Page 23 of Terms + Conditions
“In Charleston?”
Why the hell does she want me to drive all the way to Charleston to talk? The last time that happened…
“Shh! The last thing I need is your sister or Nina hearing.”
“Why can’t we just talk now?”
“Because,”she snaps. “I don’t need any of them poking their nose in my business.”
Fair point.
“Sunday, eleven-thirty.”
What in the hell could be so important that I have to drive all the way down to Charleston again to talk about it? I want to say no, but from the look on her face, I know that I can’t say no.
“Fine, but make it one o’clock.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NOW
I WADE THROUGH THE line of hungry patrons trying to get their name on the list to dine at Millers All Day, a favorite in downtown Charleston. Breaking through the line, I’m met with the gracious but tired smile of the young hostesses. The restaurant’s interior gives the vibes of a modern-retro diner with a coffee bar on the right, a bar along the back wall with an old-fashioned PRESCRIPTION sign above, large inviting booths along the far left wall, and—
Is that a living room area?
Servers move to and fro with haste that lacks the typical frantic look in the eyes of servers in a place as busy as this. They wear warm smiles and welcome their guests as though they’re family they haven’t seen in a while.
“How many?” One of the hostesses asks, and I give her the name before the other leads me further into the diner. Around the bend, there are even more tables, and in the far corner, I see her planted at a two-top. She sips on what looks like a mimosa that lacks the typical yellow color of orange juice. Instead, it’s a faded purple color—lavender, maybe? There are two plates on the table bearing a cinnamon roll as big as my head mounted with icing and a puff pastry that resembles a strawberry pop tart.
“Enjoy your meal,” the hostess says with a warm smile before two-stepping back to the front door.
“This place is hopping,” I say, sitting in the chair across from Elizabeth.
“There’salwaysa line, but it’s worth it.” She nods towards the plates between us. “Try the cinnamon roll; the cream cheese is to die for.”
I dig the fork into the crust, and when I take the first bite, I’m reminded almost of a cinnamon biscuit. The cream cheese icing melts across my tongue. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and savory.
The server appears with a steaming cup of coffee—black—with exactly two sugars. “Do you need a few more minutes on lunch?” she asks, looking between me and Elizabeth.
“Just a few. Thanks, Holly,” Elizabeth says, dismissing her with another sip of her mimosa. She nods toward the steaming mug between us. “I assumed you still drank your coffee the same.”
“You assumed correct,” I say, ripping open the sugar packets and letting the crystals dissolve in the warm liquid. Flipping over the menu, I have no idea what to choose. The hot honey chicken sounds kind of interesting, though. “What do you recommend for food?”
“You’d like the honey chicken donut sandwich. Unless they have the lobster roll. Then the lobster roll.” Her words make the corner of my mouth tick upward. She knew exactly what I would want, not to mention she ordered my coffee (exactly how I take it) so it would arrive when I did. Maybe we aren’t so hopeless after all.
Elizabeth rolls her eyes when she sees my smile. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say, looking back down at the menu. The server returns a moment later, and I order the hot honey chicken without hesitation. Elizabeth orders the biscuits and gravy witha side of pimento cheese and a hot honey chicken breast of her own.
The silence between us is filled with the background noise of the restaurant. However, this silence isn’t as comfortable as it used to be. Silence wasn’t a problem for us. We were used to it, spending most of our time together in the quiet, but this…this is torturous. Elizabeth finishes the mimosa. Before she can place the glass on the table, another one appears.
“How is—”
“What are—”
We both stop, waiting for the other to continue, but neither of us does until she finally releases a deep sigh and says, “I’m invoking theLastHoorah Clause.”
The sip of coffee gets stuck in my throat. I cough to clear my throat, and the liquid burns my chest the whole way down. “Excuse me?”
