“Do we have a waitress?”

I laughed. “Sorta. Beverly’ll come by with plates and glasses. It’s her way of greeting everyone. Anything you need, that’ll be the only time we see her, so be sure to ask for it then.”

He eyed the row of condiments lining the table’s middle. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good. She doesn’t like extra work.”

“Are you talking about me, missy?” Beverly’s voice craned through the air and smacked me on the back of my head. I gave Brett a look of mock panic and turned around, accepting the woman’s fierce hug, her long nails digging into me like it’d been weeks instead of days.

“All good things,” I reassured.

“Humph. Likely. Who’s this?” She eyed Brett like he was a piece of choice fried chicken. “This the rich South Florida man you’ve been running off with?”

Brett’s eyebrows rose at the comment, the dimple in his cheek exposed when he stood and offered his hand across the table. “Brett Jacobs,” he said smoothly. “While I am from South Florida, I can’t vouch for the rest of the description.”

I made a face at him before recovering, smiling at Beverly. “Yes, Brett is my new boyfriend. He’s visiting this weekend from Fort Lauderdale.”

“Oooh ... Fort Lauderdale!” Beverly waved her palms from side to side like a can-can routine. “Fancy! And you’ll be here all weekend?”

“Yes.” Brett smiled and I cringed at his omission of ‘ma’am.’ The word was a Southern requirement, a verbal side dish that must accompany every course. It didn’t matter if the person addressed was six years old. Or twenty. Or ninety. In the South, we said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ ‘sir,’ and ‘ma’am.’ I saw Beverly’s eyes flick to me. She stiffly held out two plates, stacking a couple of silverware rolls on top of them. I took the plates, Brett’s hands reaching out for the glasses.

“The dessert today is lemon pie,” Beverly said pointedly, as if there was a code word stuck somewhere in that sentence.

“Yum.” I set the silverware down. “Thanks Beverly.”

***

“What did I do wrong?” Brett spoke from the side of his mouth as he heaped an impressive amount of mashed potatoes on his plate. Our elbows knocked each other, a woman on my right crowding me in her haste for fried catfish.

“What do you mean?” I pointed to the gravy ladle, and he passed it over.

“The look that passed between you two. I did something wrong.”

“Oh.” I smiled. “You didn’t say ‘ma’am’ when you responded to her.”

He paused, the sudden halt messing up the flow of the line. I bumped him with my hip and nodded at him to continue. “What ... a Southern faux pas?” he asked.

“Yes. Sir.” I added the second word, grinning at him. “See how easy it is?”

He leaned over, pressing a kiss on my cheek, before pausing at my ear. “I love you.” On his way back to standing, my cheeks burning red from the confession, he dipped back down. “Ma’am,” he added, gently pinching my butt.

Wait—what? “Now you got it.” I mumbled, grabbed a roll and looked up at him, his eyes skimming the buffet one last time. I didn’t even know how to respond, didn’t expect the buffet line at Beverly’s to be the place where this moment would happen. But Brett didn’t seem to need a response, his legs already in motion, his broad shoulders moving through the tables.

I followed him back to the table and wished I had chosen a less public venue.

***

Brett’s fork was scraping his plate when the cops showed up. A foursome, swaggering through the front door, shaking hands and greeting citizens on their way to our table. They surrounded us, John Bingham placing a friendly hand on my shoulder as he leaned over and brushed his lips over my cheek. Brett’s eyes watched the movement, his face tightening slightly as he set down his fork. I scooted back, my eyes sweeping over the foursome, identical in their green uniforms, all wearing a relaxed expression of arrogance and control.

Blake Gadsden: Married Marianna Nichols last March, I was a bridesmaid, along with eighteen other emerald-ensconced beauties.

Russell Shaverton: Our high school quarterback. 3 brain cells. 100 good intentions.

Clive Summerbell: Last month, I opened a savings account for him. He once cheated on Janice Weiland but nobody talks about that.

And … finally … the man whose hand still rested on my shoulder. John Bingham: My high school sweetheart. The man I lost my virginity to fourteen years ago. Prom king. Once proposed marriage in a field by his grandfather’s pond with a tiny solitaire. I said no; it didn’t go over well. My father still hasn’t recovered.

I smiled, tilting my head back and narrowing my eyes up at John. “John. What are you boys doing here? Shouldn’t you be keeping the streets safe?”

“Already handled.” He flashed a smile back, the fingers of his hand moving slightly, a caress against the skin of my shoulder.

Brett’s eyes met mine as he stood, the group of men stepping back slightly as the air became more crowded. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you. Brett Jacobs.” He held out his hand, my shoulder spared for a brief moment as John reached across, my eyes watching their hands meet.

“Brett, this is John, Russell, Hank, and Blake.” I zipped around the circle. “Boys, this is my boyfriend, Brett. He’s in town for Chelsea’s wedding.”