The place was a joint in the best sense of the word. Somewhere in Midtown, it was hidden and small, with no discernible name on the outside of the old, painted brick building. The interior was packed to the gills with patrons enjoying a wide variety of Memphis cuisine along with the live music pumping hot and moody from the tiny stage. The hostess led them to a high-top table, where they ended up jammed elbow to elbow so that they could hear each other speak. That didn’t do a damn thing for Gemma’s nerves. She looked on the upcoming conversation like a root canal. Painful and necessary, and hopefully an experience never to be repeated. She was still cursing herself for being so affected by him. In all the daydreams she’d had about seeing him again, not a single one included her bei
