I flushed. “Jo, please.”

“Hey. Bryan.” The tall one in the red jersey, with the straggling chin patch, shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you.” He had his father’s watchful eyes.

He nudged his brother, who started forward. “Alec.”

Dinosaur sandwiches, I remembered. The boy shot a startled look at Eric. Oh crap. I’d said it out loud. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Your dad mentioned when you were little, he used to cut your sandwiches into, um, dinosaur shapes.”

The confused look melted into a grin. “Cool. Yeah, that’s right.”

Such lovely boys. They went to open the back of the SUV, leaving me standing with their father on the curb. So awkward.

“Thanks for the book,” I said. “And . . . and everything.”

“Thank you for the link,” Eric replied politely.

“You’ve been here? All this time?” Without seeing me.

“There is a soccer tournament. In Florida.” He gestured toward his older son. “We are back yesterday. And you? You return soon?”

I risked a look at his expression. Did he want me to return? “No. No, I’m staying. To take care of my mother.”

“How is she?”

“She’s good. Better,” I amended. “Her surgery went well. She’ll be in rehab for a couple more weeks. I’m helping out until then.”

Bryan dumped his father’s bag on the sidewalk, and they all did that one-armed hug thing men do, with lots of back patting. Their obvious affection for one another, their ease, brought a lump to my throat. I sidled toward my car, feeling like an intruder, trying to get out of the way.

“Jo.” Eric’s voice tripped me up. I turned as the SUV pulled away, Bryan at the wheel. “Jo.” Eric took a step closer, his beautiful hazel eyes focused on me. Seeing me. “You look . . .”

I ducked my head self-consciously. “Scalped?”

“Ah, your hair.” He raised his hand. Just the touch of his hand on the ends of my hair electrified me. His smile started at the corner of his mouth and settled in his eyes. “No. You look . . . content. Your writing, your blog, it is going well?”

I swallowed. “Thanks to you.” Content. Content? Was that a compliment? “Half the comments are about you.”

He waved the acknowledgment away. “Nichts zu danken. You are a good writer. I saw Michael commented yesterday.”

A car honked behind me. “Who?” I asked.

“Michael Burdette. From Squeal.”

My breath rushed out. Burdette owned three renowned restaurants in North Carolina, including the pork-themed Squeal in Wilmington. “Wow. McSqueal is Michael Burdette? I didn’t know.”

“You should call him.”

“I’m not looking for a job.”

“About your cheese. He’s on the lookout for local suppliers.”

“Oh. Right. I will. Thank you.”

“Vivian, too.”

A security guard in an orange traffic vest approached. “Ma’am, I’ve got to ask you to move your truck.”

I ignored him. “Vivian Howard?”

“The Chef and the Farmer.”

“I know who she is. You want me to call Vivian Howard?”