Page 51 of Best In Class
Dom glances at me then. His mouth lifts, just barely. Pride flickers across his face. “You arebuilding the biggest, baddest hospital in the South, Luna. I don’t think anyone will think it’sjustpretty glass.”
Fine! Okay. So, it’s nice when he compliments you. Looks at you like you’re a fucking queen. But let’s not have a cardiac event here, no matter that this is a hospital. Yeah?
CHAPTER 13
Dom
About an hour out of Macon, Luna perks up and smacks my arm.
“There!” she points. “Buckner’s Family Restaurant. Turn off!”
“You just hit me to force a detour?” I say, mock offended.
“If I hit you, you’d know. That was merely apatto get your attention. And it’s not a detour, it’s a cultural experience,” she remarks smugly. “Buckner’s is a legend. It’s been around since the seventies. Southern buffet served on a giant lazy Susan at every table. Fried chicken that will make you cry. And pie.”
“Well, since you invoked fried chicken and emotional instability,andI am starving….”
She laughs.
I made her laugh! Yippie!
I take the exit.
Someone who doesn’t know Luna may wonder how a billionaire’s daughter even knows a place like Buckner’s; unapologetically Southern, serves sweet tea by the gallon, and has wallpaper that hasn’t changed since the Reagan administration. But I know her. This is her kind of place.
“See.” She waves at the lazy Susan at the center of the table where we’re seated.
“I see.” I’m looking at her.
She’s beautiful.
Excited as only a child can be.
“I’m Paula,” a server in a red-checkered apron announces as she seats us.
The menu is simple. It’s Thursday, so our choices are fried chicken or pork tenderloin with gravy, and a bunch of fixings. This is the epitome of simple Southern cuisine.
“If you come back tomorrow, we’ll have baby back ribs and house-smoked pork,” Paula tells us.
“We’ll both have the fried chicken.” Luna’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas. “And we’ll have the green beans with bacon, buttered corn, sweet potato soufflé…oh, and biscuits.”
She knows I’m not a big pork tenderloin fan, but averybig fried chicken one. I also love sweet potato, which she doesn’t.
This is Luna’s love language. She’s feeding me.
If the food won’t send me into coronary arrest, this woman will, I think, feeling amused and deliriously happy that she’s in a good mood, that she seems pleased to be with me.
The food is served before you can saybless your heart,and it’s excellent.
“Now this”—Luna piles food on her plate—“is what I miss about being younger.”
I grin, watching her. “You used to eat like this in college. And still looked like you.”
“I turned thirty, Dom, and my metabolism hit the toilet.” She waves a biscuit at me. “Do you know that I have to work out now?”
“Mama says you spend too much time at your gym.” I drench my fried chicken in hot sauce, ‘cause that’s the only way to eat it.
“I do not.” Luna bites into a juicy chicken leg, and moans.
