Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Across the dining room I spot Deja and Kassim standing with a man I don’t recognize. He’s of middle age and average height, and standing next to a petite woman dressed in a white chef’s coat and slim-fitting pants. Vashti Burns’s reputation and culinary expertise helped pull us back from the edge of ruin. Her dark brown skin is a gorgeous contrast to the auburn-colored natural hair she wears cropped close. Having less hair gives her high cheekbones room to show off. Her full lips spread, flashing straight, white teeth in a smile up at the tall man beside her.
Josiah.
My ex-husband is one of those guys. A man who captures your attention with the breadth of his shoulders and a purposeful stride, long legs devouring each step like he needs to get someplace but won’t be rushed. I was a restaurant hostess when we first met. Josiah, waiting for a table with a group of friends, seduced my ears before I even laid eyes on him, that rich laugh of his unfurling like black silk ribbon and making heads turn. Turned my head. Not that he’s had much to laugh about the last few years. Hell, none of us have, but he’s laughing now, with our pretty new chef.
A group of laughing women spill through the front door, the perfume-scented clique of stilettos and body-con dresses crowding around the hostess podium. At Grits, your jeans are just as at home as your Sunday best. Or your in da club best in their case. Offering them a smile as the hostess checks them in, I walk toward Josiah and the kids. When I’m just a few feet away, Josiah glances up and his smile does that thing where it freezes at the sight of me and then melts completely into a neutral line. It stings a little, that the ease we used to share is gone. It’s one of the things we never recovered from the most painful season of our lives. That ease came with love, with passion, with partnership. At least we’re still partners, even if only in business and raising these kids.
“Hey,” Josiah murmurs when I join their little group, his voice a low, deep, familiar rumble. “I didn’t realize you were here. Thought you’d dropped them off.”
“Uh, no.” I pat the suit bag and angle a polite smile to Vashti and the stranger. “Just need to change before I go.”
“Let me introduce you,” he says. “Yasmen, this is William Granders, a food critic for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. William, Yasmen Wade, my business partner.”
A food critic. So that’s why he’s at Soigné, our best table.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Granders,” I say, extending a hand to him. He returns the handshake with a smile before taking a sip of his Bordeaux.
“Good to see you again, Yasmen,” Vashti says, her voice well-modulated and pleasant.
“You too.”
Even though Vashti’s been here for about a year, we don’t know each other that well. I was still on hiatus when Josiah hired her after a string of replacements failed following Aunt Byrd’s passing. Vashti has the culinary training and that something-something Byrd used to say the most gifted cooks are born with. She’s been a lifesaver, but something I can’t put my finger on has kept the two of us from becoming friends. The customers and staff love her. My kids love her. Josiah…rests one big hand on her shoulder. The touch is innocuous. Platonic, but something about it…niggles.
“Hey, kids, let’s grab a table so you can eat and get started on homework,” I say, offering Mr. Granders a smile. “Hope you enjoy your meal.”
“How could I not?” He shoots Vashti an admiring look. “You’ve got yourself a rare gem here. Haven’t had chicken and dumplings like this since…well, ever.”
“We’re very lucky,” I agree with a smile.
“There’s a booth at the back near the kitchen,” Josiah says, dropping a quick kiss on Deja’s hair. “I’ll check on you guys in a bit. Decide what you want.”
“Ribs,” Kassim pipes up, licking his lips.
“Boy, you’re gonna turn into a rib.” Vashti laughs. “You get them every time. When you gonna try my chicken-fried steak?”
“Next time?” Kassim shrugs, his smile sheepish. If Deja’s my mini-me, Kassim is Josiah’s.
“Kids, let’s go so Mr. Ganders can finish his meal,” I say, looking back to the critic. “It was nice meeting you.”
Once we reach the booth Josiah reserved, I grab two menus from the table and hand them to the kids.
“Figure out what you want,” I say. “Your dad will come over to get your orders.”
“I’m starving.” Kassim opens the menu, eyes wide and scanning all the options.
“Eat. Home. Homework,” I remind them, looking from one to the other. “In that order. Got it?”
“Got it,” Deja says, her face obscured by the open menu.
“All right.” I shift the suit bag over my shoulder. “I need to change.”