Fall Into Love

by Melody Anne

  The judges continue to bite, taste, scribble. Bite, taste, scribble. All with poker faces.

  Doubt creeps in again, pricking up and down my spine.

  When the Junior League volunteers bring out the pies, I return to my station, unable to watch any longer. My father is there, chatting with Annabelle.

  “Baby girl, what’s this I hear about you almost burning down the hotel?” he says with a frown. “You know we ain’t got the insurance to cover that.” A part of his bandage peeks out from under his shirt collar, hiding the scar that runs down the middle of his chest. I wonder if I’ll ever not blame myself for not being here when my father needed me. Maybe someday when the scar fades my guilt will fade, too.

  “There was only a little smoke,” I say, leaning against a prep table.

  Annabelle snorts. I peg her with my oven mitts. She nudges my side and winks.

  “Dr. Preston is going to chain you to the bed if he finds out you snuck out of the house,” I say.

  “Don’t be dramatic, baby girl.” My father scratches the scruff on his jaw. “Besides, Wes drove me, so it’s his fault.”

  “What’d I do now?” Wes says, joining us. He’s eating a white chocolate chunk macadamia nut cookie.

  “Kidnap me,” my father says at the same time Annabelle says, “Where’d you get that?”

  “From that room over there,” Wes says, pointing to Dessert Heaven.

  With his attention diverted, I steal a bite of cookie. Darn, it’s good—soft and chewy with the right amount of sweetness. The macadamia nuts are so buttery they melt on my tongue.

  “Wesley, those aren’t for public consumption,” Annabelle says, hitting his shoulder.

  “Well, then maybe there should be a sign indicating that.” He breaks off a piece of cookie, launches it in the air, and catches it in his mouth.

  Annabelle mutters something about how Wes better have left enough for the judges and beelines over to the room.

  “Why’s she so upset?” Wes says, polishing off the cookie. When he finishes chewing, he adds, “You’d think she’d be thanking me for wiping out some of the competition for you, Jelly Bean.”

  “Turners don’t win by cheating,” my father pipes up. “We’ve got too much talent for that. Or we did before baby girl nearly burned the place down.”

  I shake my head. Will he ever listen to me?

  “How much longer until the winners are announced?” Wes says.

  I shrug. “No idea, though I’d guess not too long. The judges have already moved on to the brownies and bars category.”

  “I’m gonna check it out. Stay out of trouble, you two.” My father cracks his knuckles, then wanders off in the direction of Sullivan Grace.

  Wes looks at me. “Shouldn’t we be the ones telling him that?”

  I laugh. “You read my mind.”

  While we wait for the judging to finish, we chat about SMU’s upcoming football game against its biggest rival, Texas Christian University. Wes explains how he has the linebackers running stairs in full gear and dragging tractor tires up and down the field in preparation.

  “I promised the boys some stick-to-your-ribs home cookin’ when it’s all over,” Wes says, patting his stomach. “Maybe after I get back from my trip, you can whip us up some brisket and coleslaw?”

  My brow furrows. “Where are you going?”

  Wes’s face turns serious. “Tennessee.”

  My eyes widen. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. Tired of the passive-aggressive comments and constant pulling, Wes distanced himself from both his parents until they stopped putting him in the middle. It took some time, but eventually he and his mother mended their relationship, but as far as I know, Wes hasn’t visited his father since the summer after his college graduation.

  “Why now?” I say, though he doesn’t seem to hear me. His focus has shifted to Annabelle emerging from Dessert Heaven. I tap his leg with my shoe, snapping him out of his daze.

  Wes picks my oven mitts off the floor and tosses them into one of the ingredient bins. “Pops called yesterday. He’s getting married again, Jelly Bean. This Sunday. Her name’s Wendy, a secretary in his office. She’s got three kids, all grown.”

  “Yeah?”

  Wes nods. “He asked if I’d consider attending the ceremony.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “No, at first.” He hesitates. “After thinking about it some more, I changed my mind. I leave after the game on Saturday.”

  I study his face. “Wes, that’s . . . I don’t even . . .” I trail off, overcome with rightness. “Is Annabelle going with you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, we’re not at that point yet. This is something I need to handle on my own, you know?”

  I squeeze his arm, understanding all too well. Wes conjures a weak smile. “I’m getting there, Jelly Bean.”

  “I also have news,” I say.

  Wes raises his eyebrows. “What’s that?”

  “I’m taking over the Spoons. Officially,” I say, happy to finally tell someone.

  “That isn’t exactly news, Jelly Bean,” Wes says, bumping my shoulder. “We all knew you’d come around eventually. You don’t fit anywhere else but here.”

  I grin because he’s right, feeling grounded for the first time in years.

  “Challengers, the judges have finished tallying the scores.” Sullivan Grace’s voice fills the ballroom. “Please make your way to the stage for the awards ceremony.”

  “Here goes nothing,” I say, removing my apron and smoothing the fabric of my dress.

  Wes tugs on my ear. “Knock ’em dead, Jelly Bean.”

  I swat his hand away, then head over to the stage at the far end of the room. Apart from the Cordon Bleu instructor standing behind a lectern, the rest of the judging panel has assembled off to the side with the Junior League volunteers and Upper Crust committee members. I notice Margaret is absent. Several news crews and photographers line the walls surrounding the stage. In the area in front, competitors have formed into groups, one for each category. I join the others in the fruit desserts section.

  Paulette Bunny, who seems to have recovered from the whipped cream incident, walks onto the stage and hands a stack of envelopes to the Cordon Bleu instructor. I wonder if he’s been designated the head judge. She whispers something in his ear. He steps back from the lectern and gestures for her to take his place. Paulette adjusts the microphone, then clears her throat, gathering everyone’s attention.

  “Challengers, on behalf of the Junior League of Dallas Park Cities, we would like to offer our sincerest gratitude for your fundraising efforts and participation in this year’s Upper Crust competition.” Paulette leans away from the microphone and claps. The crowd echoes with their applause. When the sound dies down, she continues. “Additional thanks to the Upper Crust planning committee, the panel of judges, the various corporate sponsors, each individual contributor, and the League volunteers who devoted their time and energy to make Junior League’s biggest event another rousing success.” More applause erupts. “All funds raised will be donated to the Dallas Food Bank and will provide assistance to families in our community. Once again, thank you. Now on to the awards ceremony.”

  The instructor from Le Cordon Bleu resumes his stance behind the microphone. “Each category will be announced in the reverse order of judging,” he says, straight to business. “I ask all winners to please remain on stage for best in show. Let’s begin.”

  A hush falls over the ballroom. My heart hammers. The anticipation makes me feel as though I’m a warrior battling in Bocuse d’Or—the world’s most prestigious culinary contest—rather than a participant in an amateur baking competition for charity.

  One by one, the judge reads off the first-place winners in each category—a hazelnut and fig linzer cookie, a funfetti blondie, a classic strawberry cake. The woman with the modelesque cheeks and bug-eye glasses nails it with her toffee crunch butterscotch pie, while Steve Ayers dominates the chocolate cate
gory with his chocolate stout cake and grown-up float. No shocker there.

  “It’s time for the final category, the fruit desserts.” As the instructor from Le Cordon Bleu says this, all doubt flies from my mind. A calmness settles over me. “In first place, with her skillet peach cobbler, Lillie Claire Turner.”

  Even though I was expecting my name to be called, my heart jumps in my chest. A grin spreads across my face. People slap my back and offer congratulations. From somewhere behind me, I hear Wes whooping. I meet the other first-place winners on stage. A camera flashes in my eyes. I can’t stop smiling.

  “Well done,” the judge says, peering at each of us. “Now the moment everyone’s been waiting for. The grand prize recipe, deemed best in show, will be showcased in the Junior League of Dallas Park Cities cookbook. The winner will have a feature in D Magazine and earn bragging rights for a year.”

  Hollering and whistling sounds from the audience.

  “And this year’s Upper Crust champion is . . .” The Cordon Bleu instructor opens a gold envelope and pulls out a card.

  Here it comes. I can see my name forming on his lips.

  I step forward, away from the other category winners, ready to claim my title.

  “Courtney Higgins, with her hazelnut and fig linzer cookie!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I LOST TO a linzer cookie?

  Cheers and applause sweep through the ballroom. A surprised-looking Courtney Higgins steps around me and crosses the stage to accept her prize. Bernice hands her a trophy, then Courtney ducks her head so the Dallas Morning News food critic can drape a medal around her neck. The gold medallion dangling from the striped ribbon twinkles under the chandelier lights.

  Shaking my head, I hop off the stage and into a sea of fellow competitors and people with photo ID press badges clipped to their clothes. My father is waiting on the periphery of the crowd, arms folded across his chest. I expect disappointment to be etched on his features, a frown weighing down his mustache. Runner-up isn’t in our family’s vocabulary, after all, but his eyes are bright and shining, brimming with pride. I smile, pride blossoming in me as well. My father squeezes me tight against him, the fabric of his plaid shirt soft against my cheek.

  “Them judges must have wonky taste buds, is all,” he says, ruffling my hair. “There’s always next year. You’ve got plenty of time to create a game plan. If you want.”

  “Well . . .” I look up at him as a grin spreads across my face. “My schedule’s going to be pretty packed with running the Spoons full-time, but I suppose I can figure out something.”

  My father opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. Finally he kisses the top of my head and says, “That’s real good, baby girl. Real good.”

  “Lillie.”

  I jump, my breath catching in my throat at the sound of Nick’s voice behind me.

  I spin around to face him, but I should have gathered my bearings first, prepared myself more. Nick stands in front of me in a crisp charcoal-gray suit that conforms to his broad shoulders and muscular arms before tapering to his trim waist. Paired with a checked shirt and tie . . . God, he looks incredible. Before, I would’ve assumed he’d been at a Baylor Medical event, but now I wonder if he came from a meeting with another musician about a potential project.

  “About time you showed up, son,” my father interjects, giving Nick a hefty pat on the shoulder. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’m gonna ask that pretty lady over there if she wants to grab a fruit smoothie with me since I’m the poster child for health these days.” My father strolls toward the stage, where Sullivan Grace is presenting a five-figure check to a representative from the Dallas Food Bank. More cameras flash.

  “I thought you were adamant about not taking over the diner,” Nick says.

  “I guess I changed my mind . . .” I bite my lip. “The Spoons is in my blood, kind of like you and songwriting.”

  He steps toward me. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

  His eyes are an intense, startling blue, and as I gaze at him, I feel myself falling—as I always do—under his pull, a slow, golden warmth that spreads through me. I notice he attempted to style his hair, and my fingers twitch to comb through the silky strands to bring back the unruliness.

  “What do you want, Nick?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral even as my stomach clenches and unclenches.

  He pins me with a steady stare, and my pulse quickens. “There were snowflakes on your eyelashes,” he says. “When I saw you walking down Michigan Avenue. You were bundled in a million layers and had on this knit cap with a crochet flower on one side, and there were snowflakes on your eyelashes. You looked so fucking beautiful. Like Christmas morning, like the soul of every song I’ve ever written.”

  The ballroom noises, the conversations floating around me, the overhead music—it all goes quiet. All this time I swore my mind was playing tricks on me when I saw him standing outside Crate & Barrel that winter afternoon, but as it turns out he really was there.

  “I was honest when I said you were different from the woman who left me behind. You were smiling, Lillie, happy and unburdened and living life,” he continues, taking another step forward. “It took seeing you like that for me to understand that loving you meant leaving you alone. And I do love you. I’ve always loved you. You’re the bedrock of everything that matters in my life.”

  My heart pounds against my chest, echoing in my ears. I’m struck dumb by his confession. Any second now I’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream.

  I shake my head, still not believing it. “But . . . you called us a . . . mistake,” I choke out. My voice isn’t working properly, and my body is aching from the effort of holding myself together.

  “I was angry and an asshole,” he says. “Trying to move past you—us—has been fucking impossible for me, while it seemed so effortless for you. I meant what I said, I can’t repeat my same mistakes, not anymore.” He inhales a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “My biggest mistake was losing you, Lillie, and I refuse to lose you again. I want all of you, forever.”

  Goose bumps break out over my skin, energy thrumming through me. I’ve been waiting years to hear him say those words, and now that he has it feels too good to be true.

  “So much has happened between us,” I say.

  He nods.

  “It won’t be the same as it once was.”

  “No, it won’t.” Nick steps even closer, close enough for me to reach out and touch him, to smell his familiar, natural scent of spice and citrus. “It’ll be better, because we’re better. I promise you that, and together we’ll prove that promise to each other every day.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” I say, feeling dizzy with the nearness of him.

  “When have you ever backed down from a challenge?” Nick wraps an arm around my waist, and the electric current inside me surges to a million volts. My breath hitches, and a slow smile stretches across his face. “Though I think we both know you’re going to let me win this round.”

  “About that. I demand a trivia rematch—”

  Nick shuts me up with a kiss, and I know with certainty that this is good and true. Here is my passion and my comfort. Here is my heart and my desire. Here is my past and my future.

  Someone whistles, and we jerk apart. Blood creeps into my face as I look at the crowd gathered around us.

  “It’s about freaking time,” Wes hollers, pumping a fist in the air, his dimples on full display.

  “No kidding,” Annabelle adds.

  “Really, dear, where are your manners?” Sullivan Grace says, twisting her pearl necklace, though I notice she seems to be fighting a smile.

  My father only nods at Nick and me.

  “I need to get you out of here,” Nick whispers in my ear. “Come on.” He holds out a hand to me, palm up.

  For a moment, surrounded by family and friends, I can only stand there, overcome with a huge, all-encompassing love for these people. Then Annabelle elbows me and says, “Go
with him, Lil,” and I’m ripped out of my haze.

  Lacing our fingers together, Nick leads me out of the ballroom to the valet posted outside, grinning as we hop into his Mercedes and shoot through town to his bungalow. The sun is setting, and the smattering of clouds drifting in the sky carry a faint blush. We don’t talk or touch during the ride. The air between us feels charged and thick, and my whole body buzzes with anticipation.

  Parking on the gravel drive, Nick jogs around to my door, pulls me out of the car, and carries me inside the house. As soon as we enter, he pins me against the wall and gazes intently at me, his eyes gleaming with love and lust and light. I mirror his stare, devouring the hard lines and masculine angles of his face. Neither of us dares to speak.

  Nick rests a hand at the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing across my lips, coaxing them open. My body is vibrating, waiting for his kiss, a delicious torment that makes me squirm against him.

  “C’mere,” he says, putting me out of my misery and capturing my mouth with his, first soft and then rough and unyielding, our tongues sliding against each other. I whimper, lost in the taste of him. I give my fingers the relief they’ve been begging for and twist them into his hair. He groans, and our kisses grow deeper, more urgent—an unrestrained hunger I feel in my bones.

  “Why are you dressed like this?” I ask, thinking I’ve never seen him look so devastating.

  “Meeting with a record label,” Nick says, dragging his teeth along the curve of my throat. A shudder ripples through me. I wrap his tie around my fist, tugging his lips to mine again, and he lets out a growling sound.

  Our kiss never breaks as we stumble through the house toward the bedroom, shedding clothes. He unzips my dress, and it pools at my feet. I peel away his suit jacket and toss it somewhere on the floor, then tackle his tie, loosening the knot and freeing it from under his collar. We laugh into each other’s mouths when we bump into a side table, nearly knocking over a lamp. His hands are all over me, sending shivers dancing along my spine. With shaky fingers, I yank the shirt from his pants and work on undoing the buttons, pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms so it flutters to the ground. I splay my palms over the strong, lean muscles of his chest, absorbing his body heat and the feel of his heart hammering beneath my touch.