Page 38 of Riding the Curve

As he takes our orders, I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t well up with a few tears. Just one forkful of the sweet, fluffy goodness, and I was transported back to the young woman who felt like the world was at her fingertips. A little different than the one sitting in the booth today.

“You alright over there?” Emerson says, as he gently nudges me with his shoulder.

“Yeah, sorry,” I apologize, wiping the corner of my eye with my napkin. “It’s just. . . when I made these in their kitchen for the first time, it was the moment I began to let myself believe I could go somewhere. Be someone, you know?”

He hums in agreement as his head bobs.

“You are someone, Hen. A pretty special one at that.” His blue eyes hold my gaze once more, and my heart skips a beat. The connection is lost when he clears his throat and reaches between us to grab a fork full of pancakes. “So, what have you been up to all these years, Hen.”

A snort flies freely from my nose, and his eyes light up as he awaits my answer.

“Working,” I let out a breathy laugh. “Being a professional chef requires a lot of hours and dedication. When I first started out, I was always busy. Prepping, cleaning, prepping some more, and then doing it all again the next day. When I finally became sous chef, I should have started paying rent to the restaurant I worked at, because I practically lived there. But you know how it goes, you’re just as dedicated to racing as I am to cooking.”

“Yeah, but you must have had some downtime to go out with friends or take up some hobbies, right? Even I find time to go out with my friends at least once a week.”

My brow raises. Thanks to tabloids and social media, I happen to know exactly what his hobbies have been lately. Nightclubs, bars, and women. Lots of women.

“Most of my free time was spent at Carson’s events, or dinners with his work friends,” I sigh, thinking about all the events that left me feeling inadequate. All the times the women had talked around me instead of directly to me—no matter how hard I had tried.

“When I wasn’t too exhausted, I used to read.” I say, trying to change the subject. Paul comes back with our breakfast, and I couldn’t be more relieved.

When he leaves the plates, Emerson takes a huge bite of his biscuits and gravy. A little moan rumbles in his throat, and I can’t help the laughter that trickles out of me at the sound.

“These are just as amazing as I remember,” he smiles.

“I guess good things never change.”

“I’m thankful for that,” he whispers, as I take a bite of my omelet. I can feel the heat of his stare on me, and when I glance to my side I see he’s still looking at me. Suddenly, the restaurant begins to feel a whole lot warmer. I take a sip of the ice-cold soda in front of me to cool myself down.

“What have you been up to over these past years?” I ask.

He leans back into the vinyl bench, running his fingers through his dark locks as he speaks. My eyes glaze over the muscles in his arm as they flex beneath his shirt. Reign it in, Henley.

“I’ve been busy as well. We travel a lot, and when we aren’t traveling for races, we’re training. I try to keep myself busy as much as I can,” he pauses, and I watch his throat bob. “You know, to keep my mind off of. . .”

He didn’t have to finish. I knew exactly what he meant.

To take his mind off the loss of his mother.

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “Well, I guess we both can have a mission while we are back home.”

When he looks up, his eyes sparkle with a hint of excitement. “Oh yeah? What mission do you have planned for us, Trouble?”

I can feel my cheeks burn, as he graciously dips his head to hide his smile.

“We should take this time to let loose, have a little fun. Enjoy some down time.”

A smirk grows on his lips, sending butterflies swirling in my stomach.

“Sounds like an excellent plan, Hen.”

We slipped into conversation, just like old times. Reminiscing about the hilarious moments we shared growing up, like the time Ryleigh laughed so hard in this very booth that milk shot out from his nose all over our breakfast.

It was easy.

Like seven years hadn’t passed.

Like he hadn’t driven away and never looked back the last time I saw him.