This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(58)
I nod to the servers lining the walls, a signal for them to begin.
“We’re bringing you water now, but I’ve pulled a few wines from which you can select. We have four courses, the first of which is my favorite salad topped with my”—I pause and air-quote with a smile—“viral vinaigrette.”
Several folks whoop and applaud. This is what they came for.
“After the salad, we’ll have a few shareables for each table,” I say. “Fried truffle burrata, some stuffed portobello mushrooms, and a few other light items to prepare your palate. For the main course, we’ve got a grilled chop, a delicious grouper, and a superb risotto if you need a vegetarian option.
“For dessert,” I say with a secretive smile, “I’m trying something here for the very first time. My peace cobbler, which has a made-from-scratch crust, locally grown peaches and blueberries. I also made it with homemade cake batter. You’re my taste testers.”
I’d anticipated this last dinner would be the least attended, but it’s as packed as the other two. I’m pouring water for a few diners when Yasmen calls my name.
“Hey, Sol,” she says, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Do we have room for one more?”
I almost drop the carafe of water I’m holding when I see Judah Cross standing beside her. I walk over to the pavilion entrance on unsteady legs. That’s the effect this man has on me just by standing still and staring. He doesn’t simply look at me. He takes inventory, slowly considering every detail from my head to my feet. The look is so discreetly hot and wanting, my toes curl in my shoes, like that look is a lick that runs the length of my body, stopping to sample secret places along the way. Am I making this up? Is it my imagination that each time we’re together, it feels like he’s hoarding every second, storing away images of me for later? Am I that conceited?
“Judah, hey.” I tip my head back to smile up at him. “What a surprise.”
“I was here earlier with my family,” he says, looking away from me for a moment and then returning that penetrating gaze to my face, “and heard about this from your friend Hendrix. I didn’t have any dinner plans, so thought this was better than DoorDash and fourth-quarter projections.”
“Oh, good for Hen.” Yasmen beams, flicking an avid glance between Judah and me like we’re two gazelles on Animal Planet preparing to mate right before her eyes. “I need to go help.”
“Help with what?” I ask, letting her know she ain’t slick trying to leave us alone.
“Just help,” she says, fluffing her curly Afro with one hand. “I’m helpful like that.”
She walks away, leaving the two of us standing together, wrapped in warm light and the savory scents of dinner. My breath stutters at his nearness, at the smell of him, the look of him, so tall and broad and imposing. Yet safe. Really safe. And after all the shit Edward put me through, safe is the new sexy.
“I hope it’s okay that I came?” he asks.
“Of course. It’s open to the public, and you bought your ticket like everyone else. Glad you came.”
“Good, because I’m starving.”
We share a grin, and I set my nerves aside long enough to enjoy that he’s here. That he came knowing I would be here too. That I get to see him again, even if it’s surrounded by lots of people, with no privacy. That’s probably the only way I should see this man.
I point him toward one of the few tables with a vacancy. “Let’s get you fed.”
For the next two hours, I do what I’ve done all day. Flit from table to table making sure everyone is enjoying the food, the wine, the company. I never linger too long with any particular group, but my attention is continually drawn to the quiet man eating his food, only occasionally acknowledging the diners around him. He’s probably clueless that the brunette across the table has been making a play for him all night. The thirst on that lady is so real. I wonder if he’ll take her up on what she’s offering. My gut twists at the thought of those dark, steady eyes trained on another woman with that unwavering focus. I’m sure he dates. A man like him? Handsome, fit, successful, single. Kind and brilliant.
He dates, Sol. Of course he does.
Should he decide to date his eager dinner companion, that’s none of my business.
My feet are killing me by the time dessert is done and guests start departing. I take up my spot by the door, thanking them for coming and giving everyone a sachet of potpourri I made as a parting gift.
“Wow. You make potpourri?” one diner asks.
“You can make it at home easy. Just slice up some apple, orange, add cloves, cinnamon, and vanilla. Bring it to a boil and let it simmer. Your house will smell divine.”
“You really are the house lady,” she laughs.
The moniker has started to stick, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
“Have a good evening,” I say, pressing the bag into her hands.
I try not to search for Judah in the thinning crowd. I’ve had sonar for that man all night, constantly aware of what he was doing, what he was eating, and how he seemed to be enjoying it. Did he realize the woman at his table wanted to box him up with her leftovers and take him home? My attention has been split between him and everyone else since he entered the pavilion, and now I can’t find him.
The last of the guests leave, and I push down the rising disappointment that Judah left without saying goodbye.