Page 37 of Lessons in Lemonade

Part of me is happy to see he’s out of the condo and with friends, but the other part of me, the part that allowed myself to believe our friendship is closer than that of others, frowns. I had no idea he was there. He didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell me. I feel left out, and it sucks. The caption underneath it says: Man’s best friend.

Zeus really is; I know it—he loves that dog something fierce—but I feel the sting of rejection even though I know I’m being irrational, and I can’t help but reply: I thought I was your best friend. It’s not original, and others have already commented that they would be his best friend too, but my feelings are a little hurt.

Oh well.

Shaking it off, I bury the rejection and focus on the positive. Bright side, right? He’s out. He left the condo. He’s with Bryan. And that makes me happy. I want him to be happy; he deserves it.

An hour later, my phone pings again. He’s replied: Ha! You know you are. Looking forward to lunch . . .

Lunch? What does that mean? I answer with: ???

Several hours later, the kitchen door swings open, and Taylor pops her head in to find me.

“Boss, you have a visitor.” She’s grinning hard, and this confuses me.

“I do?” I quickly think back over my schedule for the week and can’t come up with anything I might have missed.

“Oh yeah you do,” she says, pleased with herself.

“Who is it?” I ask, dipping the spoon into the fresh pot of soup and tasting it. With soups, it’s all about the spices, and this one needs just a little more salt to be perfect.

“I didn’t catch his name—I was too busy trying to roll my tongue back into my mouth.” She swipes her hand over her ponytail, smoothing it down.

“What? Really?” My brows are now rising in surprise.

“Oh yeah.” She knows something; she’s just choosing not to tell me. I toss the spoon in the dirty dish bucket under the counter and walk over to quickly wash my hands in the sink.

Untying my apron, I place it on my work station and follow Taylor out into the dining room. There, standing next to the marble bar set against the back wall, is Jack. About ten different emotions slam into me all at once, and tears unexpectedly fill my eyes.

I walk straight to him, he wraps me in his arms, and there in front of everyone, we hug as if my life depends on it.

His warmth. His solidness. His larger-than-life size. His smell. His everything.

I’m so happy to see him.

His chest vibrates with a low chuckle, and it’s then I realize he’s thinner. Pulling back, I look up into his face and see the dark shadows and lines this last month has given him. My heart aches for him, and then it hits me again that he’s standing here in my restaurant in Charleston.

“Oh my God—what are you doing here?” I stammer. “Not that I’m not excited to see you, because I am, but . . . gah, what are you doing here?” My hands slide to his arms. He’s wearing a navy blue Henley and a nice pair of jeans that cling to him perfectly. I shake him, just a little so as to not throw him off-kilter with the crutches he’s still using, trying to reassure myself that he is in fact here and I’m not dreaming.

“Thought I’d drop in and have a late lunch with you.” His eyes are latched onto mine, and it’s not lost on me that we are drinking in the sight of each other. I knew I missed him, but I wasn’t aware I had missed him this much. From his expression, I’m thinking he’s realizing the same thing.

“Lunch . . . that’s what you meant.” I grin, and a tear unexpectedly sneaks out. Reaching up, he uses his thumb to wipe it away as he cups my face, and I reflexively tilt my head just a bit to nuzzle closer.

“Yeah. I hope that’s okay.” His voice is low and rough. It sounds good, and it feels good as it rolls off my skin.

“Of course it’s okay.” Leaning into him, I again sink into his embrace as he drops his head and lays it on top of mine.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

“Ditto,” I mumble against the softness of his shirt, and his arms tighten around me.

Minutes pass as we embrace and soak up each other’s presence. I’m certain we’ve drawn attention to ourselves and I should have taken him to the office or into the kitchen, but I just can’t find it in me to move. I could stand here with him forever, and then I start to panic. I know it’s an irrational feeling—after all, he just got here—but he just said lunch, nothing more.

Tipping my head back, I look up as he stares down with his beautiful brown eyes. “How long are you staying?” I ask.

His eyes briefly dip somewhere lower on my face then jump back to mine as he contemplates his answer. “I’m not sure. I . . . uh, I had a meeting with the team’s head athletic trainer yesterday, and he suggested that a change of scenery might be good for me. Then my truck just drove itself here.”

He’s studying me for a reaction, and the only one he’s going to get is happiness.