Page 4 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Absolutely,” the blond answers, giving him the tiniest hint of a smile.

Wait a minute . . . Tilting my head, I get a better look at the blond. He looks familiar, but I can’t place why, and it’s then cool air washes over me. I know it’s because the dark-headed one has stopped looking at me.

Confused by the sensation, I quickly glance over to find him focused back on Shelby.

“We’re glad the timing worked and we could come up. Wine and some of Shelby’s cooking”—he raises his brows hopefully—“how could we turn it down?”

Hold up, just a second—has she cooked for him before? When? I didn’t even know she knew guys like him. Wait, did I say him? Ugh. I meant them. Has she cooked for them before?

She shakes her head and laughs. “Meg and I brought the cobbler”—she glances at me—“but the rest of the food was prepared by others from the recipes for the pairings. Although I didn’t personally cook the food today, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

She leans forward and squeezes his arm briefly before pulling back. It’s a friendly gesture, one that confuses me. When did this happen?

His face falls a little and he says, “I don’t know about that,” as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously gorgeous tailored navy pants. Yes, I can spot fashion yays and nays a mile away, and this guy is all yay.

“Well, if you like my cooking, you’ll love Meg’s even more. She is a way better chef. You should drop by our restaurant in Charleston next time you’re out that way and have her cook for you.”

Two things occur to me at once. First off, she’s still calling it “our” place even though it’ll soon not be, and this makes my heart swell and ache at the same time. Secondly, she’s essentially inviting this guy over and volunteering me to cook for him! I shoot her a what the heck wide-eyed look, and she just grins conspiratorially.

“Is that so?” dark-headed guy says as he turns and looks at me. I try to neutralize my expression, but as he grins, dimples pop out, and inwardly I groan. Dimples are my weakness—only, I don’t want to have a weakness. I also don’t want a man, any man. I kind of want to ignore him, which is why the glare on my face drops into a scowl.

Blond guy chuckles next to him, picking up on my indifference, and that’s when I notice someone from the magazine has approached Shelby and pulled her attention away.

“Come on, sunshine, how about the three of us leave these two to do some work, and you and I can get to know each other better.” He holds his hand out, but I just stare down at it like it’s plagued.

Frowning, I look at Zach and Shelby, and as much as it pains me, I do the right thing. They are here to work, and they need to start circulating the room.

“Fine.” I relent, but instead of taking his offered hand, I cross my arms against my chest.

Of course all that does is force his eyes down my body, and a blush burns through me. Seeing my resistance and my discomfort, he smiles even bigger, deepening his dimples, and drops his hand.

“Fine starts with an F, and did you know there are only two Fs needed to satisfy a man? Food and fu—”

“Oh my God! Don’t even say it,” I snap, glancing toward the blond for backup. He just grins and shakes his head like there’s no use fighting it, but I’ve got news for him: I’m not even going to enter the ring. I’ve made promises to myself, and not even this guy will have me breaking them.

Together the three of us turn and head for the bar. Wine—I need wine. Lots of wine. “You do realize we just met, right?” I toss over my shoulder.

He laughs then looks down at me with a smolder so intense I expect smoke to rise up from his feet. Holy. Moly. This guy is something else.

Placing his hand on my lower back, he guides me through the people. Heat sears through the thin fabric of my dress, and his hand is so large it covers almost the whole span of my back.

“Technically, we haven’t met, but I’m real glad that’s about to change,” he says with his mouth lowered next to my ear. The warm air sends a shiver through me, and I begin a mental chant of, Not today, Satan. Not today. You will not be affected by this guy.

Sliding up to the bar, the three of us each tell the bartender what we’d like, and I use the opportunity to take in more of his features: strong jaw, high cheekbones, tanned skin, perfect. If I could growl, I would; instead, I reach for my white wine and take a large gulp. I’ve always been a white drinker; I blame it on the heat of the south. I like light, crisp, cool, refreshing, and I know I shouldn’t, but I do find it ironic that this guy picks a cabernet sauvignon—bold, rich, and full of complex layers.

“So, you must be one of the three legs of the tripod,” he says cheerfully, not even acknowledging that his friend is standing next to us.

I almost spit out my wine and look at him skeptically. “How do you know about that nickname?”

“James, of course.” He sips his wine, looking pleased as punch to have thrown me off.

While we were in culinary school, which is where Shelby and I met Lexi, one of our teachers dubbed us the tripod. We were inseparable and still try to spend time together whenever we can.

“You know James? Wait, do you know Lexi, too?” I look back and forth between the two of them.

A sly smile slowly stretches across dark-haired guy’s face. “James, yes. Lexi, no. I just know of her, but Bryan here grew up with both of them.”

Just hearing Bryan’s name has the flow of air in my lungs halting. Turning to face him, I take him in from head to toe and start involuntarily nodding.