Page 206 of Spicy Ever After
Especially if we have to sell the farm, I don’t add.
And only then do I remember Grif and my phone. I scan the floor at our feet and snatch up my cell.
Griffin hung up. Of course he did.
But there are two texts waiting for me.
Griffin: And you were worried she’d left you?! Damn. Kennedy and I could hear her shouting about how much she’d missed you from over here!
Griffin: Our conversation isn’t over, btw. Go be with your girl. We’ll talk tomorrow.
I manage not to roll my eyes as I tuck my phone in my back pocket.
“You checked bags?”
Hattie nods. “Bags and my sewing machine.”
I blink.
She took her sewing machine.
It’s another gut punch. A reminder that she knew she’d be leaving for a long time. She knew and she didn’t tell me.
I want to be able to let that go.
The truth is I’m not there yet.
But I’m so fucking glad she’s home.
I take her by the hand, a claiming, and we head down.
Twenty minutes later, she’s in the passenger seat of my truck with her sewing machine stashed at her feet, her bags in the bed. She’s beaming at me, and I realize what’s different about her.
“You got some sun while you were gone.”
“Did I?” She flips down the visor to check herself in the mirror. She blinks at her reflection. “Whoa. It looks like I’m wearing bronzer.” She angles her gaze. “And got highlights.”
A grin splits my face. “You didn’t notice?”
Shrugging, she flips the visor shut. “I guess I was outside more than usual. And I walked a lot. And went to Balboa Park. And one afternoon, my group mates and I went to the zoo.”
Not proud of it, but I’m jealous of all of the missed moments. The people who got to watch her enjoying San Diego. How they had her for almost as long as I did before she left.
I can’t get that time back, but maybe she’ll share her memories with me.
We pull out of the parking lot. “Tell me about it. Tell me everything.” Then I find my manners. “If you want to. Are you hungry? Should we get food first?”
Hattie surprises me by turning in the front seat to face me. Her hand lands on my forearm. “I want to tell you everything. And I am too hungry to think. Can we get pizza?”
“Pizza Village okay?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Dine in or carry out?” I ask.
Hattie snorts. “Carry out. I’ve been surrounded by thousands of people all day. The only person I want to see or hear or touch—” she squeezes my forearm and my nerves thrill, “is you.”
An idea takes shape. Holding her hand, I call in an extra-large cheese, black olive, and mushroom—Hattie’s choice—and the order is ready when we reach the legendary pizza joint on Lafayette’s northside.
