Page 81 of Best In Class
“Dom,” I breathe.
“Drink up, baby, we have a lot of ground to cover, cuisine-wise.”
He’s right! Miss Abigail went all out, and the picnic basket is a Southern love letter, written in food that can give you a coronary. Though my heart is in danger in more ways than just from the rich food.
Cold and crispy fried chicken wrapped in parchment.
Deviled eggs with a sprinkle of paprika and a whisper of cayenne, just the way I like them.
Mini biscuits stuffed with country ham and pimento cheese, stacked in a tin with a smiley face drawn in Sharpie.
Bowtie pasta salad with cherry tomatoes, basil, and a tangy vinaigrette that smells like summer.
A jar of sweet, pickled okra, and another of little bread-and-butter pickles that I eat like candy.
For dessert, there are two peach cobbler muffins, wrapped in wax paper and tied with twine like tiny, edible gifts. And then—thepièce de résistance—two chocolate chip cookies tucked into a thermal bag. They’re still soft, still warm.
The smell hits my memory centers—brown sugar and nostalgia.
And then the past rushes in, too: sun-drenchedafternoons, stolen kisses, lazy laughter. Picnics with Dom. Being in love. Being happy.
I’m going to be happy now, I decide.
I’m going to live in thenow…with Dom.
I’m going to drink the wine and eat the dessert.
And, so we do.
We eat. We talk. We laugh. God, we laugh!
Like we used to.
By the time the stars show up, I’ve moved to sit beside him.
It’s instinct, not decision.
My arm brushes his. My head rests against his shoulder. He’s warm, steady.
“I missed this,” I say softly.
“This?”
“Feeling like it’s just us again.”
He turns toward me, his voice a whisper. “It could be. If you wanted.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I reach down and lace my fingers with his. I don’t need to say anything, because this isn’t about promises, or plans, or second chances wrapped in guilt.
This is about now.
Me. Him. A picnic. A sky full of stars.
CHAPTER 21
Dom
I’m ecstatic. The date was a success.
