Page 8 of Sweatpants & Sweet Tea

“So, do you have any ideas?”

Alexandra’s question interrupted my walk down memory lane.

Shit.I’d zoned out and hadn’t followed along with the conversation. Alexandra D’Blanco didnotappreciate repeating herself, and panic—equal to my discovery of the empty pill bottle at the airport—welled up inside of me.

“Ideas?”

“If you need more time, that’s fine. But I want you to have three pitches to me by the morning.”

Wait…what?!

“Three pitches?” I parroted.

“Keep up, Daphne. Firefly Island, there’s a story there.”

“You want me tostayin Firefly Island?”

“Just for a month, maybe two. Things are stale in LA. We need new angles. Fresh meat. Fresh blood.”

Fresh meat?

Fresh blood?

What were we…sharks? Actually, that tracked for most people in the entertainment industry.

“I don’t care if it’s the haunted mansion, or the generational curse, or maybe even continuing your dating series, but in a small town.” She chuckled without actually laughing. “Now I’m just doing your job for you. Three pitches in my inbox by tomorrow morning.”

The line went dead, and I stared out the window, wondering what in the world had just happened. Alexandra wanted me to stay here, in Firefly Island. She wanted me todatehere in Firefly Island.

Movement from the Mitchell farm caught my attention, and I saw Hot Country Boy walking out toward the barn. He was shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants.

Holy hot tamale. Was there anything sexier than a man in gray sweatpants?

As if responding to my question, he pushed said gray sweatpants down his legs, and, spoiler alert, he was going commando. His body literally looked like a walking piece of art sculpted by a master artist. He was chiseled to perfection with dips, lines, and bulges in all the right places.

“Fuck me,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if that was a request or just a general exclamation. Probably both.

I watched, transfixed, as he reached his Thor-worthy arm above his head, and water began to pour over him. It took me a second to realize he was showering. Then it took me another second to realize that I was basically a peeping Tom.

I stepped back from the window, and only then did I realize that I’d been holding my breath. As I exhaled, I saw stars. I became light-headed, and my legs turned to noodles. I wasn’t sure if my symptoms were due to the lack of oxygen or the naked Adonis of a man, but whatever brought them on, thankfully, it only lasted about thirty seconds and I was functioning at full capacity once again.

As soon as I was able to walk, I made my way out of the attic and to the kitchen, where my aunt was having her lunch, which consisted of split pea and ham soup. She was a woman of habit. She’d boasted to me on several occasions that for the past forty years, she’d either have a bowl of split pea and ham soup or a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Aunt Rhonda, how bad would it be if I wasn’t dressed up tonight? My luggage isn’t going to arrive until tomorrow morning.”

Her hand stilled mid-scoop of soup, and she lifted her eyes to me. “Buttercup, you can’t go to the ball in sweats orjeans.”

The way my Southern aunt said jeans, you would have thought it was a curse word.

“I know, but I don’t have a lot of options. I could run downtown and see if I can find something at a boutique.”

Aunt Rhonda’s gaze dipped down, running from my chin down to my feet and back up again.

“I think you are about the same size as Nadia. I taught her in kindergarten, and she spent two years in my classroom student teaching while she was getting her degree. She just inherited her parents’ place down the way. Let me call her and see if she…achoo!”

“Bless you.” Before I even got out the two one-syllable words, she’d sneezed several more times. I grabbed some tissues out of the box on the counter and handed them to her. “Here, take these.”

Her sneezing fit continued as she said, “That cat, achoo! It must have…achoo…got out again…achoo!”

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