got really wound up. He shook his head. “I can’t believe you actually think that you didn’t win that competition.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Even if I did win it fair and square, everyone thinks my baby daddy rigged it for me.” “So what? You’ve gotta know that’s just rumors spread by those guys that were in here this weekend, Birdie. Do you really think someone like Chris Hunt would allow himself to be influenced that way? I don’t know the man all that

well, but in our few interactions, I’ve never gotten the impression that he was a pushover.” “You might be right.” Atlas huffed a frustrated sigh. “Please, get these thoughts out of your head. You heard what Mrs. Kemp said. Her husband thought you were the best person to carry on his legacy. Success is baked into this business, Birdie. It already has a reputation. You know how to serve this neighborhood, your kitchen staff, and the people who eat here. You’ve got to let go of this self-doubt and lean into what’s meant for you.” I nodded again. “I gotta get back to work,” he said, dropping one of his big hands on my shoulder for an affection squeeze. “When we get home tonight, I want to go over your renovation plans and start creating a budget to make that happen.” “Okay.” Atlas jogged across the street to The CoWorking Spot, and I stood on the curb for a moment to try and get my head around this thing. I knew he was right, but I couldn’t shake the idea that Saxon had influenced all of this in some way. All of the judges but him were local. They’d eaten food I’d prepared before and even attended a few of my pop-up cooking classes a few times. None of them showered me with the kind of praise I received during and after the competition. It felt good to be recognized, but I just didn’t know if I should trust it. Plus, I knew how persuasive Saxon could be. He could charm anyone into doing his bidding. And if he did that for me, wasn’t that my fault?

Chapter Thirty-One

Saxon

The attendant at my gate called for first-class boarders on my early morning flight to New York. I checked my phone for the millionth time, hoping to see a message from Birdie. Nothing. Nothing but the pathetic one-sided, pleading on my part to see her before I left. At least she let me FaceTime with Amara this morning. Baby girl promised that she would call me back before bed, and Birdie agreed begrudgingly. But when Amara ed her mother the phone and begged her to say a sweet goodbye, Birdie hung up in my face. It had only been a little over twenty-four hours since she said she was done with me so, I guess I had no right to expect more. But fuck… that hurt. There were a bunch of messages from Steve — mostly berating me as he discovered all the layers of my indiscretions. There was no need for me to acknowledge each one. The message was clear. I’d burned my last bridge with the network. If they didn’t fire me at this emergency meeting, I would be utterly surprised. In fact, if they suggested some sort of probationary period or a stint in rehab, or whatever the fuck else they suggested to stars who didn’t want to break their contracts, I would just fucking quit. I couldn’t do this anymore. The more I considered continuing this show, the more it felt like a prison. Like my life had been put on pause, but now I’d seen the one thing I wanted — the one thing that mattered —, and I wouldn’t be satisfied until I had that. Nothing else mattered anymore—nothing but figuring out a way to fix things with Birdie and be a father to Amara. I went straight to the network offices the moment I touched down. The sooner I got this over with, the better. Usually, there were bagels, crudités, and hot coffee waiting for me when I came in, but Chelsea, the receptionist, escorted me into an empty conference room and offered me a room temperature bottle of water. “Marty and the team are running a few minutes behind, but let me know if you

need anything,” she said. “How the mighty have fallen,” I said, holding up the bottle of off-brand water. Chelsea grimaced then looked around before leaning in. “I can get you some fruit and bagels out of the next conference room if you’re hungry,” she whispered. “Maybe some cold Perrier instead of that room temp water?” I smiled. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” “Good morning!” Marty announced as he burst into the room with his team trailing behind him. “I’m glad to see that you were able to make time to be here despite any hangovers or sexual trysts that might have waylaid you.” With a laugh, I shook my head as he got settled in. “I see you’re in fightin’ form this mornin’,” I said, drawling a little bit more than necessary. “Oh, I most certainly am,” he said. “That’s great. Now that we’re all here, I’m just going to get my lawyer on the phone.” I may have shown my ass while working in South Carolina, but I knew that there was only so much they could do to punish me. The legalese of my contract was confusing, which was why I kept an entertainment lawyer on retainer. “John? It’s Saxon. I’m in the room with the network execs, and we’re just about to get started. I’m gonna put you on speaker.” I set the phone in front of me on the table. “Good morning to the room!” John boomed. “I’m John Driver, Saxon’s entertainment lawyer. I’m just gonna listen in on this conversation and add my two cents to any discussions regarding his contract with the network.” At the head of the table, Marty’s face turned beet red. Clearly, he didn’t expect me to show up prepared to fight. “Well,” he barked after clearing his throat. “We’ve all been made aware that while filming episodes for season five of Á La Minute, Chef Saxon Turner engaged in a sexual encounter with the Governor’s daughter and rigged a

cooking contest for Birdie Malone—” “That’s not true,” I interrupted. “I didn’t rig the contest. I wasn’t even aware that Chef Malone had entered the contest. Hell, I didn’t decide to judge it until after Myles Lawson backed out after I was caught fucking the governor’s daughter in the dry goods room.” Mutters and groans erupted around the table. As if this was the first time they’d heard me use that kind of language at this very table. “Excuse me, Marty?” John piped up. “If there has been no investigation into the contest that proves that Chef Turner rigged it in favor of the winning contestant, you can’t make this allegation. Furthermore, it has little to do with the contract you negotiated with him last year.” Marty laughed and gave everyone at the table an incredulous look as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you joking right now, John? Of course, this behavior affects his contract.” A laugh erupted from the speakers of my iPhone. It was a jovial, full-bodied sound that I’d never heard John make before. “Martin,” he said once he’d settled down. “There is no code of conduct associated with Saxon’s contract. An argument could be made that the network, your producers, and the director have been leaning into the Bad Boy Chef persona since the very beginning.” “We did no such thing!” Steve piped up, and it took everything in me not to roll my eyes. “You didn’t?” John countered. “Who bailed him out when he was arrested for solicitation in Thailand? Or the public intoxication in the Emirates? What about that fistfight in Spain? Didn’t he break someone’s jaw?” Wow. Had I really done all of that shit? Everyone on the opposite end of the table fell silent, and another self-satisfied chuckle came from the phone. Marty, Steve, and the network’s legal team exchanged furtive looks. They may not have prepared for this fight, but they knew when they’d been beaten.

Marty leaned forward on his elbows. “Okay, Saxon. What do you want?” Two hours later, I walked out of the network offices with a lump sum payout of thirty million of the forty-eight million dollar contract. John negotiated some back-end residuals when the show went into syndication, which would leave me set for life. Out on the sidewalk, I attempted to reason out how I felt about everything that just went down. I’d spent the better part of five years traveling and filming everything that went into my mouth. While I enjoyed a large portion of it, I was deeply grateful for the experience and the people I met… I was glad to be done with it. Knowing that I was no longer obligated to endure it left me feeling… free. “Huh,” I coughed out in surprise. I had no job, more money than I would ever need, and I felt fucking free. Except I didn’t have Birdie and Amara. I didn’t have my family. I had to come up with a way to win her back, but there was something I had to do first.

When Paula opened the door to her Park Slope townhome, she was still wearing the sour, disgusted expression she had on her face the last time I saw her. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you that if you kept making faces, it would get stuck like that?” I asked, hoping that a little levity would ease the tension. “What are you doing here?” she asked, face still communicating that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. “Listen…I know you can’t stand me right now, but can I come in and talk?” She stared at me for a long moment, and when I was sure she was about to slam the door in my face, she stepped aside to let me in. I’d been to Paula’s place before. In fact, when she first bought it, I was the one to help her christen it. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Either way that sparsely furnished place was nothing like the space I stepped into now. She’d decorated it like a rustic Italian home. Hexagon shaped clay tiles paved the hallway from the door to a bright white kitchen at the back of the house. The old wood banister on the stairs had been replaced with a black wrought iron one, and everywhere I looked, there was a plant adding a lively green to the warm earth tones. Paula had always loved the Italian countryside best, and she’d brought it home with her. “Your place looks great —” “What do you want, Saxon?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Well, then… I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “I came over because I wanted you to hear the news from me. The show’s been canceled. I negotiated to have everyone’s contracts fulfilled, so you guys will get your money.” “That’s great. Thank you.” Stone-cold.

“Listen, I know shit between us is weird or tense or whatever, but I want to know that I’m still here for you. If you need a referral or need me to put in a good word for you, don’t hesitate to reach out. And of course, I will put in a good word whenever someone asks about you.” “Thanks. I appreciate that.” Maybe it was presumptuous, but I thought that I’d get a little more warmth and maybe a little forgiveness. “Paula…” I said, soft and low. “Saxon?” she questioned, arms readjusting to fold across her chest more tightly. I sighed. “Never mind. Could I get the keys to my storage unit?” “Of course.” She crossed a short distance to an entryway table, opened the drawers, and pulled out a set of keys. “I’ll text you the address and unit number. It’s paid up until the end of the month.” She held out the keys. “Thanks,” I said, taking them and putting them in my pocket. “Is this how we’re going to end things?” “End things?” she echoed. “You think this is a break-up?” I shrugged. “It feels like one.” “Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked. “If this is a break-up, it’s been a long time coming. You have treated me like shit for years now—” “I know—” “Do you? Do you fucking know? Do you really?” I threw up my hands. “Obviously, I don’t if this is how you’re reacting.” “No, you don’t, and that’s the core of the issue, isn’t it? That’s the fucking problem.” “So Imma just go —” I pivoted and moved toward the door. “No, Saxon!”

I froze in place. “Because that’s what you do. When things get too hard, or you have to face your own bullshit, you run.” She sneered at me and shook her head. “And now you have a kid. Thank god she has a strong mother. Maybe that will minimize the damage you inflict on her. If you’re ever going to make an attempt at being decent, start by staying away from her.” She pushed past me and yanked the door open. Silently telling me to get the fuck out. After what she said, I had no problem doing that, but I still didn’t want to leave things between us like this. “I’m sorry,” I murmured again as I walked through the door.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Saxon

Myles grunted as he loaded six dry-rubbed briskets into the smoker. “Check the temperature,” he said to his cousin Saif who was stacking chords of hickory and cherry wood near the door so they would be within reach. Saif nodded and checked the temperature gauge on the smoker Myles had just loaded. “Two hundred and twenty-five degrees,” he reported—the perfect temp for slow and low cooking. “Good,” Myles said, standing upright, grimacing at the stiffness in his back. “You a’ight there, old man?” I asked with a chuckle. He cast a cutting glance my way before walking toward the picnic area set-up out back. I followed, grabbing a couple of beers out of the cooler before I sat down. “I told you I would take over for a couple of days if you wanted to take a break,” I reminded him before opening the beers and handing one to him. I’d been back in North Charleston for a little over a month now, staying with Myles and Keisha and working at Big Lawson’s BBQ. Adhering to the strict schedule necessary for running a BBQ t and throwing myself into getting to know my little niece Olivia has kept me busy. “As unwilling as I am to let you have unrestricted access to my business, I’m just tired enough to take you up on it,” Myles said with a weary sigh. “Have y’all taken a vacation before?” I asked. “Three years ago. Right after we got married. We spent a long weekend on

Tybee Island.” “That’s—” I stopped short of saying that a four day weekend on Tybee Island wasn’t really a vacation but quickly checked my privilege. I’d traveled the world in the last few years, but that was only because of the show. If I’d stayed at home, I wouldn’t have done much more traveling than he had done. “That’s a long time to go between vacations. Doesn’t Keisha ever complain about spending time alone with you?” “Only every fucking day. But it’s hard to do when taking a vacation requires money, and any time I take off means our doors would be closed. Can’t have it both ways, you know?” “I do know, which is why I offered. I know it’s hard to trust someone to run your family business, but you’re always saying that we’re family, and you know that I know how to run Big Lawson’s. I learned from your Pops just like you did. Let me help.” Myles eyed me warily while taking a big swig of his beer. “You sure you’re just trying to help and not running away from dealing with your own shit?” I chuckled ruefully. “Nah, friend. I’m just learning from past mistakes, and I figured it was better to focus on rebuilding our friendship.” “I hear that.” He raised his beer, and we clinked the necks of our bottles together. “But as much as I need that vacation, I think there’s another relationship that you need to be working on more.” “You ain’t wrong,” I murmured, taking another swig of the cold brew. “She still won’t talk to you?” I shook my head. “She takes my calls, but then she immediately hands the phone to Amara. Of course, I want to talk to my daughter, but….” ittedly, I never really expected my half-assed attempts to make things right with Birdie to pan out. I wasn’t even sure if they should. What Paula said to me in New York stuck with me. I loved Amara, but she was right. The decent thing to do was to keep my distance for now. Allow Birdie to set the pace.

“But I’m getting to know Amara, though. She’s so fucking beautiful, man. And smart. I feel like I’ve missed so much, and I wish I could be more than a FaceTime dad. I just don’t know what to do about it right now.” “What would you say to her if she didn’t avoid talking to you?” “I don’t know, really,” I said with a shrug. “I haven’t come up with much besides, I love you, and please give me another chance.” Myles sucked his teeth. “Man, please. That woman needs more than that from you, Saxon.” I nodded. “You’re absolutely right, but I have no idea what that would be. So until I figure that out, how about I book you and Keisha a vacation — seven days in Miami or Puerto Rico, or even Hawaii,” I suggested, changing the subject. “Keisha’s mom can take care of the baby, and I’ll run the restaurant. You won’t be out any money, and you’ll get to spend time with that fine ass wife of yours.” “I don’t need you to remind me how fine my wife is, Saxon.” “Are you sure?” I asked with a raise of my brow. “Cause if my wife was as fine as yours and my friend offered me an all-expenses-paid, seven-day vacation with her, I would take him up on it.” “I’m absolutely fucking sure,” he said, giving me a stern look. “I mean, you seem to be protesting a whole lot. But now that I think about it, Keisha might be down for becoming a throuple if you can’t handle the workload —” “You’re lucky I’m too tired to come across this table to whip your white ass.” I held up my hands and laughed. “I’m just trying to be helpful. I know I’ve been a houseguest for longer than you ever agreed to—” “Don’t start with that shit. You can stay as —” “You might want to check in with your wife before you finish that statement.”

Myles was genuine. I didn’t doubt that he wanted and loved having me around as much as I enjoyed being a part of his little family. But I’d overheard a conversation between him and Keisha over the baby monitor. She wanted her privacy back, and I couldn’t blame her. “Also…we both know I don’t need to stay with you guys. It’s about time for me to get my own place. Finally, put some roots down.” “I one hundred percent agree with that. But if you moved out now, you’d be alone, and we both know you don’t do that well.” “Hm,” I grunted. “That’s true, but it’s not your responsibility to help me work that out.” It was no one’s responsibility but my own. Besides, it was beyond time for me to figure out how to do this shit. I couldn’t languish in this arrested stage of development forever. I was almost forty years old, for fuck’s sake. “Just… ask Keisha about it, okay? Tell her it’s a thank you gift for being so hospitable.” Myles laughed. “A’ight. I’ll run it by her.” “Why don’t you do that now? I can handle the smokehouse for the night.” “You sure?” “Absolutely. Take your big, sexy ass home and let your wife rub all that stiffness out of those aching bones.” He let loose a big barrel laugh as he stood. “Now that was more than enough motivation to let you stay here and sweat over that smoker all night,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I thought it might. See you in the morning.”

The dinner shift went by quickly — mostly because I spent it double-checking the amount of meat that needed to go in the smoker to make sure there was enough for tomorrow. Five whole hogs had to go in, but they needed to be trimmed and prepped beforehand. Butchering was physical work but satisfying. Me, Saif, and a young man who’d just started at Big Lawson’s last summer, named Curtis, had butchered five hogs. I was a bit out of practice, so they helped me work through my second one. But by six-thirty, we had them all injected with Lawson’s secret marinade and dry rub and in the smokers. Exhausted, we all collapsed into the patio chairs with beers in hand and the kind of crude humor that took over when men were left alone for too long. “But did you see dat ass, ya boi?” Saif asked, “Don’t be fuckin’ wit dem buckra women like dat, but her ass was fat — oh, my bad, Sax.” “You fucking kiddin’ me? I was born and raised in North Charleston. This is not the first time I’ve heard that word.” “That’s right. I keep forgettin’,” he said, standing up. “Y’all want another beer?” Both me and Curtis nodded. “So you planning on staying in North Charleston, Chef? To maybe open a restaurant here?” “Haven’t decided yet,” I said, taking the proffered beer. “I’m definitely staying in South Carolina.” “You think you’ll open a restaurant?” I shook my head. “Nah, believe it or not, I’m kinda done with that life. Helping out Myles has been good, but I don’t want the headache or responsibility of starting a restaurant and running one.” “So what do you think you’re gonna do?” Curtis asked.

I flipped off my Lawson’s ball cap and scratched my head. “Still trying to figure that out.” “Well, luckily, you’re good on money, so you have the space and time to decide.” I nodded, but honestly, it felt like having the money should make things easier, but it honestly made it more difficult. And maybe that was why I couldn’t figure out things between Birdie and me. Putting down roots here in North Charleston, settling in one place — it felt foreign to me now. When I thought about home and how I wanted it to look and feel, Amara and Birdie were the only images that filled my head. At ten o'clock, we added more hickory and to the smokers and locked them down. I sent the boys home and stayed on by myself to monitor the meat temps until the pit crew came in the morning. Alone in the backlot of Big Lawson’s with the night sounds all around me, I resisted the urge to call Myles and Keisha and tried to feel comfortable with just being. My friend wasn’t wrong. I hated it. I tried to pull up Birdie’s Instagram again, but it was still deleted. I went to the camera roll on my phone. Some of the photos were from the time I’d spent in Greenville with them, but most were pictures and videos that Soni sent me because she knew that Birdie wouldn’t send them. Amara looked as if she'd grown already in the most recent batch of photos from this week. And Birdie…she looked sad and drained. I knew how that woman worked herself into exhaustion, and I hated that I couldn’t be there to take care of her. Soni said that she had moved forward with the plans to renovate Kinfolks and that everyone was pitching in. I ached to be part of it, but I knew I didn’t deserve it. But goddamn, that want was deep, and ached like a rotten tooth. Desperation set in around one in the morning when I started searching all of her sisters' social media s. Soni had recently posted a new picture of Amara, her face covered with PB & Jam. Our little budding chef was taste testing the new kid's menu she’d helped her mother create. The caption read: Kid tested,

Amara approved. When I’d reached the end of new pics on Soni’s feed, I moved on to Atlas’s IG. He and Amara were good buddies, which was made obvious by the number of photos he had of my daughter on his timeline. I wanted to feel sore about another man spending so much time with my kid, but did I really have a right to that? I wasn’t there, and Uncle Atlas was a good fill-in. Our interaction had been brief, but I felt like I had formed the beginnings of a friendship with him. He seemed like a reasonable dude. Maybe he could get Birdie to talk to me. I must be drunk because that seemed like a good idea. I pulled up his phone number to send him a text.

Me: Hey… this is Sax. I know this probably seems weird, but I wanna make things right with Birdie, and I’m willing to try anything at this point.

I hit send, and the moment the phone said the message had been delivered, I regretted it. But really… what did I have to lose? At worst, he’ll ignore it, and at best… maybe he can get her to talk to me. The pit crew showed up at five in the morning to relieve me, and I drove toward Myles and Keisha’s place when the sun had just begun to peek over the horizon. A soft breeze blew through the Spanish moss and into the open window of the second-hand Chevy pick-up truck I’d bought a week or so ago. I was tired but not too tired to take the long way around and found myself driving through Waylan — the neighborhood I grew up in. Simple, single-story homes built for Navy yard workers in 1940 lined the streets. My father and his father before him worked in the naval yard building and repairing submarines. By the time I was born, my father was building and repairing cruise ships out there. It closed in

’96, and that’s when shit got really tough. My grandfather died of lung cancer not too long after, and my father, unable to find work, grew mean and drank almost every day from ten in the morning until he ed out. My grandmother and my aunt were the ones who made life easier for me when I was younger, but after Grandma died and Aunt Bess moved away, it was the Lawsons that kept me fed and off the streets. I parked in front of my childhood home and killed the truck’s engine. The wood siding had gone gray, and the yard was a week or two overgrown. An old Mitsubishi pick-up sat in the gravel driveway on bald-tires, its truck bed weighted down with scrap metal and old car parts — that was how my father made his money these days. While the engine ticked and popped, I waited for the desire to see the old man to come over me. When I lived in Charleston, I would bring him a six-pack of Miller High Life, sit on the porch and drink with him in silence for an hour or so. When I left, I always tucked a fifty in my handshake — we never hugged. He never thanked me for that fifty or any of the money I sent him over the years out of obligation because that was what a good son did for his father, right? No, I couldn’t keep telling myself that lie. Myles’ father had shown me how a good healthy father-son relationship should look. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t make my father into that man. Nor did I have to accept that kind of treatment from him. But was I doomed to be that kind of father to Amara? Was Paula right about that? Keisha was up and making breakfast when I came in. Olivia was in her high chair, and she lit up when she saw me. Her dark eyes glittered, and those fat cheeks of hers dimpled into an irresistible smile. With arms outstretched, her chubby fingers opened and closed in my direction — the universal sign for hug me, love me, pick me up. “Saxon Turner, don’t you dare,” Keisha commanded, her back still to me. “You sink of the smokehouse, and baby girl needs to finish her breakfast.” I froze mid-tip-toe-pounce and settled for throwing her a big, exaggerated kiss.

Livie giggled and returned one of her own. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Keisha turn around and watch us throw air kisses at each other until Livie got thirsty and grabbed her sippy cup. “You hungry?” she asked. “I made enough bacon and eggs for everybody.” “Uh, no thanks, but I’ll take a cup of coffee.” She nodded, then turned to grab a mug out of the cabinet. “Myles told me about your vacation offer,” she said as she poured coffee into the mug. “Were you serious?” “Absolutely,” I said, taking the offered mug from her. “And I can go anywhere I want? Even Hawaii?” “Even Hawaii,” I echoed, hopefully reassuring her. “It’s the least I could do after camping out in your guest room for damn near two months.” Keisha grimaced. “I didn’t mean for you to overhear that conversation. I was upset and frustrated that me and Myles never spend any time together. It wasn’t really about you.” “Don’t worry, Keke. I didn’t take it personally, and I can see the strain his schedule puts on y’all’s relationship.” Keisha sighed and leaned against the counter with her own mug cradled in her hands. “I wish you would gift that insight to your friend,” she grumbled before taking a sip. “But really? Having you here has made him relax a little. He’s never come home in the middle of the day before. That was … nice,” she said with a sly smile. I chuckled. “You’re welcome for that.” “Trust me. I am deeply grateful for that. Deeply…” she emphasized with a raise of her brows. “I’m glad to hear it.” We drank in comfortable silence though I could feel that Keisha had something

more to say. “So I guess you’re gonna start looking for a place to live, huh?” “Seems like I should. Any recommendations on where I should start looking?” She sipped thoughtfully. “Nowhere in Charleston,” she said finally, surprising the shit out of me. “You want me gone that badly, Keisha? Damn, I thought we just bonded over the fact that I just facilitated some much needed afternoon attention from your husband. Attention that you were deeply grateful for.” She laughed. “And I am! But…” she shook her head, and her smile went a little sad. “You can’t stay here when your daughter is in Greenville.” The coffee went bitter in my mouth. I grunted and poured it into the sink. “She won’t even talk to me, Keisha,” I murmured. Keisha turned toward me and squeezed my shoulder affectionately. “I know it’s hard to think about her rejecting you right to your pretty ass face. I get it.” I laughed despite the heavy topic we were discussing. “Wow, fuck you, Keke.” “I just want you to know that I understand your struggle. A pretty motherfucker like you doesn’t get rejected often, but you also need to know that your tiny, baby feelings don’t matter because she doesn’t care.” I drew in a sharp breath. “Okay, that actually hurt my feelings.” “Good. Hold onto that because you hurt her, Sax. And she deserves more than words. She needs to see you making moves to be a father to that little girl without trying to get her back. Just assume that it’s not gonna happen and make those changes anyway. Do it for Amara.” Gradually Keisha’s words sunk in. I’ve been thinking of this as an all or nothing thing when it wasn’t. No matter what happened, I did want to be a father to Amara. Birdie never told me she was pregnant because she had already walked away, and I wasn’t doing anything to make her believe differently. “You’re right,” I agreed finally. “I need to change whether she wants to be with me or not. As much as it would hurt if she is really done with me, having Amara

in my life would be worth her rejecting me to my pretty ass face.” We laughed together until Keisha pulled away from me with her nose wrinkled up. “Okay, seriously. Get yourself in the shower. You’re stinking up my kitchen.” “A’ight,” I agreed. The smell was starting to get to me too. “Thanks for the heart-to-heart, Keke,” I said, smacking a kiss on her forehead. “No problem.” “And start thinking about where you wanna go,” I said, making my way across the living room. “I was thinking New Orleans? I’ve never been.” “Okay, I’ll reach out to my travel agent, and she’ll pull together some options for you.” With the bedroom door closed between us, I toed off my steel-toed boots and pulled off my shirt before turning on the shower. I stood at the counter and emptied my pockets; wallet, keys, and cellphone. The latter began to ring as soon as set it down. A FaceTime call from Atlas James. I’d totally forgotten that early morning text I sent, begging for some insight into mine and Birdie’s predicament. It felt doubly foolish to have sent it now, and I considered ignoring it. But then… I thought about what Keisha just said in the kitchen and answered it before I could change my mind. When the video call connected, Soni was on the other end. Not Atlas. “Uh… hi, Soni. This is unexpected—” “About as unexpected as you texting my man at one in the morning, I’d imagine.” Atlas slid into the frame. “My bad, man. I couldn’t keep it from her. That’s just not how we move.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I get it. It is embarrassing as fuck, but I get it”— She rolled her eyes and held up a hand, asking me for silence. “I’m not going to go into how manipulative it is to reach out to Atlas to get information out of him. Especially when I’ve kept an open line of communication with you for Amara’s benefit. But my baby Bird is heartbroken. My instinct is just to ride this out. She got over you once, and she can get over you again.” My gut clenched at that because she was right. Didn’t make it hurt any less. “You’re right,” I agreed. “But… Atlas, this hopeless romantic, thinks we should hear you out.” I stared at the couple on the other end of the line and witnessing the way the two of them loved out loud. I thought about Myles and Keisha and how they tried to demonstrate their love to each other daily, even though that was increasingly harder to do with a business and baby. A painful yearning to have that same love, to share it with Birdie and Amara, nearly consumed me. I took a deep breath and tried to stifle back the swell of emotion. “Well, first, I want you to know that I want my family back. I want to be there to watch my little girl grow up so… I guess I need to move to Greenville.” Atlas nodded and draped his arm around Soni’s shoulders. Birdie’s big sister’s face softened just the tiniest bit. “Okay,” she said with a nod of her own. “That’s a good start.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Birdie

The smell of fresh paint greeted me when I unlocked the doors, which was to be expected. Me, Soni, Atlas, and Aggie were in here until about two in the morning, touching up the walls. Bootstrapping this renovation saved me a lot of money, but it cost me and my family time and gave me aches and pains in places I didn’t know I could have them. And right now, standing in the middle of my very own restaurant, I could easily say that it was worth it. Even if my back twinged a little bit every time, I took a deep breath. After updating our food storage, cleaning and servicing the two walk-ins, and making sure everything was up to code, there wasn’t much to do besides give the dining room a much-needed makeover. The dark wood had been swapped for birchwood and stainless steel tables and chairs. The walls were painted a pale grey. All of the art hanging on the walls was on commission from artists in The Village, with one wall near the front entrance dedicated to Mr. Kemp and the old Kinfolks sign. The space felt cozy, modern, and eclectic, but still paying homage to the man who had made this meat-n-three a cornerstone of the neighborhood. I only hoped that my version of Kinfolks would uphold that tradition. I deposited my bag in my office then back into the prep kitchen. Everything was so clean and bright that it almost felt criminal to work in it, but I needed to do something to siphon off this excited energy. I dropped my knife roll at the first prep station I came to before making my way to the meat walk-in. There were a couple of bins of largemouth bass that needed to be filleted. I’d assigned it as prep work for the morning shift, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a jump start on it — even if it reminded me of the time Saxon and I cooked together while he was here. Filleting was kind of meticulous work was exactly the kind of calming task I needed right now. The fish had already been gutted, cleaned, and scaled, so all I had to do was split them into good-sized filets. But the rib cage bones on a

largemouth are very thick and as tough as nails. More than likely, my prep cooks would need a block of instruction. This would serve as a refresher for me and provide some examples of how I want the filets to look. By the time Jenna arrived, I’d filleted seven bass and was working on my eighth. “Hello? Who’s here?” she called out as she fought to get the keys out of the back door. I added getting that locked checked or replaced to my mental to-do list. “It’s me, Ortega!” I called back without lifting my head from my task. “Chef?” She followed the sound of my voice to where I worked at the prep station. “What are you doing here? You were here until like two in the morning! I was supposed to open—” “I know, I know, but I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I might as well come in. Nerves, you know?” Jenna sighed, nodded then went to wash her hands. “The prep cooks are gonna be here soon to do all of that.” “I know. Largemouth can be hard to filet. See how many I mutilated before I got a good one?” I asked, pointing to the filets I had lined up on the prep table. “It’s the rib bones. Come here so I can show you how I want them.” Jenna grabbed her knife roll, pulled out her filet knife, and donned some gloves. She was a quick study and only mutilated two filets before she got the hang of it. “Okay, I’m pretty sure I’ve got this,” she announced. “Might I gently suggest that you work on something a little less stinky? You know… in case you need to do interviews or something.” I looked down at my gloved hands. “Oh… you’re probably right.” I pulled off the gloves and stepped over to the handwashing station. “I just… I still need to work off this nervous energy somehow.” “Do you really?” Ortega asked. “Or do you just need to slow down and drink a cup of coffee and relax before the chaos begins?”

I took a deep breath and dried my hands. “You’re right,” I murmured. “I’m gonna make a cup of coffee and review the schedule and our inventory for the week,” I said with a sigh. “Okay, chef.” With a full cup of coffee and my laptop, I sat down at a small two-top near the front entrance and pored over the spreadsheets. Staff came in, and breakfast service began. Other than the fact that the decor had changed, this felt like a regular day. Maybe it would feel more official during dinner service — that was when the big grand opening party was supposed to happen anyway. Right before lunch service began, Soni showed up with Amara at her side and Atlas in tow. “Hey, guys! What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming by until the party?” “That was the plan, but I was working across the street and finished up early. I figured Amara might want to come and visit her mama and have one of her toasted peanut butter and jam sandwiches.” “Of course, she does,” I said, grabbing my daughter’s hand. “Come on, little girl. You’re part owner in this restaurant, and that means if you’re here, you gotta do some work!” “Okay, mama!” she said with a big grin and skipped alongside of me as we made our way to the kitchen, As I watched Amara making her “famous PB & Jam,” a wave of pride swept over me. It was important for me to include her in this process, which was why I allowed her to choose a kid’s menu selection for every meal. I helped Amara make her PB & Jam, and I made BLTs on fresh sourdough bread and sweet potato fries for Soni, Atlas, and myself. When we were done, we made our way back to the tiny, intimate two-top I’d commandeered where Atlas and Soni were waiting. It was almost too small, but we fit just fine when I balanced Amara on my knees, where she shoveled her sandwich and apple slices into her face.

“It looks like someone finally bought that place next door,” Atlas said around a mouth full of BLT. “What place? The old bar next door that the Kemp’s owned?” I asked. He nodded. “The buyer was over there with the realtor when we came in.” Atlas and I considered buying the bar when we were working on my business plan. The Kemp’s owned both spaces, but ultimately, I decided that the bar was more work than I wanted or needed at the moment. We sold wine and beer, and that was enough for now. I thought I’d have a chance to consider that later on down the line. “Did you talk to them at all?” I asked. “Nah, but they’re still over there if you wanna go take a look. Might be a good idea to introduce yourself. Establish some sort of a relationship.” I frowned and dipped a wedge of sweet potato fry into the ketchup Amara had squeezed onto the edge of my plate. “That wouldn’t be weird?” Amara snagged a fry, and I snarled at her playfully. “Nah,” Soni said with a shrug. “You should invite ‘em to the grand opening.” “Gimme the baby,” Atlas said, reaching for Amara. “I am not a baby!” Amara said. “You guys promised to stop calling me that!” “You’re right. We did. I’m sorry, princess.” Me and Soni exchanged an exasperated look. Amara really had Atlas wrapped around her little pinkie finger. “I’ll be right back,” I said as I stood up. “Don’t eat all of my fries!” I warned Amara as she swiped another one. “They’re my fries now, mama!” she sing-songed at my back as I stepped outside. The late spring day was warm, baking the pavement with afternoon sun. I tipped my face up to the warm rays and basked in it a moment before heading down the

sidewalk. The door to the bar was propped open with a brick, so I stepped inside the dimly lit space. “Hello?” I called out. “It’s Birdie Malone. I own the restaurant next door? Kinfolks? I just wanted to come over and introduce myself.” The bar had stood empty for a few years and the warm, stale air trapped the smell of old beer, cigarettes, and sun-warmed wood. But other than that… it was pretty amazing. An old school Irish pub with a big solid wood bar that dominated the back wall behind it were mirrored shelves that I could picture lined with liquor bottles. I mean, I would have just restored it, but who knows if the new owner or tenant wanted to keep it that way. “Hello?” I called out again. “Hey,” a familiar voice greeted me from behind. Startled, I spun around and found Saxon standing in the open doorway. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I just walked down to the realtor’s office to sign some papers—” He shook his head and gave me a weak smile. I stared at him, unblinking and unable to speak. “None of that matters… I should probably congratulate you on your grand opening.” “You’re the new tenant?” “Owner,” he corrected. “You own the bar next to my restaurant?” “Uh… yeah.” I stared at him in disbelief. “Why would you do this? Are you trying to fuck this up for me?” “No, I—” “Today is my grand opening.”

“I know.” “You know?” I sneered at him. “Of course, you know. That’s why you’re here, right? You’re planning some big apology to upstage my accomplishment?” “What? No. Jesus, this is already going sideways. Can you let me talk for a minute? Let me say what I planned and then you can… I don’t know. Continue hating me, I guess.” “What makes you think you deserve even a second of my time. You left, Saxon. You fucking left again.” “I know I left. And I don’t think I deserve a second of your time. I swear, I don’t... if what I say isn’t something you want to hear, and you don’t want to give this another try, I get it. But let me get it out first… can you give me that, Birdie?” “Give you another try?” I glared at him for a long moment. What could he possibly say at this moment that could make a bit of difference? And what the fuck was Atlas thinking when he sent me over here for this? And Soni… was she in on this, too? My instincts were telling me to push past him and go back to the restaurant and celebrate the second-best day of my life. But instead, I crossed my arms over my chest and tipped my chin up at him — silently encouraging him to say his piece. “Okay,” he said, relief softening his shoulders. “Okay.” He moved further into the bar, closer to me. “So…I know how this looks. We haven’t spoken in months, and then I just show up and buy this bar next to your restaurant. I recognize how… I don’t know… fucked up that is. I get it. But … after I did what I did, I knew I couldn’t just show up here on my same old bullshit promises because you weren’t gonna listen to them.” He was right about that. “You didn’t have to keep that from me. It felt like such a low blow because I thought we’d been so honest with each other.” “I know…” he looked down at his feet. “Anyway… I spent some time with Myles and Keisha, and they convinced me that I had to be more demonstrative. That I had to show you with my actions that I really wanted this. That I wanted you and Amara. That I wanted a family.”

Feeling my resolve weaken just the tiniest bit, I stepped backward, creating some space between us. Saxon saw it anyway. Saw that tiny moment of weakness and latched onto it. “So… I bought a house. It’s not in your sister’s neighborhood, but it’s close enough for us to walk there. I also bought this bar,” he said, throwing up his hands. “It’s got some history. It’s always been an Irish pub, and that feels right. But it feels even more right that it’s right next door to your restaurant. I’ll it that I had big dreams for it when I realized that you didn’t purchase both businesses. Dreams where we partner and run them together. Raise Amara together… be together? What do you think?” I scoffed and back away from him. “That’s it? That’s your speech? That’s supposed to make me trust you again?” “No, Birdie. No… I don’t expect that. In fact, I expect you to keep hating me, and that’s fine because you should. You should hate me. But no matter what happens between us, we’re family. I want to be here to you and love you and love our daughter. I want to be here to help you raise her. Even if you don’t want me to be your man… I’m here. I’m here, Birdie, and I’m never leaving again.” My heart was pounding, and my vision was blurred with tears that would fall the moment I blinked. I dropped my hands to my sides at some point, and I had to fist them to keep from reaching for him. “It shouldn’t be this easy.” “I agree,” he said with a stiff nod. “And don’t be easy on me, Birdie. “Except…fuck.” I turned my back and paced away from him. “You are literally the worst kinda fuck boy! I don’t want you!” He sighed heavily. “I get it.” Why couldn’t I just leave it at that? This man… this man hurt me. Deeply. More than once. In big ways. Cheating would’ve been more easily forgiven than this. And yet… The picture he painted? The daydream of us running the bar and the restaurant together? Raising Amara together…being together? It was everything I wanted. Whatever Myles and Keisha said to him? It was the right thing. And I hate it. I

hate that it was the right thing to do and say. “You fucking asshole!” I groaned, tipping my head back to look at the tin tiled ceiling. Which… of course, it was tin tiled because that was perfect and authentic. Of course, this should be his bar. I shook my head and laughed, then turned to him. “So…” I mopped up my tears with the edge of my apron. “What are you thinking of calling this place?” A hesitant smile quirked his lips. “I figured I’ll keep it simple and call it Turner Taps.” I nodded. “Concept?” “Craft beer and cocktails from local breweries and distilleries. Live music Thursday through Sunday, and maybe my patrons can buy a plate from Kinfolks when they’ve depleted all of their calories on the dance floor?” he added with a sly smile. “A family business,” I said with a nod. “How long will it take to get it up and running?” He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked around. “Not long? I’m not changing much. Renovating the bathroom. Probably upgrade the walk-ins and keg situation. I’m meeting with contractors on Monday.” “Saint James?” I asked. “Yup. Atlas hooked me up.” “Good, good. I’d like to be here for that if you don’t mind.” “Of course. It’s my bar, but I really want us to do this together… as a family,” he added, stepping a little bit closer. Now I could smell his cologne, that woodsy and sweet scent that smelled like home. “So…how do you feel about all this?” “Uh… well.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Do you want to see Amara? She’s next door eating a PB & Jam with Soni and Atlas.” A big smile brightened his face and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay, let me lock the back door. I’ll be right back.”

Saxon went through a door to the right of the bar that led to the back. I stood in the middle of the bar and hugged myself. Why is forgiving him so easy? I listened to him struggling with the sticky door lock — I guess the locks on both buildings were old and needed to be replaced. But I imagined the grumbling curses he made as part of my daily routine. That cup of coffee I had alone while reviewing the spreadsheets? That would be something we did together. And Amara? She would be right there with us. Doing homework at the bar when she got out of school. Ringing up customers or waitressing on the weekend once she was old enough to work. Or maybe she would even step up to working the kitchen. Her knife skills were good. She’d make a good prep cook. I could see it all. I wanted it all. Saxon’s presence here didn’t guarantee that my life would unfold like that daydream, but having him here with us made me want to try to make it come true. Saxon came back into the bar, twirling his keys on one finger. “I’m ready,” he said, brushing past me. “Wait,” I said, grabbing hold of his wrist. “What?” he asked softly, turning toward me. I trailed my fingers down to his hand and laced them through his. “I’m not gonna make this easy for you.” “I don’t expect you to.” “I’m serious, Saxon.” I looked at him. Looked him in the eye. “We need to reestablish trust in this relationship, and you have a long way to go with me. And if you’re going to be here, I need to be able to depend on you.” “I know, Birdie. I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t intend to give you everything. I’m here to love you on purpose. Intentionally and completely.” I stared up at him in wonder, studying his features. “What?” he asked.

“What the hell did Myles say to you?” I asked. He laughed. “Basically, he told me that I wasn’t shit, and he wasn’t going to listen to me whine about how much I missed you and Amara anymore. And then Keisha told me I had to put those words into action. To show you how much I want this, and I’m so thankful, Birdie.” He sighed and pressed his forehead to mine. I closed my eyes. “So, so thankful that you gave me this opportunity to prove it to you, baby. I love you so much—” I didn’t think another thought. I just let my heart and my body give in to what it wanted, and that was him. My lips pressed against his, my I-love-you spilling out between kisses. Saxon hummed and ended our kiss with soft, sweet nibbles on my lips. “Let’s go see our girl.” He tightened his grip on my hand and pulled me out into the sunny afternoon and into another kiss, then pulled away, crinkling his nose. “Don’t take this the wrong way, babe,” he said as he closed the door and locked it. “But… you stink of fish.”

Epilogue

Saxon

three months later….

A heavy sheet of plastic separated my bar, Turner Taps, from the back of Kinfolks' dining room. I pushed it aside and stepped into the dark, empty restaurant. All of the staff had gone home a while ago, and I was waiting for Birdie to come find me to let me know that she was ready to head home. She had to be tired after the day we’ve had. The bar was taking a bit longer to get off the ground than I planned due to some surprises during the renovation and a decision to expand the kitchen by connecting the backend of both our buildings. The noise and construction had also impacted the lunchtime traffic at Kinfolks more than we anticipated. Together, Birdie and I came up with a plan to negate that deficit by kicking off the catering and delivery service that we’d planned to launch around the holidays. It took off surprisingly well, but that also meant Birdie and her staff were working overtime. In the partially lit kitchen, I found Birdie bent over the station that she favored because it was at just the right height for someone as short as her. “Hey, chef,” I greeted, knowing that it would get a smile out of her. She looked up at me, dark eyes sparkling. “Hey, chef,” she said back. I moved in beside her and kissed her on the temple. “Whatcha up to?” I asked. On the prep station in front of her were a couple of bunches of aromatic herbs and her Moleskine notebook full of recipe ideas. “Just thinking about the summer menu.” “Hm,” I grunted. “Baby girl went to your sister’s?”

Birdie shook her head. “She’s back in the office on the couch. She wanted to wait for us.” Smiling, I went back to Birdie’s office and peeked at our little girl. She was curled up on the couch under her mama’s spare chef’s coat. I kissed her on the cheek and closed the door. Birdie was humming and swaying to Janet Jackson’s Got Til it’s Gone from the 90s R&B playlist I made for her. My lil' country girl had some gaps in her musical knowledge, but I had a whole lifetime to get her caught up. Moving in behind her, I grasped her hips and caught her sway. She giggled and reached back to slide her hand around the back of my neck. “You tired?” I asked, kissing that mole just a few inches below her left earlobe. “Whenever you ask if I’m tired in that tone of voice, you don’t really want to know how tired I am.” “Am I that transparent?” “Hmmm, yeah,” she said with a laugh. “Come next door with me.” “Why?” “Because the new stools came in, and the bar is all polished and shiny, and I want to sit you on it and eat your pussy.” I dropped another kiss on her neck then backed away. “Let me just make sure the doors are locked.” I checked the back door. The lock always sticks, so I gave it an extra jiggle to make sure it was engaged. When I ed by Birdie’s office, I peeked inside again to make sure Amara was still asleep. Satisfied by her sweet, soft little snores, I grabbed her mother by the hand and led her toward the bar. “You know that we literally live a few short blocks from here. We could just go home, and you can fuck me properly there.” My dick actually jumped at that thought. Like it needed any help. I looked down

at my pretty little baby mama, who was now wearing a smirk on her dirty mouth. “Fuck you properly? First of all, I can fuck you properly anywhere. Secondly… I said I wanted to put you up on the bar so I could eat your pussy. And lastly, who says I won’t do both?” “Well, excuse me.” I shrugged as I pushed back the plastic so that she could walk under it. “It’s cool. One day you’ll learn that I want you way more than you even realize.” Already unbuttoning her chef’s coat, Birdie spun around and narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait a minute… are you implying that it doesn’t go both ways? Because I coulda swore that I woke you up with my mouth this morning and bounced on it.” I couldn’t even play it off this time. I grabbed her and pulled her up against me. “You know you make my dick hard when you talk to me like that.” Birdie smiled against my lips. “Why do you think I do it?” She swallowed the moan that rumbled out of me with a hungry kiss, and damn… it always felt like this. Like we couldn’t get enough of each other. She shimmied out of her coat, let it drop to the floor. I picked her up and lifted her onto the bar. When I tugged on the drawstring of her chef’s pants, she leaned back, giving me that look that made me feel like a God. I pulled the pants and her panties off at the same time, and when her bare ass hit the smooth polished wood, she let out a little squeal. “It’s cold!” she complained. “You need me to warm it up?” I asked, covering her bare pussy with my hand. “Yes,” she whispered, wiggling a little so that the heel of my hand rubbed against her pussy. She looked as fucking good as I thought she would up on this bar. The honeybrown wood stain nearly matched her complexion. I’d chosen it for that reason. Both glowed under the low light. “Come on, Sax. Why do you always have to do all of this teasing?”

“Oh…now you want it? Just a moment ago, you were saying you wanted me to take you home so I could fuck you properly.” “Yeah, but now my pants are off, and my clit’s right there.” She licked her lips and rolled her hips upward the tiniest bit so I could feel how hot and wet she was getting. I swiped my thumb across her clit, and she twitched. Unable to resist her little moans and sighs, I leaned down and licked the hard, needy little nub. “Right there? Is that where it is?” “Yes,” she moaned. I pulled up one of the new stools, positioned it right between her knees, sat down. “Fuck, yes… this is as perfect as I imagined it.” I scooted her ass a little closer to the edge, draped her knees over my shoulders, and dragged my tongue through her folds. “Oh, fuck, Saxon,” she gasped, digging her hand into my hair and freeing it from the hair tie. I knew by now that she liked the feel of it against her inner thighs. The same way I knew that she liked it when I kept a bit of scruff on my chin because she liked the way it felt against her pussy. God, I loved to eat her pussy, and she loved how much I loved it. I swear it was like a drug to me. The taste of her, her complete abandon, and the way she wasn’t afraid to grab me by the hair and ride my tongue until she came if I teased her too much. I knew this woman inside and out, but every day I learned just a little bit more, another little secret that made me fall even deeper in love. I tell her every day in every way I know how, with my tongue with my fingers, when I was inside of her, and with my words, but sometimes words didn’t feel like they were enough. She made me so goddamn happy. Yes, things were hard sometimes. I was still a selfish prick, and we fought about that a lot. But after every fight, we fucked and made up, and that made every moment worth it in my eyes. Those moments bled into moments like this one when I was sucking her clit just the way she liked it and feeding my fingers into her pussy because she liked that too. “Oh, Sax…Sax, I’m coming,” she keened then sealed her lips closed because she

wanted to scream, but she didn’t want to wake baby girl. When she came, I drank every drop of her down while her pussy clenched my fingers and thought about what I would do to her when we got home. Home.

A place where we lived together with our baby girl, Amara Rose. Maybe in a few months, she might let me take her to the mountain cabin we’d stayed in before and fuck her silly, so we could make another baby. But tonight…tonight I was going to make her say my name and ask me over and over why and how I fucked her so good. Was this what forever felt like? Was this how it was supposed to look? Because I just realized at this moment that this was exactly what I wanted. Forever with her. I looked up at her, and she smiled at me. That sex drunk smile that I loved. She leaned forward to kiss me, gasping when I twisted my fingers inside of her, hitting a new spot that made her shiver. “Is this what you think about while you’re supposed to be over here working?” she asked, with a shaky, satisfied laugh. “Eating my pussy at the bar?” “Yes… always,” I whispered. I rubbed little circles around her clit with my thumb and dragged my lips across hers. “Hey…I wanna ask you something.” “Right now?” she whispered. “Can’t you wait until after you make me come again?” “I can do both,” I said with a laugh as I kept making those circles around her clit, feeling her pussy flutter and tighten around my fingers. So close to coming again. “I was just wondering…” I whispered against her panting lips, “if you would marry me?” “What? Did you just… oh, my god, Saxon!” She squeezed her eyes shut and came so hard that I had to grab hold of her to keep her from slipping off the bar. With her arms wrapped around me, she had what seemed like the longest orgasm

ever. There were tears, but that wasn’t uncommon. But she held on so hard for so long that I began to wonder… “Wait… was that a yes?”

Acknowledgments

Thank you so much for reading The Bad in Each Other, the second Malone Sister’s book! As someone who considers herself a big city girl, it’s been so fun writing this diverse group of creative people in this Small Town Romance series. It’s also fun to write about these sisters and their connection to their ancestors, which I plan to explore even deeper in With Her Own Two Hands, Agostina’s story! Once again, I would like to thank my Thursday Writing crew. Lucy Eden, Katrina Jackson, and Zaida Polanco, y’all hold a bitch down for real. Brainstorming, writing, or just bitching about Romancelandia is always so much more fun when I do it with y’all. Also, thank you to the #20kin5Days community! You make hitting that daily word count magic. I can no longer write without witnesses. I need y’all! I’m gonna end this because I feel the urge to get sappy but I’m so in love with writing right now and thank you all for reading my stories! Tasha

About the Author

Often accused of navigating life without a filter, Tasha L. Harrison has managed to brand herself as the author who crafts characters and stories that make you feel all of the feels. She writes African American, interracial and intercultural erotica and erotic romance with heroines just as brazen, emotionally messy, and dramatic as herself and heroes that love them anyway. She lives in Upstate South Carolina with her handsome hubbie, two not-sosmallish men, and one super needy boxer dog. When she’s not writing filth, she’s riding around with the top down on her Jeep Wrangler, Amber, blasting Southern Rock and pretending she’s in love with the mountains when she really misses the ocean. She also edits romance and erotica because love stories are her business. Tasha’s work and information on her editing rates and services can be found at tashalharrison.com

Table of Contents

Cover Title Page Copyright Harriet Von Horne Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Epilogue

Acknowledgments About the Author

Guide

Copyright Beginning Cover