Page 48 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

When our food is ready, Robin drizzles a spicy pomegranate sauce over our skewers, and we dig in.

It’s a spectacular combination of flavors, textures, and heat levels.

The baba ghanoush has a smoky flavor to it, which Robin explains comes from pre-grilling the eggplant over a wood fire.

I could spend forever asking questions about how she chose the ingredients and sauces, but she keeps getting pulled away by different guests and servers, so I grab a couple bottles of wine and circle the tables, refilling glasses.

With the drinks flowing and the music playing, time flies.

Soon the servers start bringing out the dessert course.

I help them set up three stations with vegan marshmallows, crackers, cookies, and chocolate bars for our guests to make their own mix-and-match s’mores.

If I thought people were thrilled by the hands-on experience before, that was nothing compared to their childlike joy with the playful sweets.

I can’t wait for Robin to try the s’mores myself, so Caro and I go together.

I opt for snickerdoodles, dark chocolate, and a sea-salt-caramel marshmallow.

They grab matcha crackers, white chocolate, and a strawberry marshmallow.

As we hold our roasting sticks over one of the fires, Caro says, “You must be so proud of Robin for pulling this off.”

“I am,” I say. “But she’d be the first to say she couldn’t have done any of it without Jesse. He’s brilliant. Eureka may be pretty liberal, but it’s still in rural Arkansas. Only he could build a thriving vegan restaurant here.”

“I’ve always known he could do it. He just needed someone like Robin to believe in him.

” Caro shifts their eyes from the flames to me.

“I wish y’all weren’t leaving. It’s been so good for Jesse having Robin around.

He can’t stop talking about all the wild dishes they’ve come up with together, and Counterculture is booked up for the next three weeks.

I’ve loved seeing you both too. And you’ve seemed so happy together lately.

I’ve been secretly hoping things would work out and you’d stay here to reopen the inn. ”

I don’t admit that I’ve been picturing the same thing.

Renovating the inn brought back so many memories from the first time, it’s bizarre not to be gearing up to reopen like we did back then.

“Our time here was always meant to be temporary,” I say to Caro.

“I’ve got to get on the road for some commissions.

Robin has to move on to her next restaurant.

And the inn will be in good hands with Clint. ”

“Good Hands is what all my exes call me,” Clint says, appearing beside me with his own s’mores supplies. “Whatcha talking about? How I’m probably going to turn the Hummingbird into a gay bathhouse?”

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” I say, wrapping an arm around Clint’s shoulders. “As long as you don’t burn it down. Or turn it into a parking lot. That was Miss Addy’s greatest fear.”

“This town could use more parking,” Clint says with a fake musing expression. “How much do you think renting one of those wrecking-ball trucks costs?”

I shove him playfully.

“Kidding, of course,” Clint says. “I love the inn just like it is. The only thing that could make it better is if you and Robin were running it instead of me.”

“That’s what I said,” Caro adds.

Noticing my marshmallow has reached the perfect shade of golden brown, I pull it from the fire.

“The inn has taught me everything I needed to learn from it. It’s someone else’s turn now.

I have to let go at some point, don’t I?

” I say, sandwiching the molten sugar goo between my snickerdoodles and chocolate.

“Says who? Hold on tight like the rest of us lifers,” Caro says as they construct their own s’more. We each take a bite, then look at each other with wide eyes. “Holy shit,” Caro says through a sticky mouthful. “This is ridiculously good. Like, it should be illegal.”

I laugh. “I’m glad it’s not, because I really want another one.”

Caro, Clint, and I chat for a few more minutes before getting pulled away by other guests.

At some point, Robin pauses the music to thank everyone again for coming, and the applause is so loud that I worry we might get a noise complaint from the neighbors—until I remember most of the neighbors are here.

Robin looks so moved by the outpouring of love that I think she might cry.

I feel a rush of guilt for all the times I’ve been jealous of how Robin talks to fans.

She shouldn’t act demure or embarrassed by the attention when she’s this absurdly talented.

And I shouldn’t feel threatened by her accepting the praise and opportunities she deserves.

Robin is an incredible chef. I’ve always known that. Other people ought to see it too.

Even with dinner completed, no one seems ready to leave.

Most of the guests stick around well past ten p.m., chatting, dancing to the music, and drinking the ever-flowing wine.

I can’t help but remember our wedding day all those years ago, when I felt like an outsider looking in on the event.

Maybe this is how I was supposed to feel back then: like I’m at the center of the action, busy but also content, wrapped in love by everyone here.

I’m standing near the emptied shed, observing the party, feeling a rush of gratitude for all this inn has brought me, when a strong burst of wind rushes through the trees.

I watch in what feels like slow motion as an ember from the nearest campfire swirls into the air, floats across the yard, lands in a pile of fallen leaves near the porch, and immediately crackles into a shockingly large flame.