Zach is standing in the doorway looking at his phone when I pull up to the manor. Like the day I arrived, he’s wearing another winery T-shirt with a pair of jeans, flip-flops, a baseball hat, and a pair of black Ray-ban sunglasses. He looks good, too good.
He hears the car, and his head pops up to watch me drive around the circular driveway. With that confident swagger of his, he strolls down the stairs, over to my car and climbs in.
Just him being in my space causes my heart rate to pick up, and I’m surrounded by the smell of him: warm sun, sage, and something earthy that’s manly and completely him.
“Hey,” he says, turning and stretching his arm out across the back of my seat. His fingers graze the hair on the back of my neck and goose bumps break out across my skin, causing an involuntary shiver. He notices but doesn’t say anything, and even though his sunglasses block his eyes, I can feel them as they take in my every detail right down to the blush burning my cheeks. For someone who’s just accommodating me, he sure seems to look at me a lot.
“Hey,” I answer him, not knowing what else to say. I’m tongue-tied by his presence, and after how sweet he was last night, I’m having a hard time trying to remind myself why I shouldn’t like him or really even care. I’m here for the assignment and the exposure it’s going to bring me.
Focus, Shelby. Focus.
He clears his throat and turns to look straight out the windshield as I take off down the driveway.
“Where are we headed?” he asks as he tries to stretch his legs a bit more.
“A restaurant called Tupelo Honey.” I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling.
“I’ve heard of it. Wait—” His head whips toward me. “Isn’t that in Asheville?” His eyebrows rise above the glasses.
“Yep, have you eaten there?” I grin to myself. I knew last night I wanted to drive there this morning, but if I had told him, he might not have come. I really wanted him to—not because I’m interested in him but because I find him interesting. Kind of like a human-interest piece. The way he talks about his family and the winery, I can tell his background is definitely different than where I come from, his lifetime of football, and I’m curious to know why he’s such good friends with Lexi.
He pinches his lips into a thin line and shifts in his seat. “No. So, we’re going to Asheville?” His voice is a little growly.
“Yes, but we have one stop to make first.” When I glance his way, his jaw is tight and the hand on his lap is balled into a fist.
“How long do you plan on being gone today?” he asks, shifting to pull his phone out of his back pocket and looking at what I assume is his calendar.
“Just through lunch, and then we’ll drive back. Why, do you need to stay?” I ask innocently, already knowing he won’t back out.
“No, it’s fine, I can go. But if we’re going for that long of a drive, we’re taking my truck.”
I look over at him, and his face is stern. There’ll be no negotiation.
“Fine by me.” I turn the car around and head back to the manor. I don’t mind driving, but if he’s offering, that’s even better. Plus, his truck puts more space between us.
“So, why are we going to Tupelo Honey?” he asks once we set off again.
“Meg and I first stumbled upon it years ago and the food was really good. They’ve expanded and opened a few more locations across the south, and I think it’ll be a great addition to the recommendations article that I’m also writing for the magazine.”
“If you’ve already been there, why are we going now?”
“Well, I have to make sure that it’s still just as good. Sometimes the smallest things can change the quality of the food from a vendor, to a chef, or new buying manager. I can’t endorse something on a past experience, it needs to be current.”
His hands tighten around the base of the steering wheel. “You sound like a critic,” he says without glancing at me. I’m slightly alarmed by how forceful his words came out and angle in my seat to get a better look at him.
“Do you have a problem with critics?” I’m suddenly nervous about his answer. The blog is such a huge part of who I am, and the thought of having someone disapprove leaves me feeling awkward and uncomfortable.
Does he know I’m a critic? Did Lexi tell him? I mean, I know over the years Starving for Southern has become well known, but anyone who’s been to the blog, and read it, knows that the summaries of places I give are just my viewpoint on things.
His eyes quickly shift my way behind the glasses, his lips press together, and he wastes no time thinking about his answer. “Yes.”
Huh.
My heart sinks a little bit. Maybe this reaction is because of the review he received last fall. I don’t know, but now I feel anxious and let out a deep breath hoping that takes with it my disappointment.
“Well, no worries, there’s no critiquing today. Just shopping, eating, and having a nice lunch.”
“Shopping?” he glances at me.
“Oh yeah.” I grin back and then help myself to punching the address into his GPS. He doesn’t say anything. He just readjusts his hat and gives me his signature scowl.
The two and a half hour ride to Asheville is strangely peaceful. I quickly learn that Zach can’t stand clutter, which is why the inside of his truck is spotless, and he loves country music. With the windows down and a little Will Ashton band on the radio, Zach is beginning to feel more like an acquaintance than an enemy.
“What made you want to own a restaurant?” he asks out of nowhere.
“Technically, OBA is Meg’s restaurant, but I do own a small percentage of it. When we graduated from culinary school, her aunt handed her a check and said, “Go make me proud.” I chipped in the little savings that I had to help her, but she knows that my ultimate end goal is to work for Food Network.”
He pauses as he considers my response.
“So, she doesn’t mind when you take off like this?”
“No. Our arrangement works out pretty well. I help her when I’m in town and not off writing, and any money I get from the freelance jobs, I turn around and put straight back into the restaurant. Steadily, it’s been growing, and Meg has really put herself on the map.”
“Hmm,” he mutters, obviously lost in thought. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but then again, maybe I don’t.
A few minutes later, we pull off the expressway and into our first stop.
“What are we doing here?” He looks at me confused.
“Shopping.” I’m grinning from ear to ear and feel like a kid who’s about to be unleashed in a candy shop.
“Here?” He turns around and looks at the buildings.
“Yes. Come on, Wolff, get out of the truck, or don’t . . . I’m going in.” I grab my bag and hop out of the truck.
The Western North Carolina Farmers’ Market is one of the best farmers’ markets in the southeast. The atmosphere, the variety of local vendors for consumers, and the overall freshness of the produce is something that brings me back here every time I’m up this way. I’m giddy with excitement, and hearing Zach’s truck door slam, I smile to myself, knowing he’s following me.
“What are we doing here again?” he grumbles as he steps next to me and takes in the market.
“You’ll see.” I grab his arm and drag him between two of the buildings to the entrance. Hanging a left, I find my favorite place, throw my arms out in a look-at-all-this-good-stuff gesture, and grin at him.
His eyes scan over the hundreds of jars of pickled vegetables, jellies, jams, and honey. He doesn’t seem impressed. Undeterred, I grab a tasting stick, stick it into the first open jar I see, and then taste the delicious flavor. So good.
“All of this is over honey?” He’s standing there, statue still, with his arms crossed over his chest and clear irritation in his voice.
“Not just any honey. This place has the best honey for miles and miles around.” I twirl around, and my skirt flairs out.
Zach’s face is priceless. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or intrigued, and I don’t really care. I’m that happy being here.
“Years ago, when Meg and I first had the idea of opening a restaurant together, we were standing on Orange Blossom Avenue and that’s how it got its name. It really was that simple, and it just so happens that we also love orange blossom honey. Well, any honey actually, but orange blossom honey and lavender honey are two of my favorites. Keeping with the honey theme, we have a bookshelf full of honey for guests to pick and choose from when they come in to dine.”
He pulls his hat off, runs his hand through his blond hair, and then fits it back into place. The ends curl out from under the edge, and the look is downright sexy.
“Funny it never occurred to me to ask what OBA stands for, I’ve just called it that,” he says as he picks up a jar of honey to read the label.
“Most do. It’s easier to say, and we’ve had the initials enlarged as a monogram on all of our marketing materials, too.”
Spotting the lavender honey, he stops in front of it and grows quiet. His face is thoughtful before he turns to look at me. “So, you like lavender?”
“Like it? I love it! And I was crazy excited to see how much of it you have planted and growing around the winery. Don’t be angry if you find some missing when I leave, I do plan to take some clippings back with me.”
“My mother likes lavender, she planted them,” he says fondly.
“Your mother has good taste.” I smile at him.
“Yes, she does.” He smiles back, and it’s a warm smile. The affection for his mother evident.
“Come on.” I bump my hip against his. “Taste the honey with me. I’m going to buy some to take back to the restaurant.”
“I’m not tasting the honey.” He groans, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yes, you are.” I find an open jar and dip in another sample stick. “Here.”
Begrudgingly, he takes the stick and drops it into his mouth. Looking at me, his eyes narrow and he swallows before confidently saying, “Sourwood.”
I glance at the jar, and he’s right. My eyes widen in shock and I look at his smug face. “How did you know that?”
“You’re not the first woman in my life to like honey.”
I’m not sure how I feel about this comment. Is it because he called me a woman in his life, or that he’s referencing others, but I decide to brush it off.
For the next half hour, Zach and I taste a dozen different honeys and buy almost as many. We wander through the market, stopping to purchase some fruits and vegetables for a few recipes I have in mind, and not surprisingly, we argue over what tastes better.
Fifteen minutes after we leave the farmers’ market, we reach downtown Asheville. Zach finds a parking spot about a block away from the restaurant, and I laugh at him as his stomach growls.
“What? It’s lunchtime.” He shrugs as we get out of the truck.
“Well, let’s go then.” I flash him a smile, and dart across the street. I’m halfway to the other side when a gust of wind blows my skirt up. It isn’t much, but it is enough for me to throw my hands back and smooth it down. It is also enough for me to realize that I flashed Zach. Looking back, I find him wearing a slightly guilty, slightly pleased smile. Ass.
“Hi, welcome to Tupelo Honey,” says a very chipper hostess as we walk in, her eyes skipping from me to Zach and staying there. “Just the two of you today?”
“Yes, please,” I answer her, understanding the effect he has on her. After all, he has the same effect on me—until he opens his mouth.
“All right, if you’ll follow me this way.” She grabs two menus, and we walk behind her to a small table near the front window. This place is exactly like I remembered it, and I’m so excited.
“Your server will be right with you.” She blushes as she glances at Zach one more time.
“Thank you.” His deep Southern voice causes her eyes to stumble just a bit before she walks away. I shake my head.
Both of us sit, and I can’t help but take in every detail. I think there are very few people who enjoy eating out as much as I do.
Feeling Zach watching me, I drag my eyes away from the dining room and to him. He’s pulled his sunglasses off and this is the first time I’ve seen his eyes today. Blue . . . so blue. Butterflies flutter and then take flight in my stomach. I know we’re not on a date, but sitting at this small table with him, it sure feels like it.
Since inviting him on this little trip with me, I’ve toyed with the idea of telling him about my blog. I know he doesn’t like critics, but I don’t think I’m an average one. I don’t usually tell anyone, I like the anonymity as much as possible, but we are working on this project together and I have nothing to hide. Additionally, I don’t want to keep secrets from him, even if this is a short-term project. It’s a part of me, and I’m proud of it.
Sucking in a deep breath, I decide to go for it.
“So, working as a chef isn’t the only thing that I do.” His eyes narrow, but he leans forward to hear me better. “Aside from the restaurant with Meg, I also have a food blog I love. It’s how Food Network found me.”
Like most people, when you’re passionate about something and want to talk about it, you get excited. I’m excited. But as he sits back in his chair and grinds his teeth together, anger quickly rolls in over his features and then rolls out, leaving his expression empty. My enthusiasm wavers, and I become self-conscious. Lowering my eyes, I grab my silverware, unroll the napkin, and place it on my lap.
“Have I heard of it?” His voice lacks inflection, and the blue in his eyes have sharpened and become icy. Once again, his mood shift confuses me, and I wish I understood better why he reacts this way.
“I doubt it.” I shake my head at him. It does have a lot of followers, but I can’t think of a reason why he would know of it, but then again maybe he has. It’s been around for a while.
“What’s the name of it?” I can’t tell if he’s interested in hearing about this or not, but it’s clear that he isn’t happy.
“Starving for Southern.”
His hands slide off the top of the table, grip the edge, and his eyes narrow. A strange feeling dips into my stomach . . . was he expecting me not to tell him or lie?
“Good afternoon, I’m Kelsey and I’ll be your waitress today. What can I get y’all to drink?”
“Tea,” Zach and I both say at the same time, still staring at each other. No need to clarify what kind of tea, we’re in the South—it’ll be sweet.
“I’ll be right back.” And she skips off, leaving the two of us in a face off.
“I’ve heard of it,” he says in a flat tone. “What made you start it?” He picks up his sunglasses and tucks them into the neck of his T-shirt before folding his arms across his chest. His arms bulge under the sleeves, and I have a strange urge to reach out and squeeze them.
“Meg and I were never into the party scene. Fun for us was finding new and exciting places to eat. We visited so many different restaurants, I decided to write about all of our favorite ones. It was easy to find something amazing at almost every place we went, so we posted a lot and I think that was the main reason why the blog did so well. Also, I rarely posted anything negative.”
“And you don’t write about places anymore?” He tilts his head to the side studying me.
“Not so much; only every now and then. Since opening OBA, our adventures have slowed down significantly, but that’s okay, we’re in a different place in life now. Instead, we’ve grown it substantially in developing fun new recipes. We’ve been approached about a cookbook.”
“All righty, here we go.” The waitress sets down the two teas. “Did y’all decide what you’d like?” She opens her notepad and pulls a pen out of the ponytail.
“She’ll order for us,” Zach says, charming her with his smile. “This outing was her idea.” The waitress blinks at him and then turns to me expectantly.
Quickly, I scan the menu, barely seeing the words since I already know what I want to order. He didn’t even look at it. Is he making assumptions about me for having the blog or because I’ve eaten here before?
“We’ll have the farmers’ market pickled plate, the fried green tomatoes, and the fried chicken sandwich.”
“Okie dokie, are y’all going to split it all?”
“That’s the plan,” he says flatly, and she falters again with her pen.
“I’ll get that going, and it’ll be out shortly.” She gives us both a small smile, takes the menus, and leaves.
His attention swings back to me, and I wish it hadn’t. Part of me feels like shrinking and the other part of me wants to punch him in the throat. And now that I know he doesn’t like critics, I’m almost scared to find out which version of Zach I’m going to have to spend the rest of the afternoon with.
“So let me get this straight, you write a blog, you’re somewhat of a critic, you freelance for Food Network, you co-own a restaurant, and you’re working on a cookbook?” His face is blank but his voice drips with disdain.
“Yes. It sounds like a lot more than what it is, but I love my career and all the different sides to it. I would do more if I could.”
He frowns as the thinks about my answer and then surprises me when he asks, “Have you ever written about this place?”
“I have. But, like I said, it was a while ago.”
“What did you say about it?” This isn’t the direction I thought the conversation was going to go. Honestly, I don’t really remember what I wrote, but I do remember how this place made me feel the first time I walked into it, so I start there.
“Take a look around and tell me what you see.”
His eyes narrow in defiance, so I urge him along. “Humor me.”
After a huff, he gives in, and pauses before he slowly looks around the dining room. “I see people, lots of them, and in a small space. I see large plates of food, and a shop in the back to buy stuff.”
“Boring . . .” I fake like I’m yawning.
He snorts at me and shifts in his chair.
Leaning closer to him, I ask, “Do you feel the energy of this place?”
His eyes wander around the room, and his frown deepens. “I suppose, it just seems crowded to me.”
“But that’s the point. Sometimes the draw to a place is more than just the food.”
The people at the table next to us start laughing, and I can’t help but to smile with them.
“Here’s the thing about being a critic, I know you said you don’t like them, but everyone is one. It’s a subjective opinion that one can agree with or not. Most critics are known for immediately walking into a place and looking for errors, but I think that’s the wrong way to do it. I love to look for the good. To me, it’s about more than the food. It’s people laughing, families eating together, celebrations, memories, and traditions. I love to feel the energy and the sense of belonging. It’s a time when people talk to one another and that time becomes sacred. Everything that happens around the table is sacred. Who knows, maybe that is why so many people subscribe to my blog, maybe they’re looking for the same thing . . . something good.”
He leans back in his chair, picks up his glass, and takes a swallow of the tea. “Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess. That’s definitely a different approach to it.”
“Maybe, but it’s my approach, and that’s all that matters.” I hate that he’s making me feel defensive.
“Do you ever get criticized for not telling the truth?”
“I am telling the truth. What I write about is all true to me. Every experience is my experience.” My voice rises just a bit, and the people at the table next to us glance our way.
“What about people who disagree with your truth? Do you ever give them an opportunity to change your opinion? Seems to me like a blog like yours has influence.”
“No one has ever asked for me to reconsider my opinion. I’m a straightforward person. I leave my reviews open for the readers to decide, but skeptically I guess I would if the situation arose.”
“Why do you say you are skeptical?” He crosses his arms over his chest and his brows furrow, which I find annoying. Why is he looking at me as if he’s silently judging me, and why does he want to know these things?
“Why is anyone the way they are? Individual life experiences, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, finger the napkin in my lap, and look down at the table as I think about my parents. More than anyone realizes, except for Meg, I’m an extremely skeptical person. People are always fueled by motive, and most of the time it’s glaringly obvious.
He takes another sip of his drink and my eyes find his. The blue has softened, removing the edge from them, and his gaze becomes thoughtful as he considers me.
“How did you meet Meg?” he asks, changing the subject.
“We met the weekend before our freshman year of college. We were standing in line at Starbucks, and there was one blueberry muffin left behind the counter. Both of us wanted it, and in the end, we agreed to split it. We’ve been best friends ever since.” I remember that day as if it were yesterday.
“And Lexi? How did you meet her?” He tilts his head.
“In culinary school. She sat down next to Meg and me, and the rest is history. Second semester she moved in with us, and for two years, the three of us were inseparable.”
He pauses and bites down on his lower lip.
A waitress swoops by and drops off a plate.
“Biscuits. Yum.” Snatching one, I drop the subject, slather on some butter and blackberry jam, and then put half on a plate for me and the other half on a plate for him. I push it toward his side of the table. He looks at me as if I’m crazy but pulls it in front of him. With each bite he takes, I can feel a little more of the previous tension melt away.
“You win, that’s tasty.” He licks his fingers, and I’m suddenly mesmerized by his hands. “Do you have a biscuit recipe you could use for us?”
Us.
I pause before answering him, and he looks at me funny.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I also spotted some strawberries out behind the cottage that are ready to be picked, so I’ll make a jam for them.”
“Can we make this tomorrow?” He cracks a lopsided grin at me.
“I don’t see why not,” I say and then lick my lips. I can still taste the jam and butter from my own biscuit. Zach’s eyes drop to my mouth as he watches me and then they cut left to something over my shoulder. I swear this guy gives me whiplash.
“So, how did you become friends with Lexi?” I ask.
“I played football with her brother in college.” He answers between bites.
“I know that, but she didn’t go to college with him, and from what I know, she barely made it to any of his games.”
“No, she only came to two that I know of, but everyone knew who Lexi was, he talked about her all the time. I invited him up for a visit one summer, and she tagged along. We’ve been friends ever since.”
Eventually our food comes, and most of our conversation halts. The food is as good as I remembered it, and Zach agrees with me that this restaurant is a good choice for the recommendation section of the article. We purchase a Tupelo Honey cookbook, and with our stomachs full, we head back to the truck.
“So, are you glad you came with me?” I ask, looking for an opportunity to gloat and rub it in that the drive was worth it.
Zach, who doesn’t appear to have heard me, sways in front of me and grabs the back of his neck.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
He again doesn’t answer, but glances my way as I catch up to him and his steps slow down.
“You do that a lot,” I say as we walk to the passenger side of the truck.
He leans against the door, takes off his sunglasses, and looks at me—his crushingly beautiful blue eyes are slightly glazed. “Do what?”
“Rub your neck.” Concern begins to set in as I watch this large, incredibly masculine guy begin to fade and withdraw right in front of me. Somewhere in the background, I hear a horn honk and people laugh, but all I see is him. His skin turns pale, his lips dry out, and it’s like instant bruising forms under his eyes.
For the first time since I met him, he’s looking at me, I’m looking at him, and neither one of us knows what to do or say next.
Fearing that he may fall over, I take a step toward him at the same time as he reaches for me—one hand on the truck and one hand on my arm. My hands land on his hips to steady him as he looks down at me helplessly.
“Suppose I do.” He swallows. “I get headaches pretty easily, sometimes quickly, and one just set in.” Not even hesitating, he leans forward, pulls off his hat, rests his forehead on my shoulder, and rubs his stomach. “Shit,” he mumbles.
I’m stunned by not only his nearness but also how he’s folded into me for support. Me. This person he’s tolerating but doesn’t really like. This isn’t just out of character for him—this is alarming.
“Why?” I ask quietly, holding on to him.
He turns his head so his cheek is resting on me, and he breathes right into my neck. The warmth of the air dissolves into my skin, my heart rate involuntarily picks up, and chills race over my body. “I don’t know what brings them on. I’m susceptible to getting them, and lately, I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s a trigger for them, but I can’t seem to find any connections.”
Triggers. I think back over our meal. It wasn’t loaded with sugar and the caffeine in the tea is supposed to help headaches not cause them.
“Did you know it was coming? We could have left sooner?”
“No, this one just hit me. Blindsided.” He groans and rubs his forehead back and forth across my shoulder and massages the back of his neck.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I rub my hand across his lower back, and he leans farther into me, his weight pressing me down.
Minutes pass as he takes one breath after another, a few getting caught in his throat. Eventually, he pulls away but still grabs on to my arm for balance. “Drive fast?” He digs in his pocket and holds out his hand with his keys in it, the pain so evident on his handsome face I feel nauseous for him.
“Wow, I didn’t think guys liked to have their trucks driven,” I say softly, trying to lighten the mood while hitting the unlock button and opening the door for him.
“I don’t, but I don’t have a choice. This one is messing with my vision.” He climbs into the truck and moans as he places his head on the dashboard.
Running around to the driver’s side, I climb in, adjust the seat, and start the truck.
“Do you have any medicine you can take?” I’m anxious and worried to the point that I’m tempted to dig through the center console and the glove box for anything that might help him.
“It’s on my desk in my office.” He groans again as his eyes shut and squeeze tight.
“Should we stop and buy something?”
“No. Won’t help, unfortunately.”
“All right, hang tight. We’ll be home before you know it.” I shift into reverse and back out of the spot.
Home.
Somehow, over the last couple of days, the winery has begun to feel a little bit more like a home and less like a vacation spot. While I still don’t understand his mood swings or why he initially disliked me so much, I keep reminding myself that if he’s friends with Lexi, there must be something about him.
The truck goes over an uneven bump in the road, and he moans next me as I turn the corner.
I’ve had migraines here and there over the years, but none of them have been as debilitating as this. It’s as if it’s morphed him into someone else. That spark and fire he constantly breathes out onto everyone is gone.
A few minutes later, I hop on the interstate, and we’re on our way. Without thinking, I reach over so I can thread my fingers through his hair and begin to rub his scalp. He lets out a sigh at the sensation, and I don’t even think he realizes he did it. A few minutes later, he slumps my way over the center console, tucks his arms under him, and hangs his head toward my lap. As much as my opinion of him has wavered over the last couple of days, my heart aches at the apparent pain he’s in. Keeping the radio down, I press on and hope not to get pulled over.
We’re an hour into the drive before I reach down by my feet and dig my hand in my purse to find my cell phone. I know he isn’t sleeping, he’s moaned a few times keeping his eyes shut, and it crosses my mind that maybe I should take him to the hospital or an urgent care or something. Very carefully, I shoot Michelle a text.
Me: Hey, Zach has a really bad headache, what do I do?
Michelle: Where are you?
Her text comes in almost immediately.
Me: A little over an hour north, just turned onto sixty-four at Sylvia. We’re on our way back from Asheville.
Michelle: Did he take anything for it?
Me: No. He says it’s on his desk.
Michelle: Oh, no. Okay, just get back safe and Kyle will get him when you get here.
Me: Does this happen a lot?
Michelle: Yes. See you soon.