“Biscuits?” I exclaim. “Real southern biscuits? Here?”
The elderly woman gestures toward a small cabin nestled up the road, her southern drawl wrapping around me like an electric blanket. “Been bringing a piece of home to these California roads for over a decade now.”
“You’re heaven sent.”
“And you,” Dante murmurs, so close his breath stirs my hair, “are a mystery. The great Re—” He catches himself, and my heart skips a beat at how quickly he corrects course, protecting my identity here. “Rebelpulled apart by the sight of biscuits.”
“Biscuits are my second favorite carb, next to beignets,” I tell him, then I turn to the lovely lady at the stand. “He’s not southern. Doesn’t understand the sacred art of biscuit-making or the magic pastries and powder you can find at Cafe Du Monde.”
“Oh, honey.” The woman’s eyes crinkle knowingly. “It seems to me he understands plenty about what makes you tick. We operate on the honor system here, take what you need, pay what you can.”
She waddles off, leaving us alone.
“Let me guess,” he says, reaching past me with deliberate slowness, “a traditionalist like you probably never strays from her comfort zone.” His fingers hover near the strawberry jam.
I snatch the apricot instead. “Some of us know what we want without needing to sample everything on the menu.”
“Interesting. Is that why you’ve been avoiding the advanced parry training? Sticking to your fundamental sequence when the world has so many new, sweet rewards?”
I roll my eyes and regain focus, filling up my paper bag with biscuits and jars of jam.
When I go to reach for the wallet I tucked into my jeans before leaving, he stops me.
“Here, allow me.”
“I got it, Mr. Hastings, but thank you.” I fold two crisp hundred-dollar bills, shoving them in the jar.
He adds three hundred more. “Consider it an investment in your training.”
“Your investment strategies need work.” I counter with five more bills. “Just like your teaching methods.”
“Always so much bite from you,” he says.
“Wait until you see what I do with these biscuits.”
Chapter 13
Reese
The biscuits were perfect,the view is unreal, and I hate how much I’m enjoying this.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as we settle against the windshield on the hood of Dante’s Range Rover. He found a small overlook that’s secluded and out of the way down a gravelly road. No other cars, let alone people, in sight. The Pacific crashes below us. The morning air is crisp, and despite my reluctance to admit it, it is nice to be away from set for just a few hours. Even if all I can focus on is the way his foot taps against the metal hood and how he keeps stealing glances at me.
There’s a tiny biscuit crumb on the side of his mouth, and I can’t stop thinking about wiping it away.Don’t look at it.
He packs up the leftover biscuits and tosses them in the car. When he hops back onto the hood with way too much ease, he says, “I think I’m overdue on a homework assignment, Professor Sinclair.”
The crumb is gone. Damn wind.
“You are,” I smile.
“Okay, so I owe you three big regrets. Right? First one…” His eyes trace a seagull flying above. “Most definitely when I took my dad’s car for a joyride when I was fourteen. Peak rebel stage, butseeing my mom cry after my dad picked me up from jail, not my finest moment.”
I blink at him, actually stunned. Fourteen?
“What, you didn’t expect me to take your questions seriously?” His elbow brushes mine, and for a second I want the wind to blow me right off this hood, away from him, because he’s too close. “I’m hoping for straight A’s this semester.”
“I thought you were going to say you regret one of your bicep tattoos or crashing one of DiCaprio’s many Hamptons parties,” I say, my voice teasing but careful.
