Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

We were setting up the tables and serving station earlier, and she was telling me this story about a night when a reality TV star rented out her restaurant for a private party and informed the staff that a group would be hounding the front door trying to get in, but that the staff shouldn’t worry because they’re paid fans.

It was a weird story, and every time she stopped to imitate this pseudo-celebrity, she tried to do an accent. I think it was supposed to be a New Jersey accent or New York or something, but she’d scrunch up her face to try to pull it off, and I just couldn’t stop laughing.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to laugh like that. So freely.

Seeing her laugh is just as satisfying, too. It makes me want to reach out and take her face in my hands and kiss her until she’s not laughing anymore.

“Grab a plate, Wes,” Memphis says, nudging me slightly with his elbow as he passes by me with his own plate full of food. “There’s a spot for you next to me.”

I make quick work of loading up with pesto pasta, a chicken slider, mashed potatoes, and the vinaigrette salad I was struggling with a few weeks back. I finally perfected the dressing yesterday. The missing ingredient turned out to be mint.

“This salad is wild,” Naomi says as I take a seat between her and Memphis. “Who knew that peaches would taste good in a salad?”

I spear my fork into my pasta. “I’m glad you like it.”

The sound of the restaurant door opening has the entire room turning to look, and my stomach flips when I see Murphy walking in.

My throat goes dry.

She looks . . . incredible.

She always does, whether she’s wearing little sleep shorts or sweaty from an hour-long walk in the blazing-hot sun. But tonight she’s wearing a gauzy summer dress that makes her look …

Wow.

When Murphy finishes grabbing her plate, she takes the empty seat across from me, and I can’t help but watch her. Her smile is wide, and her eyes are bright.

“This really is incredible, Wes,” Jack says, snagging my attention away from Murphy and over to where he sits at the head of the long table. “I can’t remember the last time I had such a delicious meal.”

Then he raises his glass.

“To the chef,” he says, and then everyone is lifting their glasses and echoing him.

I lock eyes with Murphy as her glass is in the air, and she gives me a soft smile I’m not expecting. “To the chef,” she says, her voice low and raspy.

I smile back because looking at her means I can’t not.

“You know what this calls for.” At the other end of the table, Keith Trager is setting down his wineglass. “A little music. What do you say, Murphy?”

“Oh yes, please,” Brooke says, her face lighting up. “Murphy, you’ve always played so beautifully. Especially that one song you wrote. Something about mistakes or—” She snaps a few times. “You know the one. You played it at The Standard when they first started doing those open mic nights.”

When I look to Murphy, there’s a panicked look in her eyes. But then she blinks a few times and it’s gone.

“‘Sacrifice,’” she says with a tight smile. “But I don’t have my guitar with me.”

“Why don’t you go grab it from the house, Murphy.”

Her head whips to the side at the sound of her father’s voice.

“It’ll only take a couple minutes. And”—he looks around, then back at his daughter—“I think everyone would like to hear you play.”

Something passes between the two of them—a tense, uncomfortable look, like Jack doesn’t really want to ask her but is doing it anyway—and a few seconds later she stands, crosses the room, and exits out the front door.

“That’s why she moved to LA, wasn’t it?” Brooke asks Jack. “To play music?”

There’s a pause before he replies, “Yeah. She wanted to be a singer.”

“She had the best voice in choir,” Quinn announces, one hand resting on her stomach and a big smile on her face. “And it wasn’t just me who thought so. Everybody did.”