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“For next week or in general?”
“In general.”
“You’ve got this in the bag, Evie. I can feel it,” Phil says, walking away.
“Would you please tell him not to jinx me?”
Maggie, a forty-six-year-old single mother and spitfire of a woman who I simply adore, waves me away.
“Don’t be silly. I agree with him. The restaurant has never been better.”
It’s true. With funds from the dealership, I was able to make some much-needed updates to the place. Although I kept some of the staples, I also put my own flair on the menu. I don’t want to discourage any of our regulars, but being as close to farm-to-table as possible is one of my goals.
“Still.”
Just thinking about winning that prize, something that could really put Leoni’s on the map, has been a much-needed distraction. But now, it seems I have another.
Dressed just like yesterday, his jeans and tee much more understated than the tux I met him in, but no less sexy, Tris saunters over to our stand.
“Morning,” he says, the casualness of his greeting not lost on Maggie, who looks back and forth between us. From her expression, she knows exactly who he is too.
“Morning.”
It’s only been nine hours since I saw him last. A bottle and a half of wine later, it wasn’t until nearly two a.m. when I finally took the Angel pill that allowed me to drive home. Tris walked me to my car but didn’t come near me. A good thing, that.
I’m pretty positive I couldn’t resist this man even if he were a Cowboys fan. A prospect every die-hard Eagles fan like me shudders at.
“Do you have a minute?” Tris asks.
I look at Maggie.
“We’re all set here,” she says.
Everything does look in order. And the festival doesn’t actually start for another half hour. Pretending to be talking to any ol’ person who just happened to walk up to our tent to ask a question, I say, “Sure.”
Even though Tris is not any old person. My body screams that fact to me even now.
“Come around,” he says, his eyes dancing with laughter.
I’m trying to imagine what he wants to tell me. As we move onto the street, between tents, my curiosity grows.
Like last night when I left, the easy conversation coming to an awkward halt as we both ignored the very obvious sexual tension between us, I do my best to pretend I’m talking to a colleague. A fellow chef and restaurateur.
Nothing more.
“I’m thinking you didn’t see this yet?”
For the first time I realize he’s holding a paper. I recognize it immediately as Zara’sPress. No one, including Zara, could have predicted its success. In this day and age, it’s inconceivable to launch a print newspaper. But her gamble on the people of Bridgewater embracing the past appears to have been dead-on.
I don’t know anyone without a subscription.
“No, I didn’t. Someone kept me up late, so I was kinda rushed this morning.”
We exchange glances.
Those deep brown eyes of his could tear a girl in two.
Breaking eye contact, he hands the paper to me. Which is opened to the infamous About Town section, which is everyone’s favorite, and I stare back at my face. And his. Quickly scanning the headline, I look up.
