by Teri Wilson
Amanda took them. “The last of the pulled pork, I presume?”
“Yes, they go to the father and son waiting by the register. He’s already paid.” Belle focused intently on the pitcher in her hands, almost as if she were afraid of dropping it. Which was something Belle never, ever did.
Odd.
But Amanda didn’t have time to figure out what was going on with Belle. They were still in the middle of the dinner rush, plus she might have a fundraiser to plan. “When you get a chance, Doc J needs an order of the pot roast. On the house.”
“I’m on it, boss,” Belle said, again without meeting her gaze.
Amanda shook her head as she pushed her way through the swinging door, but as soon as she was on the other side, the reason for Belle’s strange behavior was clear.
Ryan Carter stood waiting at the counter, presumably for the bags in Amanda’s hands. But unlike all the previous times he’d been to the Grille, he wasn’t alone. A little boy around five or six years old stood beside him, clutching a bright red dinosaur toy with one hand and Ryan’s big palm with the other. There was a sadness in the child’s eyes that made Amanda’s heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise, a sadness that also made her think twice about the reasons behind Ryan’s ever-present scowl.
She smiled at the boy, and his gaze dropped quickly to the ground. So she had no choice but to focus on his father, standing just a few feet away and looking like the world’s most handsome single dad, scowl notwithstanding. She wished she had something to stare at other than his strong jaw and rugged face. She wished it so hard that her hands grew sweaty and the to-go bags nearly fell to the ground.
“You again.” She set the paper bags on the counter and without thinking, wiped her damp palms on her frilly gingham apron. Definitely not the most attractive move she could have made, but he’d caught her off guard. She could hardly think straight. Belle is totally fired. “Welcome back.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying his best to smile but had forgotten how. “Thank you. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you haven’t suffered any permanent injuries from our earlier run-in.”
He remembered her.
Finally.
Of course he remembers. He nearly mowed you down on the sidewalk. Don’t read too much into it. “Nope. I’m still all in one piece.”
“Good to know.”
Other than their awkward sidewalk collision, this was the closest Amanda had ever been to Ryan Carter. Since he hadn’t plowed into her this time, she was free to examine him without the distraction of an aching nose. He had the nicest eyes she’d ever seen—golden brown with a ring of deep amber in the center. Rich and pure, like Carolina honey drizzled on a biscuit.
She felt woozy all of a sudden, as if she’d been sipping the whiskey she kept on hand for her special bread pudding sauce.
“Well,” she said, and gestured to the bags.
That was his cue to leave. She much preferred crushing on the swoonworthy newspaperman from afar. Up close, he was far too intense. Far too dangerous, if the sudden pounding of her heart was any indication.
She wasn’t good at the whole flirting and dating thing. The one time she’d put herself out there and asked someone on a date, she’d been so nervous that she’d vomited on the boy’s feet immediately after she’d gotten the words out. It had been mortifying, obviously. Amanda still couldn’t bring herself to talk about it, even when Belle urged her to try to move past “the Sadie Hawkins incident.” It had become part of the town lore, and according to one of Amanda’s nieces, kids at Spring Forest High still talked about it.
No matter. Amanda had no intention of flirting with Ryan. The very idea of going on a date with the man terrified her, and she definitely didn’t have time for it, especially if she was going to put together a massive fundraiser on top of her already jam-packed schedule.
Just go away, she wanted to say. Go away and let me catch my breath.
She didn’t say it, of course. And he clearly wasn’t a mind reader because he didn’t budge. He just kept looking at her while her knees went weak.
Why is this so hard?
It wasn’t as if she’d never gone on a date before. She’d dated...a little. But she’d never had a serious relationship, mainly because she liked to keep men at arm’s length. As the only biracial woman in Spring Forest—other than her sister, obviously—dating could be complicated. She’d been called striking or told that her looks were unusual more times than she could count.
Oddly enough, her brother, Josh, didn’t seem to have that problem. Or maybe he simply didn’t let it get to him. All Amanda knew was that he dated all the time, which would have been a nightmare in and of itself. She wouldn’t be able to cope with Sadie Hawkins–type nerves on such a regular basis.
No. Way.
Maybe it would have been easier if she lived in a big city like Raleigh or Charlotte—somewhere more metropolitan. But her family had roots here. The Grille itself was a reminder that the Sylvesters had been in Spring Forest for generations. Amanda was happy in her hometown.
She just found it much simpler to go it alone.
Amanda gripped the edge of the counter and smiled at the little boy, who had the same striking eyes as his father. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
He tightened his grip on his triceratops until his little knuckles went white.
“This is Dillon,” Ryan said. “Barbecue is his favorite. I usually try to pick up our dinner on my way home, but thought he could use an outing, so here we are.”
Here they were indeed.
“Is that right? Is barbecue really your favorite?” She moved around the counter and crouched down so she was on eye level with Dillon.
Her effort earned her a nod and a tiny hint of a smile.
“Of course it is.” Ryan gave his son’s hand a squeeze, and there was a new tenderness in his tone that did nothing to help the weak-in-the-knees situation. “We never lie about barbecue, do we, bud?”
He’d mirrored his words from this afternoon.
I never lie about coffee.
Cute.
Way too cute. Adorable, actually.
“Hot dogs are the only thing I cook that he’s interested in eating. Even single fathers know kids can’t eat hot dogs seven nights a week.” Ryan’s smile turned sheepish.
Why did he seem even more attractive now that she knew he was a single dad? All he needed now was a puppy in his arms and she’d be a goner.
But the thought of puppies reminded her of Tucker, which in turn reminded her that she was supposed to be making calls to pit masters to help the shelter, not standing around mooning over her secret crush and his bashful mini-me.
She stood and nudged the paper bags closer to him. “I hope you enjoy it.”
He took the hint this time and reached for the food. “We will. Thank you...” His usual unreadable expression gave way to one of befuddlement—charming Hugh Grant–style befuddlement, because of course. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Amanda.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Belle refilling the coffeepot just a few feet away, looking pleased as punch. “Amanda Sylvester.”
He nodded. “Have a good evening, Amanda Sylvester.”
And then he was gone, only instead of walking down Main Street with his signature brisk pace and ramrod-straight spine, he matched his steps with Dillon’s and rested one of his big hands on the little boy’s shoulder.
Amanda’s heart gave a tiny squeeze.
She ignored it as best she could and swiveled to face Belle. “You did that on purpose. You knew I was distracted, so you caught me off guard and had me come out here to deliver his dinner.”
Belle grinned from ear to ear. “Of course I did, but look on the bright side. At least now you know he’s not married.”
Amanda almost wished she wasn
’t privy to that fascinating bit of information. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, remember?”
Or, God forbid, a husband. While Amanda struggled in the small-town dating world, her sister married the first boy who’d ever asked her out. Alexis and Paul had gotten engaged right out of high school and look what had happened. She’d had six kids in eight years and no longer had time to brush her teeth, much less run a business.
No, thank you.
Amanda loved her nieces and nephews, but every time she babysat for them, the night ended in some kind of disaster. Under her watch, Alexis and Paul’s living room walls had been “decorated” in permanent marker and their toilet had been plugged up with stuffed animals. How was it easier to walk six dogs than it was to supervise the same number of rambunctious children?
“His son is awfully cute, though. Don’t you think?” Belle arched an eyebrow.
Yes, she definitely thought so. He had such a quiet way about him. So serious, just like his dad. Something about the way he’d held on so tightly to his red dinosaur made her want to cook up some comfort food for him. Macaroni and cheese, topped with a thick layer of toasted bread crumbs, maybe—followed by a creamy coconut pie. Her nieces and nephews loved her coconut pie.
She glanced at Belle who was watching her as if she knew exactly what Amanda was thinking.
“Stop looking at me like that.” She rolled her eyes, but Belle’s grin widened, so she added, “You’re fired again, by the way.”
Belle winked. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you.”
* * *
“Look at that.” Ryan pointed his fork at the empty plate sitting in front of Dillon. “You ate every bite.”
His son nodded and smiled a crooked smile that hit Ryan dead in the center of his chest.
He hadn’t been flirting when he’d told Amanda Sylvester that barbecue was Dillon’s favorite food. It was the truth. He’d simply been carrying on a normal conversation. It didn’t have to mean anything, and it definitely didn’t have to mean that he found her attractive or that the gentle way she’d spoken to Dillon had made him feel oddly emotional for some reason.
Except he did find her attractive, and the soothing tone of her voice as she’d talked to his son had done something to him—something strange and calming. For a split second, his worries had slipped away and he’d felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. Which meant flirting with her hadn’t been meaningless, although he didn’t want to think about that right now. He wanted to enjoy the unexpected lightness he’d felt as he’d left the Main Street Grille. Hell, he would have bottled that feeling if he could.
“Want some of mine?” Ryan slid his plate toward Dillon.
The boy shook his head. His face and hands were sticky with barbecue sauce, as was the red dinosaur toy, which was now standing on the table, poised to strike at Dillon’s half-full glass of milk.
Ryan’s in-laws would have been horrified. Annabelle and Finch Brewster would never have allowed Dillon to bring a toy to the table, and the head shake would have been deemed wholly unacceptable.
Say “no, thank you.” Where are your manners, Dillon?
Ryan could practically hear the voice of Maggie’s mother in his head. No matter how many times he’d told Annabelle and Finch about what the child psychologist had recommended about not trying to force Dillon to speak, they continued to press him about please and thank you, yes sir and no ma’am.
It irritated Ryan to no end. He was doing everything he could to protect his son’s fragile emotional state, and whenever they were around, they sabotaged him at every turn. Sometimes he felt like it was intentional, like they were trying to prevent him from fully bonding with Dillon.
Surely that wasn’t true. Annabelle and Finch were Dillon’s grandparents, and in their own dysfunctional way, they loved him. Ryan did his best to chalk their misplaced interference up to grief. Maggie had been their only child.
But they were also lifelong members of the country club set, so their world revolved around appearances and social niceties. They’d liked Ryan better when he was a political editor at one of the most esteemed newspapers in the country instead of a journalistic one-man show in the Deep South. And sadly, they’d liked their grandson better back then too. They acted as if his refusal to talk was a form of rebellion. Couldn’t they see he was grieving?
“How about a movie before you wash up and get ready for bed? Lion King?” It was one of the few things Dillon liked better than barbecue. He knew every line and every song of the movie by heart, and sometimes Ryan liked to put it on just so he could watch his son’s lips move, mouthing the words—times like tonight, when happiness seemed almost close enough to touch.
Ryan didn’t want to think about Amanda’s part in making him feel that way. He just wanted to enjoy the faint stirring of hope before it slipped away. But as Dillon climbed down from his chair and carried his dinosaur to the den, Ryan’s new phone rang, punctuating the hopeful silence with a grating reminder that nothing had changed. Not yet anyway. A newsman couldn’t ignore a call. The Spring Forest Chronicle was a far cry from the Post, but Ryan was the editor-in-chief. He had a responsibility to his job, just like he had back in DC.
He glanced down at his cell, where Annabelle and Finch’s contact information lit up the small screen. Of course.
His thumb hovered over the green Accept button, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer the call. The conversation would be the same as it always was—awkward small talk, followed by a request to talk to Dillon. Once again, Ryan would have to admit that his son still wasn’t speaking.
No.
Just...
No.
Not tonight. He’d deal with Maggie’s parents later. For now, he’d watch a movie with his son, and if his thoughts wandered every so often to Amanda Sylvester, her bright smile and the subtle sprinkle of freckles across her rich complexion, then so be it.
Why fight it?
There was no harm in thinking about her when nothing whatsoever would come of it. Other than brief interactions at the Grille, he had no intention of seeing her again. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. There was no room in his life whatsoever for a relationship—not even with a woman who made him want things he hadn’t even thought about in months...maybe even years. Things he wouldn’t, couldn’t have.
At least that’s what Ryan told himself as he followed Dillon into the other room and let the call roll to voice mail.
Chapter Four
“Tell me about the night the tornado came through.” Ryan’s pen was poised above the reporter’s notebook in the palm of his hand as he glanced back and forth between Birdie and Bunny Whitaker, waiting for a response.
The dishes from his barbecue dinner the night before were still sitting in the sink, right where he’d left them. He and Dillon had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the television somewhere around the point when a grown-up Simba reunited with Nala. Ryan had woken up this morning in a tangle of blankets with Dillon’s head on his shoulder, and he’d been reluctant to move, despite the nagging pain in his back. One of these days, he really needed to start sleeping in a bed again.
Back spasms aside, he’d let his son sleep as long as he could before finally relenting and waking him up for a quick bath and breakfast in time for school. It had been a good morning—the best in a long while. The dishes could wait.
Ryan was tempted to believe that Amanda Sylvester had something to do with his good mood, but he stopped short of embracing the notion. They’d only exchanged a handful of words. She probably didn’t even remember their interactions. He was a customer, no different from all the others.
To help put an end to his ridiculous fantasies, he’d skipped his usual trip to the Grille for morning coffee and gone straight to the office, where Jonah had handed him a message from Furever Paws and a cup of instant, und
rinkable coffee that he hadn’t been able to make himself choke down, no matter how badly he needed it.
And now here he stood—under-caffeinated, back aching—interviewing the Whitaker sisters while a sick llama gave him some serious side-eye.
Birdie, the taller and more stoic of the two, was the first to answer his question. She launched into a detailed rundown of the night in question, starting with moving all the special needs dogs and cats into the basement of the farmhouse she shared with her sister.
The old clapboard Victorian loomed behind her while the three of them looked out at the paddock beyond the garden gate where a few farm animals dozed in the morning sun—a handful of sheep, pigs and goats, plus a milk cow and another llama named Drama. For some reason, Drama’s partner, Llama Bean, had taken an intense interest in Ryan. She craned her long neck, sniffing the lapel of his Armani suit jacket as he tried not to flinch.
Birdie continued, “We just did our best to ride it out, and didn’t realize quite how bad we’d been hit until the next morning when it was safe to go back outside.”
Ryan’s gaze flitted briefly to Llama Bean. She made a humming noise, which he desperately hoped was a happy sound. “How did the animals do throughout the night?”
“The poor dears were terrified.” Bunny shook her head. “Just thinking about it again breaks my heart. The whole ordeal was so scary that I’ve had nightmares about it almost every night. I think I have PMS.”
Ryan’s pen froze midscribble.
“She means PTSD.” Birdie rolled her eyes.
“Noted.” Ryan cleared his throat.
“We were lucky, really. We were all seriously rattled, but no one was hurt. A couple of our volunteers hunkered down in the shelter basement with the animals we couldn’t move to the house. Matt Fielding and Claire Asher came out of nowhere and kept the barn animals safe.” Was it Ryan’s imagination, or did the llama puff out its chest a little at the mention of the barn animals? “Once we had a chance to survey the damage, we found a stray dog pinned under one of the downed trees. Luckily, Matt was able to free her. He even ended up adopting her. We’re happy to say she’s recovering nicely in her new home.”