Ah. It was sweet, though. They’d found their place here in Brooklyn now—in Park Slope, to be accurate—just a couple streets away from mine. And it made sense that Gideon would now go all in with shopping for furniture and whatnot.

Gideon, like James, was autistic. And luckily for my brother-in-law to-be, Nicky wasn’t fussy about interior design or what kind of furniture they should have. In short, he’d probably given Gideon the green light to pick everything, exactly how he wanted it.

As long as Nicky could finally move in with Gideon, he was happy.

“You got an email.”

I returned to the counter and handed one of the beers to him, then picked up my phone and frowned. The preview said something about an invitation.

I opened it and— “What the…”

“What?” Nicky asked.

I couldn’t answer yet.

You’re invited to a barbecue with August King!

As the Franklin Food Festival is right around the corner, August wishes to extend the invitation to join him for a barbecue on Friday night. Perhaps you’ve traveled a long way to Nashville and don’t feel like hunting down a place to grab dinner, or maybe you’re tired after enjoying the first day of the festival. Either way, you’re very welcome to stop by Littlefield Ranch for a small, casual barbecue.

When: 8 p.m.

Who: The participants of the August King Cooking Class (Spouses are welcome.)

Click the link below to RSVP, and we need your response by 11 a.m. on Friday.

We look forward to seeing you!

Best regards,

Clara Pierce

Discomfort tightened in my gut, and I briefly wondered what the fuck I was doing. All this started with a “Why not?” that I was now questioning a shitload. I wasn’t the type to enter contests and giveaways. I hadn’t considered actually winning. There’d been a post by a famous chef asking his followers what they’d last had for dinner, and I’d obviously seen the information for the giveaway. I remembered also thinking, “Huh, that’s the weekend before the music festival.” Then I’d entered my response with a shrug and a “Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

Well, this happened.

This shit was happening.

“Are you gonna tell me why you look like you wanna puke?” Nicky asked blandly.

I didn’t wanna puke. I didn’t know what I wanted. For fucking real? Me, at a barbecue with August King?

As if the cooking class weren’t weird enough.

I laughed, which caused Nicky’s forehead to crease.

“The chef hosting the cooking class at the festival invited the participants to a barbecue tomorrow,” I answered.

Nicky lifted his brows, probably stuck on my reaction. “Okay…? Isn’t that fun?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know a fucking thing.