I can’t think of a better objection than I’d prefer to have her all to myself. Instead, I agree.
“Hey, man.” I kick the end of his bed. His eyes jolt open and he lifts one side of his headphones. “Want to go to Hennie’s with us?”
“You ever had hot chicken?”
I shake my head.
A wicked grin twists over his lips as he sits upright. “I’ll come. This will be worth seeing.”
Outside of a sports event, I’ve never heard so much smack talk as when the three of them start in on what I’m going to think of Nashville’s famous dish. It lasts the entire drive to the nearest location. Cyrus continues it as he backs into the glass door at the restaurant.
I block out their taunts and check out my surroundings. Bright, purple high back booths run the perimeter of the space with a sprinkling of tables. The black checkered floor is clean, and glowing neon illuminates a sign hanging in the front window that declares “hotter than hellfire.”
“You better go for the mild,” Poppy advises me as she orders hers hot. There are five levels of heat: mild, medium, hot, hellfire, and damnation.
“Really? You think I can’t handle it?”
“Darling, I’m half-Indian. I can handle my heat.” She keeps to my side, and I can’t help noticing that she’s putting some distance between her and Cyrus. I make a mental note to ask Adair about it later.
“Hellfire,” I tell the girl behind the counter. This earns a round of disbelief from the others. They’re so loud that a beautiful black woman sticks her head out from the back.
“Why are y’all making such a ruckus?” she asks.
“Sorry, Ms. Palmer,” Adair calls. “We brought a Yankee and he ordered his chicken hellfire hot.”
“You think you can handle that?” she asks, studying me shrewdly.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “It’s not like they don’t have hot food in New York.”
“We’ll see.” She doesn’t look convinced of that.
We take our number and find a booth. Adair slides in next to me, and for a moment, Poppy looks like she might try to as well. Finally, she sits next to Cyrus. They’re both careful to keep their bodies from touching. It’s like there’s a line of tape down the center of the seat that only they can see.
“Palmer,” I say, “like Darcy?”
“That’s her mother, Henrietta. She keeps close tabs on all her restaurants,” Cyrus explains.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if your chicken comes out damnation hot,” Adair warns me. “You don’t brag to a Palmer about how much heat you can take.”
“Where’s your faith in me?” I elbow her gently, and Adair moves a little closer so that our arms and legs brush against each other when we move. Across the table, Cyrus raises an eyebrow that says friends, huh?
When it comes to Adair, I’m not making any assumptions. We haven’t exactly decided we’re anything more than friends, even if her body keeps sending signals for me to cross the line. Every time I get close, someone interrupts us. Even tonight we have two chaperones. Maybe I’m reading Adair all wrong. Maybe the reason nothing’s happened is because she’s been so careful to keep herself from being alone with me.
Our order arrives with a bit of fanfare. Ms. Palmer herself brings out a tall glass of milk for me. I make up my mind then that there’s no way I’m reaching for it.
“Why’s it red?” I ask when they put the plate down in front of me.
Instead of an answer, everyone laughs, but no one louder or harder than Hennie herself. She heads back to the kitchen, shaking her head and howling, muttering why’s it red the whole way.
No one picks up their food. They’re too busy watching me.
“After you,” Adair finally says with as much sugar as the sweet tea she insisted I order.
I pick a piece up, say a silent prayer that I don’t make an ass out of myself, and take a bite. It’s hot—like singe off your tastebuds hot—but it’s also delicious. I swallow it. “Not bad.”
“Need some milk?” Cyrus asks.
I shake my head and take another bite.
“Okay, you can keep him,” Poppy proclaims.
So this was some type of test and I must have passed, because Adair wraps her arms around my neck like she’s just been presented with a prize.
“He’s all mine,” she declares without a hint of reservation.
I don’t even think about it. Leaning over, I press my lips to hers. It doesn’t matter that her friends are with us or that my mouth feels like I just ate a beehive. I’ve kissed her a thousand times with my eyes and tasted her words like they came from my own lips, but nothing prepares me for finally having her, even just for this one moment. Nothing ever could. Nothing ever will. I know someday I won’t remember what she’s wearing or what’s said after I finally release her back to the wild world. All I’ll remember is the way she sighs into my kiss and this unshakeable feeling of finally finding home.
30
Adair
Present Day
I roll over, clutching a sheet to my chest, and stare around the unfamiliar room, my heart beginning to pound as hard as my head. I have no idea where I am. Next to me, the bed is empty. It’s been years since I woke up this hungover—or this confused. It doesn’t help that blank walls stare back, giving me nothing to ground myself with. No pictures. I look for any clue. One nightstand with no photos. My shoes and jeans on a rug next to the bed. I turn toward the blinding light and realize there’s an unbroken pane of windows and it’s clearly morning. Outside it’s all unbroken blue skies. I’m up high—penthouse high. This realization sinks in and then plummets right into a pit in my stomach.
I spent the night with Sterling.
I can recall most of the evening prior to leaving the Barrelhouse. After that, I
