have been a nightmare in and of itself. She wouldn’t be able to cope with Sadie Hawkins–type nerves on such a regular basis.
No. Way.
Maybe it would have been easier if she lived in a big city like Raleigh or Charlotte—somewhere more metropolitan. But her family had roots here. The Grille itself was a reminder that the Sylvesters had been in Spring Forest for generations. Amanda was happy in her hometown.
She just found it much simpler to go it alone.
Amanda gripped the edge of the counter and smiled at the little boy, who had the same striking eyes as his father. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
He tightened his grip on his triceratops until his little knuckles went white.
“This is Dillon,” Ryan said. “Barbecue is his favorite. I usually try to pick up our dinner on my way home, but thought he could use an outing, so here we are.”
Here they were indeed.
“Is that right? Is barbecue really your favorite?” She moved around the counter and crouched down so she was on eye level with Dillon.
Her effort earned her a nod and a tiny hint of a smile.
“Of course it is.” Ryan gave his son’s hand a squeeze, and there was a new tenderness in his tone that did nothing to help the weak-in-the-knees situation. “We never lie about barbecue, do we, bud?”
He’d mirrored his words from this afternoon.
I never lie about coffee.
Cute.
Way too cute. Adorable, actually.
“Hot dogs are the only thing I cook that he’s interested in eating. Even single fathers know kids can’t eat hot dogs seven nights a week.” Ryan’s smile turned sheepish.
Why did he seem even more attractive now that she knew he was a single dad? All he needed now was a puppy in his arms and she’d be a goner.
But the thought of puppies reminded her of Tucker, which in turn reminded her that she was supposed to be making calls to pit masters to help the shelter, not standing around mooning over her secret crush and his bashful mini-me.
She stood and nudged the paper bags closer to him. “I hope you enjoy it.”
He took the hint this time and reached for the food. “We will. Thank you...” His usual unreadable expression gave way to one of befuddlement—charming Hugh Grant–style befuddlement, because of course. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Amanda.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Belle refilling the coffeepot just a few feet away, looking pleased as punch. “Amanda Sylvester.”
He nodded. “Have a good evening, Amanda Sylvester.”
And then he was gone, only instead of walking down Main Street with his signature brisk pace and ramrod-straight spine, he matched his steps with Dillon’s and rested one of his big hands on the little boy’s shoulder.
Amanda’s heart gave a tiny squeeze.
She ignored it as best she could and swiveled to face Belle. “You did that on purpose. You knew I was distracted, so you caught me off guard and had me come out here to deliver his dinner.”
Belle grinned from ear to ear. “Of course I did, but look on the bright side. At least now you know he’s not married.”
Amanda almost wished she wasn’t privy to that fascinating bit of information. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, remember?”
Or, God forbid, a husband. While Amanda struggled in the small-town dating world, her sister married the first boy who’d ever asked her out. Alexis and Paul had gotten engaged right out of high school and look what had happened. She’d had six kids in eight years and no longer had time to brush her teeth, much less run a business.
No, thank you.
Amanda loved her nieces and nephews, but every time she babysat for them, the night ended in some kind of disaster. Under her watch, Alexis and Paul’s living room walls had been “decorated” in permanent marker and their toilet had been plugged up with stuffed animals. How was it easier to walk six dogs than it was to supervise the same number of rambunctious children?
“His son is awfully cute, though. Don’t you think?” Belle arched an eyebrow.
Yes, she definitely thought so. He had such a quiet way about him. So serious, just like his dad. Something about the way he’d held on so tightly to his red dinosaur made her want to cook up some comfort food for him. Macaroni and cheese, topped with a thick layer of toasted bread crumbs, maybe—followed by a creamy coconut pie. Her nieces and nephews loved her coconut pie.
She glanced at Belle who was watching her as if she knew exactly what Amanda was thinking.
“Stop looking at me like that.” She rolled her eyes, but Belle’s grin widened, so she added, “You’re fired again, by the way.”
Belle winked. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you.”
* * *
“Look at that.” Ryan pointed his fork at the empty plate sitting in front of Dillon. “You ate every bite.”
His son nodded and smiled a crooked smile that hit Ryan dead in the center of his chest.
He hadn’t been flirting when he’d told Amanda Sylvester that barbecue was Dillon’s favorite food. It was the truth. He’d simply been carrying on a normal conversation. It didn’t have to mean anything, and it definitely didn’t have to mean that he found her attractive or that the gentle way she’d spoken to Dillon had made him feel oddly emotional for some reason.
Except he did find her attractive, and the soothing tone of her voice as she’d talked to his son had done something to him—something strange and calming. For a split second, his worries had slipped away and he’d felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. Which meant flirting with her hadn’t been meaningless, although he didn’t want to think about that right now. He wanted to enjoy the unexpected lightness he’d felt as he’d left the Main Street Grille. Hell, he would have bottled that feeling if he could.
“Want some of mine?” Ryan slid his plate toward Dillon.
The boy shook his head. His face and hands were sticky with barbecue sauce, as was the red dinosaur toy, which was now standing on the table, poised to strike at Dillon’s half-full glass of milk.
Ryan’s in-laws would have been horrified. Annabelle and Finch Brewster would never have allowed Dillon to bring a toy to the table, and the head shake would have been deemed wholly unacceptable.
Say “no, thank you.” Where are your manners, Dillon?
Ryan could practically hear the voice of Maggie’s mother in his head. No matter how many times he’d told Annabelle and Finch about what the child psychologist had recommended about not trying to force Dillon to speak, they continued to press him about please and thank you, yes sir and no ma’am.
It irritated Ryan to no end. He was doing everything he could to protect his son’s fragile emotional state, and whenever they were around, they sabotaged him at every turn. Sometimes he felt like it was intentional, like they were trying to prevent him from fully bonding with Dillon.
Surely that wasn’t true. Annabelle and Finch were Dillon’s grandparents, and in their own dysfunctional way, they loved him. Ryan did his best to chalk their misplaced interference up to grief. Maggie had been their only child.
But they were also lifelong members of the country club set, so their world revolved around appearances and social niceties. They’d liked Ryan better when he was a political editor at one of the most esteemed newspapers in the country instead of a journalistic one-man show in the Deep South. And sadly, they’d liked their grandson