Lessons in Lemonade Read online

  I clear my throat, startling them, and they both turn to look at me. They hadn’t even realized I had joined them.

  “Sorry!” Zach says as he holds out his hand. “We haven’t properly met yet. Hi, I’m Zach.” His smile is so large and genuine I falter briefly. No wonder she fell under his spell; when he turns on the charisma, it’s impossible not to feel light-headed.

  “Meg. Nice to finally meet you,” I respond, slipping my hand into his. He towers over me, but then again, most do. On my best day, in my tallest shoes, I’m only five-foot-five. “This is quite a place you have here, Zach.” Behind him, sunlight pours in through the arched ornamental windows that line the front wall.

  “I think so,” he says proudly as he releases my hand and looks around.

  I do the same, taking in more of the details of the tasting room. It’s exquisitely put together, and with its arched ceilings and massive columns, it matches the overall baroque feel one usually sees in European castles.

  “Shelby was a lucky girl to get to spend two weeks here. A castle that has endless amounts of free wine—I can’t think of anywhere better.” I wink at her, and we share a knowing, heartfelt look honed over years of friendship. Then I turn back to Zach with a stunning smile of my own.

  He laughs, and in my peripheral vision, I see Shelby take in a deep breath. She’s happy that the two of us are getting along. I’m not surprised that we are. She loves him, and I know I’m looking at her future, one I’m so happy for. She deserves this more than anyone I know.

  “Actually, I’m the lucky one,” he says affectionately. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and reaches over for one of hers. Bringing it to his mouth, he kisses the back, and she sighs with hearts in her eyes. Peas and carrots, I have heart eyes too.

  Love might not be in the cards for me, but it sure looks good on them.

  “Zach!” From behind him, he gets slapped on the shoulder, and we turn to see two new guys have approached us.

  “Hey, Shelby,” says the tall drink of water with dark hair and deep chocolate eyes as his gaze drops to their connected hands. He grins and gives Zach an I told you so look before turning his attention to me.

  Electrical charges start firing, and I feel shocked.

  Neither of us moves or says anything, and I can feel all four of them looking at me. This guy . . . his expression slowly brightens as if he’s just found the best piece of candy in the candy shop, and I narrow my eyes in a way that says, Don’t even think about it.

  He smirks, completely unfazed by my unspoken warning.

  “And hello, gorgeous,” he says smoothly, shifting to face me a little more after the silence between us and the stare-down has stretched into awkwardness.

  I’m not normally thrown off by meeting new guys—in fact, I’m known to be a bit of a maneater with my anti-forever policy—but for some reason I can’t get my brain and my tongue to work together right now.

  “I’m glad y’all could make it,” Zach says, breaking the silence after I don’t respond. Then he turns toward the second guy, who has yet to say anything.

  Tearing my eyes off of Mr. Dark Adonis, I find Mr. Blond Adonis, another handsome addition to the room. Seriously, why is it that the beautiful ones always flock together? Where do they even find each other?

  “Absolutely,” the blond answers, giving him the tiniest hint of a smile.

  Wait a minute . . . Tilting my head, I get a better look at the blond. He looks familiar, but I can’t place why, and it’s then cool air washes over me. I know it’s because the dark-headed one has stopped looking at me.

  Confused by the sensation, I quickly glance over to find him focused back on Shelby.

  “We’re glad the timing worked and we could come up. Wine and some of Shelby’s cooking”—he raises his brows hopefully—“how could we turn it down?”

  Hold up, just a second—has she cooked for him before? When? I didn’t even know she knew guys like him. Wait, did I say him? Ugh. I meant them. Has she cooked for them before?

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Meg and I brought the cobbler”—she glances at me—“but the rest of the food was prepared by others from the recipes for the pairings. Although I didn’t personally cook the food today, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  She leans forward and squeezes his arm briefly before pulling back. It’s a friendly gesture, one that confuses me. When did this happen?

  His face falls a little and he says, “I don’t know about that,” as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously gorgeous tailored navy pants. Yes, I can spot fashion yays and nays a mile away, and this guy is all yay.

  “Well, if you like my cooking, you’ll love Meg’s even more. She is a way better chef. You should drop by our restaurant in Charleston next time you’re out that way and have her cook for you.”

  Two things occur to me at once. First off, she’s still calling it “our” place even though it’ll soon not be, and this makes my heart swell and ache at the same time. Secondly, she’s essentially inviting this guy over and volunteering me to cook for him! I shoot her a what the heck wide-eyed look, and she just grins conspiratorially.

  “Is that so?” dark-headed guy says as he turns and looks at me. I try to neutralize my expression, but as he grins, dimples pop out, and inwardly I groan. Dimples are my weakness—only, I don’t want to have a weakness. I also don’t want a man, any man. I kind of want to ignore him, which is why the glare on my face drops into a scowl.

  Blond guy chuckles next to him, picking up on my indifference, and that’s when I notice someone from the magazine has approached Shelby and pulled her attention away.

  “Come on, sunshine, how about the three of us leave these two to do some work, and you and I can get to know each other better.” He holds his hand out, but I just stare down at it like it’s plagued.

  Frowning, I look at Zach and Shelby, and as much as it pains me, I do the right thing. They are here to work, and they need to start circulating the room.

  “Fine.” I relent, but instead of taking his offered hand, I cross my arms against my chest.

  Of course all that does is force his eyes down my body, and a blush burns through me. Seeing my resistance and my discomfort, he smiles even bigger, deepening his dimples, and drops his hand.

  “Fine starts with an F, and did you know there are only two Fs needed to satisfy a man? Food and fu—”

  “Oh my God! Don’t even say it,” I snap, glancing toward the blond for backup. He just grins and shakes his head like there’s no use fighting it, but I’ve got news for him: I’m not even going to enter the ring. I’ve made promises to myself, and not even this guy will have me breaking them.

  Together the three of us turn and head for the bar. Wine—I need wine. Lots of wine. “You do realize we just met, right?” I toss over my shoulder.

  He laughs then looks down at me with a smolder so intense I expect smoke to rise up from his feet. Holy. Moly. This guy is something else.

  Placing his hand on my lower back, he guides me through the people. Heat sears through the thin fabric of my dress, and his hand is so large it covers almost the whole span of my back.

  “Technically, we haven’t met, but I’m real glad that’s about to change,” he says with his mouth lowered next to my ear. The warm air sends a shiver through me, and I begin a mental chant of, Not today, Satan. Not today. You will not be affected by this guy.

  Sliding up to the bar, the three of us each tell the bartender what we’d like, and I use the opportunity to take in more of his features: strong jaw, high cheekbones, tanned skin, perfect. If I could growl, I would; instead, I reach for my white wine and take a large gulp. I’ve always been a white drinker; I blame it on the heat of the south. I like light, crisp, cool, refreshing, and I know I shouldn’t, but I do find it ironic that this guy picks a cabernet sauvignon—bold, rich, and full of complex layers.

  “So, you must be one of the three legs of the tripod,” he says cheerfully, not even a
cknowledging that his friend is standing next to us.

  I almost spit out my wine and look at him skeptically. “How do you know about that nickname?”

  “James, of course.” He sips his wine, looking pleased as punch to have thrown me off.

  While we were in culinary school, which is where Shelby and I met Lexi, one of our teachers dubbed us the tripod. We were inseparable and still try to spend time together whenever we can.

  “You know James? Wait, do you know Lexi, too?” I look back and forth between the two of them.

  A sly smile slowly stretches across dark-haired guy’s face. “James, yes. Lexi, no. I just know of her, but Bryan here grew up with both of them.”

  Just hearing Bryan’s name has the flow of air in my lungs halting. Turning to face him, I take him in from head to toe and start involuntarily nodding.

  “Bryan Brennen. I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and gives me a warm smile back. So this is Lexi’s Bryan. Well, I’ll be.

  “But you don’t recognize me,” says tall-dark-and-handsome, bringing himself back into the conversation.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Jack. Jack Willett. I play football with this guy.” He holds out his hand and I once again look down at it as if it’s offensive, but I still slide my hand into his. Again with the large hands, only this time the warmth is touching me directly, skin on skin. Realizing I like this more than I should, I snatch my hand away and wipe my palm against my dress.

  “Meg Dukette.” I nod at Bryan, letting him know it’s nice to meet him, and then scowl back at Jack. Around us, more and more people have sidled up to the bar, pushing me closer to him, and I’m overwhelmed by his nearness.

  “So, Shelby seems to think I should visit you in Charleston. I love food, and well, if you’re as good as she seems to think you are, I might just have to make a trip.”

  My jaw drops.

  “Speaking of food,” Bryan chimes in, “I’m going to go find some. Either of you want anything?”

  I shake my head, and Jack answers, “Not yet, but thanks.” Bryan wanders off, and I can’t say I blame him—he wasn’t exactly being included.

  Looking back at Jack, I see his eyes are already on me, and my stomach drops just a bit as sparklers light and fizzle underneath my skin. I haven’t physically reacted to a guy like this in so long, and I’m almost confused by the sensations.

  “So, about that dinner,” he says, his voice lower, deeper. I hear the double meaning behind it—he isn’t subtle—and maybe in another life I might have gone with it, but not in this one. I don’t date people who are or potentially will be in my inner circle. Like, ever. Those I do go on dates with are mostly strangers, guaranteeing it won’t become too awkward when I don’t go out with them a second time. Which I never do.

  Looking up at him—he towers over me by almost a foot—I laugh to myself as I think about the height difference between us if I were to take my shoes off. My eyes would barely be staring at his nipples. Wait—no! Why am I thinking about his nipples? Just no, no, no.

  “You’re more than welcome to come any time. We love all our paying customers.”

  He chuckles. “What if I’m paying, but it’s for you and me, and someone else does the cooking?”

  “I don’t date,” I blurt out.

  “Ever?” he questions, tilting his head to the side.

  “Well, I do, but not people I know.” As if that will make any sense to him.

  “But you don’t know me,” he taunts, one side of his mouth curving up.

  “I do now.” I attempt to take a step back from him but end up bumping into the person behind me. Jack reaches out and tucks his hand around my elbow to steady me. There he goes with the hands again, and there I go liking him touching me more than I should.

  Humming, he twists his lips to the side while he thinks, and then his eyes light up. “Well, I’m down for skipping the dinner and going straight for dessert, if you know what I mean.”

  Yeah, I know what he means, and as tempting as it might be, that’s not my style.

  “Not gonna happen, cowboy.” I shake my head and my arm so he’ll release it. He does.

  “Cowboy—does that mean you’re into role-playing?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and a laugh bursts out of me.

  “No. No role-playing. Ever.” Although, him in a Stetson hat and nothing else—I bet it would be a sight . . . a glorious sight. “Persistent much?” I ask.

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He shrugs, those dimples making another appearance.

  He lightly taps his glass against mine, and we both take a sip of wine.

  “Does that approach usually work for you?”

  He doesn’t say anything, just continues to smile. He licks the wine off his lips, and unfortunately I watch every move. Also unfortunately, I have my answer.

  This guy is nothing but trouble, and considering the fact that he’s friends with Zach and James, I have a feeling I’ll be seeing him around here and there, which is why I settle on understanding it’s definitely for the best that we’re going to be friends—just friends. He may be too handsome for his own good, but I find the silver lining, the lemonade to this new acquaintance: he seems like a funny guy who will make me laugh, and I love laughter in life.

  “Well, if we’re not having dinner together, tell me about this restaurant of yours. What kind of meal would you serve me?”

  Oh brother.

  Lemon Bars

  “I SWEAR, PIE is one of the greatest foods of all time,” I mumble to Reid, who’s watching Bryan walk to the training room showers after announcing that he’s heading off to his childhood hometown to accept an award. Actually, it’s the key to the city.

  How hilarious is that?

  Bryan is our quarterback for the Tampa Tarpons, and he’s also one of my best friends. He’s the least flashy person I know in our profession, and yet in the last month he’s gone on the Paul Miller show for a one-on-one interview, which aired in primetime on National Sports Network, and now he’s doing this. Granted, it’s deserved—he’s donated a lot of money to the town and the youth sports programs they have there—but in general, the guy is all business, no pleasure. In fact, it’s like pulling teeth to get the dude to even smile. He has what we’ve officially dubbed as RDF—resting douchcanoe face.

  Reid glances back at me and the fork hanging out of my mouth as he goes about packing his practice bag. “It doesn’t matter if it’s pie, cake, ice cream, cookies, doughnuts, whatever. As long as it’s in front of you, you’ll eat it—even though you shouldn’t.” He frowns.

  “What do you mean? We practiced for an extra hour today—I’ve earned this,” I say as I shift the two pie boxes under my arm: grasshopper and cherry, both now my dates for dinner tonight.

  Reid is my other best friend. When he transferred to Tampa, he moved in across the hall from me in our condo building. It’s made working out, commuting to practices and games, and life in general not so lonely.

  “What do you mean what do I mean? You know as well as I do all that sugar is not good for you.” He eyes me knowingly while completely passing judgment.

  Athletes tend to be very strict on the whole “my body is a temple” mentality, but I work hard daily, possibly harder than anyone else. Think about it: Bryan is just doing the three-step drop and then throwing the ball while I’m continuously sprinting out twenty, thirty, sixty yards. As such, I don’t feel guilty when something like pie lands in front of me, because the way I see it, I earned it.

  “You’re just jealous because I got to them first.” I grin, licking the fork clean and dropping the boxes back on the bench to take a photo of them: me with the fork in my mouth, the team logo visible on the wall behind me.

  His look is incredulous as he goes back to shoving things in his locker. “I can assure you, jealousy is the furthest thing from what I’m feeling. Are you ready? I need to get home—Camille is waiting for me.”

  Camill
e is his wife. They recently got married—well, remarried—and much to my dismay, they are moving to Davis Islands, where they bought a home on the water.

  “Yep, just gonna post this real quick to say thank you to all the fans.”

  “You do realize they aren’t your fans, right? Those pies were for Bryan.” He throws his bag over his shoulder.

  “Don’t care,” I tell him, because I don’t.

  While Bryan was doing the interview, he did a round of this or that, and one of the questions was cake or pie. Clearly, the answer was pie, and I think it’s hilarious how many pies have been coming in to the front office. Staff loves it, players love it, everyone loves it, except maybe Reid and Bryan, and we all know Bryan isn’t going to say a word about them, so I will. I caption the picture and post it.

  Reid rolls his eyes as I grab my things, and we head out to the parking lot to my brand-new black Ford F-150 Raptor, which I didn’t feel bad about buying at all. I’ve been very cautious with how I’ve spent my money. I know I can’t play football forever, but after many years of holding out, I finally gifted this truck to myself.

  “How’s the packing going?” I ask, my arm draped over the steering wheel. We’ve been driving for ten minutes, and he’s been quiet while texting but looks up to answer me.

  It sinks in that this is one of our last commutes together, and my happiness over the pies wanes. I’m sure another teammate will move in across the hall—the condo is owned by a former Tarpons player—but it won’t be the same. I’m going to miss him, and Camille, too.

  “Well, Camille has done most of it. I feel bad, but she’s got it under control. Sunday she plans on being at her house in Savannah with the movers to direct what she wants moved, and then Monday morning they’ll be here to get the things from the condo. The goal is to have everything moved in by late Monday night.”

  “That’s exciting, man. I’m happy for you guys.” And I really am. I’m sad for me, but they are awesome together, and the house they bought is incredible.