Read Online From Scratch by Rachel Goodman - Free Book Online Page B

would mean everything to him.” She pushes off the counter and comes to stand beside me, cinnamon griddle cake in hand. She is quiet for a moment, staring at me with an intensity I don’t understand, but finally she says, “The competition is right after Halloween, so you’ll still be here anyway. Then you can fly back to Chicago. Everything else, including the diner, will sort itself out.” As if her guilt-inducing words aren’t enough, she lays it on thick with the puppy-dog eyes.
    I feel myself softening like cereal in milk. “I’ll consider it.” Plucking a griddle cake from the stack, I fold it in half and take a dramatic bite. The texture is fluffy, and the subtle sweetness of the vanilla extract blends perfectly with the sharp contrast of the cinnamon. “But I’m not making peach cobbler.”
    She sucks in her cheeks as if she’s battling against a grin. “Of course not.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, but her expression says, You’ll be eating those words.
    THIRTY MINUTES LATER I’m riding shotgun in Annabelle’s Mini Cooper on the way to Junior League headquarters. Signs, cars, and skyscrapers whip past my window as Annabelle speeds across town. Her haphazard lane changes make me feel like I’m a stunt double in an action movie. My feet push against the floorboard and my wrist is sore from using the dashboard to keep me from crashing through the windshield.
    “Hey, shouldn’t we be going that way?” I say as we pass our exit.
    “Quick detour,” she says, jerking the steering wheel violently. The car cuts across three lanes of traffic. Horns blare from every direction. A truck barrels past us. The driver yells something out his window and flips us off. Annabelle doesn’t seem to notice. “I need to drop off some flyers for an event next week.”
    What feels like a nanosecond later, the car swings into the parking lot of a strip mall near the SMU campus. Annabelle parks the car in the handicap spot in front of the entrance to the bookstore, leaving the engine idling.
    “I’ll only be a minute,” she says, grabbing a thick manila envelope from the backseat before dashing inside.
    While I wait, I turn on the radio, pressing the preprogrammed buttons until I settle on a station playing a sad country rock song. There’s a familiarity about it—the haunting melody, maybe, or the way it speaks of struggling to survive once-requited love—even though I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.
    The song ends, replaced by the radio DJ’s voice. “That was ‘August,’ the latest single from our own local boys, the Randy Hollis Band.”
    I gasp, scrambling to turn up the volume, wishing I’d paid more attention yesterday when I saw them at the Prickly Pear.
    “Tickets for their upcoming tour go on sale Saturday,” the DJ continues, “and their new record, Resolution, hits stores next month. We’ll be giving away advance copies all week, so stay tuned—”
    Silently promising to order a copy, I adjust the volume and check my watch. Five minutes have passed since Annabelle went inside. I wait for five more. People continue to walk in and out of the bookstore. Still no sign of Annabelle.
    Sighing, I turn off the ignition, grab my purse from the backseat, and go inside, glancing around. When I don’t see her anywhere, I take a quick stroll along the perimeter, past the literature and young adult sections. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of her in the college apparel section, but she’s not perusing the merchandise. Instead she appears to be in a very tense and awkward conversation with Wes.
    His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his eyes are glued to the sign hanging above the entrance to the university textbook area. He’s wearing a backward baseball cap, his curly hair sticking out in tufts underneath, and a bitter expression. Annabelle’s arms are crossed over her chest. Her cheeks are flushed and wet. From my vantage point, I can see her bottom lip quivering. The way