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The food is so good, it’s hard not to inhale. I may or may not tear up a little behind my sunglasses as I savor a particularly satisfying bite of my grouper sandwich—just the right proportion of bun, fish, and slaw.
It tastes like summer, and if my stomach was at one hundred percent, I’d totally have another, tight pants be damned. I keep realizing how much I missed carbs.
The sun climbs higher in the sky, warming our shoulders. The boat drifts easily on a docile sea, the water plunking against the hull. It’s hard not to imagine how lovely a nap on those sunbathing chaises would be after a meal like this.
Tom sits at attention at Riley’s feet. Riley rolls his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but I catch him sneaking Tom several bites of grouper throughout the meal.
“That”—Goldie gestures at her empty plate—“was better than sex.”
Cooper’s head snaps back. “You wound me!”
“Okay, fine, I’m lying. Orgasms are incredible when you’re pregnant.”
“And when you’re having them with me,” Cooper pouts.
“Obviously.” She smiles at her fiancé before turning back to Riley. “But seriously, that was the best seafood I’ve ever had. That sandwich? The grouper was like butter, and then the nice tangy crunch of the slaw—”
“Heaven, right?” Riley smiles that fucking handsome smile of his, and my stomach dips. I look away. He’s dangerously hot when he’s happy like this. “I wish I could take credit, but this was all Chef Penelope. And Lu.” He nods at me.
“Lu?” Goldie’s brow creases, her eyes moving to my face. “One, that’s a nickname I’ve never heard anyone use for you before.”
“That’s because my name is Louise.” I smile tightly.
“And two, how are you involved with the food?”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. I know where Riley is going with this. “Just, you know, back in the day, I was experimenting with a lot of recipes. A grouper sandwich was one of them. I was learning how to cook.”
“You knew how to cook,” Riley says. “As a matter of fact, she loved it so much she wanted to write a cookbook.”
Goldie’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of her head. “Louise! Lu! How did I not know this?”
I grab my Aperol spritz and take a quick sip. I haven’t really touched it over the course of lunch. I’m still feeling a little queasy, and I’ve already filled my lifetime quota for doing dumb things while drunk. But I need some liquid courage.
“Louise. And it was stupid,” I say.
“It wasn’t stupid,” Riley counters.
I roll my eyes, even as my pulse takes off at a sprint. “Can we not talk about this? Actually, I feel like we should be going—”
“Not before I hear about your cookbook!” Goldie counters.
“Lu had a whole vision for how the book would come together,” Riley continues. “The concept was really interesting—really well done. Basically what you’d make for a table full of your favorite people while celebrating life at the beach. It’d have pictures of the Gibbes’s big old farm table set with different meals. There’d be cheese straws galore, fried chicken, grouper sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper to take to the beach.” He gestures to his plate. “And then of course big, hearty dinners. Paella with a southern twist—”
“That sounds interesting,” Coop says.
I take another sip of spritz. My face is burning again.
I can’t tell if I’m embarrassed, angry, or sad about revisiting my cookbook. I gave up on the idea a long time ago. I’ve thought about it since, of course, but it’s always felt like a waste of time. It’s not happening, so why go back there? Especially when the whole thing was so tied up in my memories of Riley.
I clear my throat. “You add diced sweet potatoes and use Carolina gold rice.”
“Freaking yum,” Goldie replies.
Riley lifts his glass of sparkling water. “One of the best things I ever ate.”
“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere,” Coop says with a laugh.
Goldie glances at me. “Pretty sure Louise doesn’t think it’s funny.”
I am struggling not to finish my spritz in a single gulp—struggling not to pepper Riley with the million questions zipping through my brain. Why is he so hung up on me writing this damn cookbook? Does he really believe I’m talented, or is he only trying to get in my pants? And why is so intent on making himself out to be the hero here? It’s wasted effort. I meant what I said—we are never, ever getting back together.
Whatever the case, it’s time to go.
First, though, I have to pee. “Restroom?”
“I’ll take you.” Riley sets down his drink. “It’s a bit of a maze—”
“I can figure it out. Down there, right?” I point to the steps leading into the cabin.
“Yes—”
“Great, I’ll be right back.”
I zip down the steps before Riley can follow me. The last thing I need is to be trapped with hottie-with-a-body Mr. President below deck. Tom tries to follow me, but Riley coaxes him back to the table with another bite of grouper.
