Pearl pulled away from the kiss and looked up at them. “Happy?” she asked.

“You sure look like you are!” Curtis called down. “Happier than Grandma Bobo when pickled pigs feet are on sale!”

“Pickled pigs feet?” I asked quietly.

“It’s a thing,” Pearl assured me. “Come on.” She took my hand and gave me a little tug toward the door. “Better get in there before they ask us to do anything else.”

Part of me wanted to stay right there and hope those Alabama brothers did. But the rational part of me knew she was right. I let her guide me inside and up to our room. With two separate beds and a shower door that wasn’t see-through, we were able to get ready for bed in relative silence without any of the same kind of tension we’d had back in Asheville. Except, even with a little distance between our beds, I felt like there was something crackling in the air between us again.

When I rolled to my side and tried to sleep, all I could think about was kissing her.

Every kiss made me hungry for more.

Every touch made me crave her that much more.

Every hour I spent with her made me less and less sure I knew what was best for me.

25

PEARL

The restaurant attached to the Ashford Inn apparently went by many names. At some point, it didn’t have a name. Then it had been Harper’s Hollow. Then The Honeypot, until somebody told the owners that phrase had a dirtier meaning than they realized. Now it was simply known as The Spot. Whatever they called it, the food was freaking delicious.

I met up with my mom and dad here this morning while Dean went for a morning run. It was like Steph said–Guys who looked like Dean really did squeeze exercise in all the time, no matter the circumstance. Personally, if I was ever on some kind of health kick, the habit was immediately and irrevocably broken as soon as I went out of town. Hell, sometimes a good show was reason enough to break my workout or dieting plans.

My parents were finishing off their breakfast of waffles and eggs. I had candied bacon with a huge, fluffy slice of homemade bread turned into French Toast. Our waitress was a surly young woman named Lin. She had the air of somebody who was grudgingly working to help out a friend.

When we were nearly ready to leave, a young girl maybe in her early twenties came out from the kitchen. She had on chef’s whites and a big smile.

“Hey there!” she said cheerily.

We all gave a bemused smile. My parents may not have lived in Manhattan, but we were all from the North. If a chef came out to our table back home, it was probably going to be to swear at us or maybe tell us they’d accidentally poisoned our food and were going to give us five percent off as an apology.