Josh did.
“How come you didn’t tell me you’d seen her?” Ben set down his burger and wiped his hands on a napkin.
“Because I haven’t been able to decide in my own head if seeing her is a good idea or not.”
“What was she saying about looking for rehearsal dinner locations? You’ve had that Olive Oil place booked for six months.”
“I lied to her. I ran into her on the street and I asked her if she’d help me look for a location. I wanted to see her again and that was the only reason I could come up with on the spot.”
Ben’s forehead creased. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been driving around town searching for a place to hold the rehearsal dinner when you already have a place? Because you want to spend time with Holly?”
“Yes.”
Ben clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Tell her the truth. About all of it.”
“I can’t. I don’t want to get involved with her.”
Ben’s expression turned pitying. “You’ve got it bad, dude. Seriously bad.”
“This is delicious.” Holly pointed her fork at a plate containing melt-in-your-mouth spare ribs. Oh, how she adored spare ribs. Maybe today hadn’t been the best day to wear a snug belt with her jeans.
Josh finished chewing. “I agree.”
Five days had passed since their discussion at Das Lokal, two since their first visit to the caterer.
Josh had picked her up in his Range Rover an hour ago (She’d blown off Zumba class again, but really, who could think about exercise at a time like this?) and driven them thirty minutes to his caterer’s shop in the nearby town of Hollis. Compared to a big city, Hollis was a pipsqueak. Compared to Martinsburg, a flashy metropolis. Just like at their first visit, the caterer had seated them at her one table, which was framed by a deep bow window. On the far side of the square-paned glass, the afternoon crouched gray and chilly. Inside, the shop brimmed with bright and cheery warmth. It didn’t hurt that the dear lady who owned the place kept bringing them plate after sampling plate of wonderful food.
Josh leaned back in the white iron filigree chair he’d been given, a chair so girly that it made him look extra-manly in comparison. He wore a chocolate-colored sweater that had a very slight V at the neck. The sweater’s austerity, and the way it fit close to his body, suited him. “I’m not much of a party planner,” he said.
“I imagine you’re pretty busy, what with being a technology mogul and all.”
“True.” The wry humor in his eyes made her mouth go dry. “I’m very important.”
“Very. And armed, lest we forget, with an assistant who seems skillful at everything, including party planning.” Holy smoke, these ribs should come with a warning label.
“I have a party planning question.”
“You could speed-dial your assistant.”
“I’d rather ask you.”
Her lips quirked. “All right.”
“Amanda told me she’s having a sit-down dinner at her reception. Should I avoid having a sit-down dinner at the rehearsal dinner?”
Holly considered his question while setting aside her fork. “Your rehearsal dinner is going to be very nice, Josh. I’d counsel you to avoid doing anything similar to what Amanda’s doing at the reception. It’d be a shame to show up the bride.”
“Point taken.” He speared a bite of buttermilk fried chicken. “How would you recommend I serve the meal?”
“Food stations? They’re classier than a buffet, and in keeping with the rustic, Texas feel of the evening.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m guessing you’ll want to begin with appetizers and drinks on the patio at sunset. Weather permitting, of course. It’s Texas. It could be freezing or it might be perfect.”
“Did you try this chicken?”
“Yes. It’s amazing.”
He indicated the brisket. “What about this?”
“Outstanding,” she said.
“You were saying? About the appetizers . . .”
“Right. I’d serve them on the patio. Then, you can have food stations set up inside the barn with the main course dishes, salads, cheeses, fruit, bread. I’m guessing Amanda and Ben will want to say a few words to their guests at some point during the evening?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe dessert could be served to everyone individually, at their tables, during that portion of the evening.”
The caterer, a woman in her early forties wearing a floral apron, bustled in. The kitchen heat had flushed her face but done nothing to stifle her proud smile. “What do you think?” She placed her hands on her hips.
“I think you should apply for Master Chef,” Holly said. “You’d win.”
She beamed. “Have you decided which dishes you like best?” She directed the question to Josh, knowing full well he was the one in possession of a Visa Black Card.
“Whatever the lady decides.”