Page 7 of Tell Me I'm Not Dreaming

LYRIC

L yric and her friends are in her kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner.

They each take turns hosting every other month, and while the other ladies have nice homes, they always prefer coming to Lyric’s.

Bridget once said that Lyric’s house gives happy, homey vibes.

The decor is pure Southern hospitality. She has a front porch with a swing and a small table surrounded by wicker chairs.

Her interior furniture is hard to find antiques, such as a large white wood dining table with matching chairs and a China cabinet.

The color scheme is a bright pale yellow with splashes of white.

The house could double as a high-end B besides she knows exactly where they’re going.

Ranson

They arrive at a park in El Segundo where a mini food truck festival is being held. The smells coming from each truck make Ranson’s stomach growl.

Lyric looks at him and smiles that effortlessly sexy smile of hers.

“You hungry, Mr. Ranson?”

“Starving. I haven’t had time to eat anything.”

“That’s what I thought. I was going to come here after we were done talking, but you needed to get out of the house and far away from all that noise.”

They’re in line at the Frank’s Franks food truck. Lyric has stated that these are the best hot dogs she has ever had and guarantees Ranson will be saying the same thing. Considering he’s had the $169 one at Tokyo Dog, he’s excited to try them.

“Hello there, Lyric,” Frank greets her. He turns to Ranson. “Is this young man your fella?”

“No.” She gives a demure smile that makes Ranson want to take her in his arms and kiss her. “Ranson, this is Frank Sims, the owner. He runs this truck with his wife Eleanor and his daughter Ruby.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Ranson shakes his hand. “Lyric tells me these are the best hot dogs she’s ever had.”

“And that’s why she’s my favorite customer.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lyric smiles.

“You’re more than welcome. Now what can I get you two?” Frank asks.

“You first,” Ranson tells Lyric.

“I’ll have two of the Franks originals with peppers and onions please. And a cherry soda,” Lyric says.

“And I’ll have four Frank’s originals with chili and cheese, topped with bacon and a root bear.”

“Okay, that’ll be $52.72.”

Ranson pays and collects their order. They grab their sodas before finding a bench and taking a seat.

“I have to admit that hot dogs at a food truck festival surprised me.”

“Why?”

“You just seem so cosmopolitan. I’d picture you at a fancy bistro and living in a loft in downtown LA.”

Lyric chuckles. “Well, I live in a nice two-story house in El Segundo, and while I do enjoy a nice bistro, I’m a meat and potatoes kind of girl. Besides, Mr. Frank reminds me of my daddy and my uncles; hard-working men who built something for themselves and their families.”

“Sounds like you come from some good salt of the earth folks.”

“I do.”

“That’s what’s up. That’s sounds like my mom’s side of the family.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“Where is your mom? She’s like a real-life Carmen San Diego.” Lyric chuckles.

Ranson barks out a laugh.

Lilian Hamilton pulled the ultimate disappearing act five years ago.

By that point, Chance, the youngest Hamilton, was sixteen, and Ranson’s mom had been living in LA for fourteen years.

She was homesick and yearned to be back there.

She told the other ladies and the kids. They all threw her a going away party.

Parker tried to convince her to stay, but she refused.

She hasn’t been back to LA since, but the kids, Momma Dola and Momma Peyton visit her at least once a year.

“She wouldn’t want me to tell you.” Ranson smirks.

“I get it. I’m protective of my momma too.”

“Now, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”