Page 245 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“It just looks like regular cornbread to me.”
I shake my head. “This is my Meemaw Torres’s special recipe. She cooked it every Sunday until her passing. This is the first time my mama has made it.”
“I reckon that does make it special.”
“I miss her. My mama does too. I think that’s why she hasn’t made it since.” I wish I hadn’t left her Aztec sweater in the truck so I could wrap it around me like a hug and smell her cornbread. “You know what you can never have enough of with her cornbread?”
He smirks. “What?”
“Honey. You can never have enough honey.”
“You see, this is a trap, right?” He points at the counter.
My gaze follows, and sure enough, he’s right. I hadn’t noticed the red-and-white gingham blanket folded on the counter beside an open vintage picnic basket, revealing a bottle of wine, two glasses, and covered dishes of food.
I laugh, setting the container of food down.
“They are not subtle.” I pick up a handwritten note pinned to the basket. “Welcome, lovebirds!!!” I glance at him. “With three exclamation marks. Handwritten. And it smells like”—I bring it to my nose—“violets and gardenia.”
“Very specific.”
“It’s Faye’s classic scent.”
“Not subtle at all,” he agrees.
“Today’s meal is inspired by home, thanks to the wonderful Mama Fox and Meemaw Torres.” I send him an apologetic smile. “So, my mama was in on it, and she brought my Meemaw from the grave.”
“Don’t think my ma didn’t play her part.” He crosses the room and picks up the wine glasses embossed with the Wilde Ranch logo.
“I don’t understand how they’re always one step ahead of us. Even when we leave earlier than everyone and don’t tell them where we’re going.”
“The Quylt sisters would say—” he starts.
“It runs in our blood,” we finish together, and laugh.
“Enjoy this picnic,” I continue. “Take it outside to the gazebo. Just follow the lanterns. Trust us—The Matchmakers.” I snort. “Trust them.”
“Matchmakers,” Hart grunts. “More like troublemakers.”
“Yeah, we’re not going to fall for their shenanigans.” I toss the note on the counter, ignoring my mouth watering for a taste.
“Never,” he agrees.
“Never.”
He grins at me in that way that is sexy and hot and sweet all rolled into one. “But, we are gonna eat, right?”
My lips quirk upward. “Eat this trap they’ve placed for us?”
“But, it’s your Meemaw’s famous cornbread.” His eyebrows draw together.
I plant my hands on my hips, loving that he’d step into their trap for me. “This will come with expectations.” I pinch the tablecloth. “This will be a square on our quilt. And this.” I pinch the front of his T-shirt, and his fingers circle my wrist.
“Are you opposed to a quilt made for us?”
“Not just any quilt, Hart. It’s a Love Quilt.”
“Our Love Quilt.”
