Free One Northern Morning (A Novella) (Southern Nights Novella Series #2) by Marissa Carmel

Winter break
    Freshman year

    H e didn’t show up . . .
    I’m standing across from a camera crew in my father’s newly opened restaurant in our hometown. You know, the one he moved us to my senior year of high school—Nowhere, Alabama. It’s a full-service diner with a modern twist on down-home cooking. I know he’s my dad and all, and I’m supposed to brag, but the food really is amazing. Especially the wildly flavored milkshakes. My favorite, the frozen hot chocolate. It reminds me of New York when he would take me to Serendipity on a Sunday afternoon. Those were the best times. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until he started concocting his own recipe and using me as his tasting guinea pig.
    The cooking channel isn’t here to feature Celebrity Chef Riley’s new eating establishment, though. No, they’re here doing a segment on master chefs and their children. Which means I’m on camera right now. Me. I hate the spotlight, but I want to support my father. So, over the last several hours, with bright lights shining in my face, I’ve assisted as he made our favorite meal—the one I would demand as a child. Spaghetti and meatballs.
    Kam was supposed to be here. He knew how important this was to me—he knew how nervous I was—and he promised. He’s been doing that to me a lot lately—making promises and never following through. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose. At least, I keep telling myself that.
    He’s a pretty popular person at the moment. He led Alabama to the conference finals, and then won. As a freshman. That’s almost unheard of, unless you’re Kamdyn Ellis.
    He’s a natural born star.
    And my absent boyfriend.
    I watch, trying to hide the disappointment, as my father presents a plate of perfectly coiled spaghetti with meatballs and happily garnishes it with a sprig of parsley. When he’s finished, he wraps one arm around my shoulders and smiles into the camera.
    “And there you have it. Spaghetti and meatballs a la Laney and Riley Summers,” he says in this watered down Southern accent.
    “Thanks for joining us. May your plates be full and your company be plentiful.” He throws in his signature catch phrase—the one he became known for on the cooking competition that made him famous. It’s something similar to what my grandmother used to say when we would sit down for holiday meals. Food and family, she firmly believed, are two staples that go perfectly together.
    “And cut,” the director yells with a huge grin. “Perfect.” He shakes my father’s hand zealously. “You two were great. Great chemistry. Laney, you’re a natural.”
    “Thank you.” I think. There didn’t feel anything natural about being filmed for three hours. But if he liked it, that’s all that matters.
    “Hungry, kiddo? I promised the crew some dinner when we wrapped up.”
    “No. I’m good, Dad.” I wrap my arms around myself. My stomach is in knots, and my chest is aching. He didn’t show up. “Maybe a milkshake later.”
    “You got it.” He knocks my chin with his fist, lightly, lovingly. He knows something’s wrong.
    A second later, the bells of the diner jingle as Kam comes barreling through the front door. “Did I miss it?”
    I stare at him silently over the counter. “You missed it.” I try to keep my emotions in check, but I am so fed up.
    “Shit. Laney, I’m so sorry.” He starts his spiel. “My agent called last minute. A reporter wanted an interview. It was only supposed to take a few minutes—”
    “I got it, Kam,” I interrupt him curtly.
    “Lemon . . .” He coos my nickname remorsefully. I’m not mad. I’m just hurt, and Kam’s apologies just aren’t cutting it anymore. No matter how sincere.
    “No more apologies.” I shake my head sorrowfully. “Why don’t we just call this what it is.”
    “What’s that?” Kam’s baby blue’s flash with concern.
    “Quits.”
    “This is not quits, Lemon.” He’s stern.
    “I can’t do this anymore.” My voice