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“You cannot blaspheme against hot dogs on the Fourth of July.” His mind zipped to the two loaded chili dogs he’d had for lunch. Please, God, he thought. Let some things stay sacred.
Carly chuckled. “Oh, I have nothing against a good hot dog. I’m just saying that sometimes ignorance is bliss.”
Jackson thought about it for a second, watching the leaves whoosh by in an emerald green blur rinsed in the lowering sunlight. “Did you know what the tripe was when you ate it?”
“Not the first time, no. It was my first year of culinary school, and we were studying different ethnic cuisines. I had this classmate who swore his Nonna made some of the best rustic Italian food on the planet.” Carly shifted toward him, moving her hands to accentuate the story. “Coming from one hell of an Italian family myself, I knew I had to experience this phenomenon firsthand.”
“Sounds innocent enough.” Actually, it sounded like some damn fine dining as far as Jackson was concerned. He could put a hurt to some eggplant Parmesan.
“That’s what I thought, too. The spread was unbelievable. I mean, this woman pulled out all the stops—antipasti, pasta fagioli, two different vegetarian dishes, plus a veal Parm that was to die for. This lady was the real deal,” Carly affirmed, grinning at the memory before she continued.
“Most of the dishes I recognized in one form or another, so I never thought to ask her what was in them. I mean, I’ve had veal Parmesan so many times, I’d know it in the dark.” Despite the breeziness in her voice, Jackson sensed a whammy brewing in the story, and he leaned toward her, listening.
“So, we got to this one dish, and I had no clue what it was, but my friend was ripping at the seams to see what I thought of it. I tried to be polite, I really did, but I couldn’t get into it, let alone place what the hell it was. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he looked at me just as cheery as Disney World and said, ‘Don’t feel too bad. I can’t stand tripe either.’”
Jackson tried to hide his laugh behind the guise of a coughing fit, but it was no use. It didn’t help that she’d told the story with the funniest little facial expressions, like she was reliving the memory right then and there. Carly tipped her head at him, a nonverbaloh, really? and he knew he was busted.
“Sorry. That’s classic, though. Did you murder him?”
She turned the tables and borrowed his crooked smile. “No, I hired him. Adrian’s been my sous chef for four years. Can’t imagine my kitchen without him.”
“You hired the tripe guy?” Couldn’t say he saw that one coming. Huh.
“I hired the tripe guy,” she confirmed with a decisive nod. “We serve his Nonna’s recipe for calamari at the restaurant. It’s one of my top five favorite foods.”
Jackson’s jaw popped open in shock. “You eat octopus too?”
Carly’s velvety laughter filled the truck, nearly cutting him off at the knees. “Squid. Totally different species. But, yeah. It’s freaking delicious.”
She looked at him as if it were completely normal to consume tentacled sea creatures, and he looked back at her as if she’d lost her mind. It sounded like the kind of thing he used for bait, for Chrissake.
“Whatever you say, Ahab,” Jackson replied with a wink. No way in hell was that going to happen.
“Moby Dick was a whale, not a squid.” Carly’s smile still played on her lips, even though her laughter had faded.
“Potato, potahto. I don’t think I trust you around marine life in general.”
He guided the truck off the main road, heading toward his mother’s house. The seductive smell of slow-burning charcoal rushed in through the open windows from a mile out, and Jackson’s stomach perked to life with a low rumble that translated toI could eat. Looked like all that tripe talk hadn’t put a permanent damper on his appetite.
Carly shrugged. “You never know what you might end up liking. Just a little food for thought.”
He suppressed a chuckle at the irony of her words, bumping along the gravel pathway that led to the drive for a minute before letting Carly in on the joke. “Funny you should mention food, because we’re here.”
“We’re where?” She squinted through the windshield in confusion.
“Welcome to one of Pine Mountain’s best food experiences.” He pulled the truck to a stop in the grassy side yard and turned his hand palm-up in a small flourish.
“But this can’t be right. This is someone’s house,” Carly said, as if he’d surely made a mistake. “Are you even invited?”
Laughter welled up in his chest, and he jerked his head toward the festivities. “Let’s just say I doubt we’ll get kicked out. Come on.”
* * *
Carly tooka breath and tried as hard as she could to erase the bewilderment from her expression. It turned out to be an exercise in futility.
“You okay?” Jackson’s door closed with a bang, and they circled around opposite sides of his truck to meet at the tailgate.
“Yeah, I just…after you said it would be crowded, I assumed we were headed to a local hangout or something. You know, a public place.” She eyed the cars and trucks lining both sides of the narrow gravel driveway leading up to the house, realizing with a tiny smile that Jackson had actually been spot-on about the parking. Her Honda would’ve been toast on the slope of the grassy yard where they’d parked, and it was the only open space as far as she could see.
