Page 81 of The False Flat

“I do but can’t take my hands off the wheel.”

I tore off a piece and slipped the pastry into his mouth, but as I pulled my hand away, he grabbed it and licked my finger, applying just enough sucking pressure that sparklers went off in my lower regions. “I thought you said you didn’t want to take your hands off the wheel.”

“I thought you said ‘in the car.’”

Sexual tension stretched taut on the rest of the ride home, but it was mostly dispelled when we unloaded Devina’s pumpkins and flowers onto her porch, laughing like we were high school pranksters the entire time we stacked pumpkins and arranged the bushy flowers.

Once done, we rang her doorbell, surprised she hadn’t already heard us laughing and come out to investigate.

We stepped back when she opened the door and threw our arms out at the scene we’d created.

Her surprise at seeing us there morphed into shock and then tears.

“You didn’t have to do this. I just wanted a picture.” She wiped her cheeks and beamed.

Grant smiled. “Well, we can take one for you.”

“I can’t believe you two did this for me. Come in. I will feed you cookies.”

“Actually, have you had lunch? We bought a bunch of dips, chips, and bread. Why don’t we all share it.” The words had been surprisingly automatic on my tongue.

Grant took my hand and squeezed it, that solid pressure against my palm more real than anything I’d ever had.

“That would be lovely,” Devina said, a look of pure joy spreading across her wrinkled face.

“Careful,” Grant said, pulling me against him as we followed Devina into her house. “This one bites.”

CHAPTER 30

LIFE REALIZATION #13: GETTING RID OF A SINGLE MAN IS HARDER THAN YOU THINK

September faded into October, and over the next several weeks, Grant and I had what I assumed was a fairly normal relationship (minus the sex). Business was improving as well. It was the first time in my life where I felt like I belonged, like I fit here in this place, in this moment.

Tonight—the Saturday night we’d been working toward—the early-October evening breeze bustled around festive tables at the Grove, the production space we’d rented for the big country music client dinner, where we hoped to ratchet up our success.

Erin was a wizard. She’d coordinated with Deanna, Mere, and Keyondra and tucked new and potential future clients together around raw-wood tables scattered on a bed of fallen pine needles, below the strings of incandescent bulbs that swung from pine to pine. A huge buffet table, laid out like a cornucopia, was several feet to the left of an elevated stage, where musicians were putting on a free show in hopes of capturing the attention of one of the scouts—a group of people I’d never met before. The scouts had been invited by the country music husband-and-wife team from my coworking space, who were trying to get their clients gigs.

Piper, the massage therapist, was on the premises, running her hands all over people in a large white tent at the back of the gathering. Michelle exhibited her graphic design skills with strategically placed signs and decor, and I’d given a lecture about money, showing, with larger-than-life tables and graphs (courtesy of Michelle), how I could make it grow.

The chatter was loud, and people were coming up to me, asking questions or setting up meeting times either online or at my office so we could talk more. I was positively giddy. This was working. If we signed a fraction of those who seemed to be interested, then we’d be well on our way to being a real, competitive business.

Beau, one of the performers hoping to catch the eye of a talent scout, came up to my table. “I’ve thought about what you said.” His eyes broke from mine to glance at Erin. A wide-mouth grin lit up his face and hers. He was cute and maybe young enough for her, and she’d spent a lot of the evening with him.

“Beau,” Erin said, batting her eyelashes like a true southern belle. “Can I set up an appointment for you to come into the office and talk more?”

“I’d like that, Miss Erin.” His voice was like the chords of a country music song.

I’d found that a lot of people in Nashville didn’t have that stereotypical southern accent. Most who lived here weren’t from here, but when I heard it, there was something comforting about that lengthening of vowels. Erin certainly enjoyed it.

“I look forward to speaking with you soon, Beau,” I added.

I glanced at one of the tables and freaked out, slapping Grant’s arm, my focus ripped from whatever was happening between Erin and Beau.

“It’s Fred and Doris!” From the meat ’n’ three Fred and Doris. This elderly couple had become my ideal life picture. I was fascinated by them. “How are they here?” They were sitting next to Black Coat and Beige.

He pursed his lips. “I invited them when I went to pick up the banana pudding.”

Deanna had been deep in conversation with Mere, bordering on an argument, about their ability to buy a physical location for their catering business, but her ears were always attuned to food, and she threw her head back to say, “I’m still mad about that pudding.”