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Overeating isn’t sexy.
But it couldn’t be helped. Grandma is an excellent cook and spent my teenage years, like those of my sisters, teaching me to cook decent meals, but this meal? It puts all meals before it to shame. I may just decide to stay at this Bed and Breakfast forever.
The environment at this place is relaxed. Even though we’re sharing a table with two other couples, it still feels intimate and personal. The other couples chitchatted with us through parts of the meal, but then it was easy to slip into cozy conversation with Ryan between.
One couple is from Illinois and is celebrating their third wedding anniversary. They, too, are staying the weekend. The second pair is a middle aged, married couple that have already been here for five days and is staying through Sunday. The final duo arrived shortly after us, but chose to dine in their bedroom this evening. Martin and Phyllis popped in and out throughout dinner to make sure there was always plenty of food available, to refill our drinks, and to visit with us all.
“Dessert will be ready in about thirty minutes,” Phyllis says as she retrieves some of the dirty plates from the table.
“Uhhhhh,” I groan. “It was so amazing, but I seriously don’t think I could eat another bite.”
“I have homemade apple pie with French vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce.”
“I’ll take her share,” Ryan chimes in causing our tablemates to laugh. “I’m just fueling up for later,” he whispers in my ear, hot breath fanning across my face.
“You’re gonna be in a sugar coma and probably need insulin.”
“I could never be too tired or too full to make love to you,” he adds. Then, as if to seal his sentiment, he leans forward and kisses my lips.
“You two are so adorable. Ollie, remember when we used to make out like teenagers when we first met?” the middle-aged wife, Donna, asks her husband, Oliver.
“Oh, I remember. I believe that was back when kids had nothing to do but go parking on a deserted gravel road in the evenings,” he says with a chuckle. Instantly, my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Uh oh, she’s blushing,” the female newlywed, Aimee, says with a big grin. “There’s a story there,” she adds with encouragement.
“No,” I say at the same time Ryan snorts. “No, no story.” I divert my eyes, dropping them to watch my finger slide nervously along my cloth napkin, all while reliving the entire embarrassing night we were arrested in my mind. Ryan remains quiet at my side and gives my knee a gentle squeeze.
So glad embarrassment could tail me all the way to the southern part of the state.
