The thought was vaguely depressing.

He shook his head. “I was home. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I hope it wasn’t something you ate.”

His eyes crinkled. “No. Your food last night was very good.”

I flushed, ridiculously pleased. “Pretty simple stuff. I didn’t season with anything but salt and pepper. Well, and a ham hock for the greens.”

“Simple is best,” Chef said. “That’s how you honor your ingredients.”

I grinned. “Right. By flattening the chicken in a cast-iron skillet and cooking the shit out of everything.”

He laughed.

I grinned back, something inside me relaxing. My instructors at NYU had made it clear I would never be a Great Southern Writer. But I was a good Southern cook. Chef made me feel like it was okay to be myself. Like I was good enough without trying so hard.

Of course, he made everybody feel that way. The kitchen was full of misfits whose lives outside the restaurant were a mess. He taught them, trained them, inspired them to pull together as a team, to strive for perfection every night. Even me. The idiot hipster food blogger.

“They’re my mother’s recipes,” I confessed. “We always had greens on the table.”

“Ah yes, the collards.” His mouth tugged in that small, ridiculously appealing smile. “Ray had seconds.”

He’d noticed.

I glowed. “My mother always boiled them like that. For hours. To make pot likker.”

“Vegetable stock.”

I nodded. “With ham grease. It’s a Southern thing. Sometimes she serves it in a cup with corn bread on the side.”

That was what was missing from the blog, I realized suddenly. I’d listed the ingredients. I hadn’t told the story.

“Then your food honors her, yeah?” His voice was kind. “The best cooking is from the heart.”

My throat closed. I nodded, speechless.

“How is your mother?” Chef asked. As if he really wanted to know.

I swallowed hard. I was not going to weep all over him again. “They wheeled her to the dining room for dinner yesterday. And she walked down the hallway and back.” A good day, according to Meg.

He nodded. His silence pulled at me like the end of the dock back home. Jump on in. The water’s fine.

“The thing is . . .” I hesitated, then took the plunge. “My mother’s always been so active. She runs that farm. Meg says she can hire someone to help when Mom gets out of rehab, but she’s never had to depend on anyone before.”

“I am sorry.” His voice was kind, his eyes soft hazel.

I shrugged. “Whaddaya gonna do?” I asked, mimicking the New Yorker I’d tried so hard to become.

The real question was, What was I going to do?

But he took me literally. “I thought today I would run with you.”

Wait. What? I looked at his feet. Yep, those were running shoes. Wide toe box, thick sole, well-cushioned and salt-grimed. Like mine.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you prefer to run alone.”