“What I always do.” He kisses my eyes and then my nose. “Whatever it takes.”
“What did you do, baby?” I repeat, but this time brushing the wild spill of hair back from his face.
“He asked me what it would take to close Glory Bee down for the week,” Aunt Ruthie answers for him. “And he’s covering our losses.”
I glance over my shoulder at Aunt Ruthie, rinsing a big bucket of black-eyed peas, wearing her “no shame in my game” face.
“Unlike you,” she says with a grin. “I have no trouble taking money from your rich boyfriend.”
Rhyson’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly, but I don’t miss the satisfaction in his eyes. Still, his shoulders tense under my hands while he waits for my response. I know I’m stubborn and sometimes unreasonable, but this was sweet for Aunt Ruthie. And she really hasn’t had many breaks since Mama passed. And none before.
“Thank you,” I whisper, tipping up to kiss his chin.
For a moment, he’s not sure what to say. He studies me an extra second before kissing behind my ear.
“Any time. Every time.”
“It’s a good thing, too,” Aunt Ruthie says. “Already had a few reporters nosing around.”
“What?” All softness drops from Rhyson’s expression. “You didn’t tell me that. I can get security here today.”
“No need for that. We threw ‘em off the scent.” Aunt Ruthie shakes her head and scrunches her nose. “Closing the diner and keeping a low profile with just a few folks we know we can trust should be fine.”
“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “Everyone coming today will be a friend who won’t say anything. We’ll be in the backyard. It’ll be fun. We’ll show you all the wonderful things the country has to offer.”
He tightens his arms around me, a smile softening his lips.
“I already got the best thing this place has to offer.”
There are some days that bundle all your favorite things into a series of moments you’d live over and over again if you could. Today is one of those days. I’m surrounded by people I’d forgotten were my favorites, people I can tell aren’t sure what to make of me now, but are trying to act normal. Trying to reconcile the little girl who sang in the choir and volunteered at the homeless shelter every Christmas Eve with the woman who’s been on tour and in the spotlight. Whose well-documented relationship is speculated about on every blog and entertainment report Whose rock star lover sits right beside her at the picnic table behind our little house, and can’ t keep his hands to himself.
It’s subtle. Maybe. Probably not, but Rhyson doesn’t seem to care, reveling in the chance to be open with his affection. Arm around my shoulder and kissing my hair while we watch the kids play kickball. Showing off for me and yelling “Did you see that?” across the yard when he beats Mr. McClausky at horseshoes. Weaving our fingers together on the table while he talks football with a few of the guys. This is Georgia, where college football is a religion, and the SEC its mightiest denomination. The men’s fervor about it breeds humor in Rhyson’s eyes and around his mouth, and the more they forget he’s famous, the more he relaxes, seeming as at ease in a group of strangers as I’ve ever seen him.
“Now what’s so great about this chicken in the pot?” He holds a golden crispy drumstick poised at his mouth.
“Oh, just taste and you’ll see.” I lick my lips, eyeing the food piled high on my plate. Yams, corn pudding, black-eyed peas, potato salad, and the centerpiece, my favorite chicken fried in a big old grease-filled black cast iron pot.
To call his first bite rapturous would not be an exaggeration. I’ve seen Rhyson in orgasm, and I’m a little insulted that his response to a drumstick doesn’t look much different.
“That,” he says, pointing to the chicken he holds in a death grip. “Is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Good, huh?” I bite into the huge, crispy breast Aunt Ruthie set aside for me.
“Good is a paltry word for it.” He digs in, groaning over every morsel until his plate is nearly clean.
“Kai, will you cook chicken in the pot for me when we get back to LA?”
“What?” I laugh and scrape the last vestiges of corn pudding from my plate. “Set up a big ol’ black pot by your fancy swimming pool?”
“Why not?” He grins, reaching for his third piece of chicken. “Grip would love this.”
“How’s his project going?”
“Okay.” Rhyson shrugs, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin. “I’m supposed to be executive producing it, so I’ll have to get back to LA soon.”
I’m determined not to let my disappointment show. I shred a roll into tiny pieces on my plate, eyes glued to the remnants of my meal.
“Hey.” Rhyson cups my chin, gently tilting until our eyes connect. “Not for a few days.”