“She probably wouldn’t have been as lucid as she was if it weren’t for your music,” she responds. “Music is one thing that tends to bring her out of her fog, though it’s usually much more short-lived. And I love that she got to meet someone whose music she adores. When I was in high school, we went to see Nickelback and she was so frustrated that she couldn’t get backstage.”
“I hate hearing that, but looking at it from my perspective, imagine the chaos if everyone who wanted to meet us managed to get backstage after every show… we’d never have time to breathe.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She looks thoughtful. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Look, I’m incredibly grateful to be where I am professionally, but sometimes it’s a lot. Groupies, the press, other bands—sometimes it feels like everyone wants a piece of us. And as much as I love what I do, there are nights where I’m just tired. Overwhelmed. Fighting off a cold. You know? We’re still human beings. I do my best not to let it show when I’m frustrated but it happens more than you think.”
“I never thought about that either,” she admits. “But I appreciate hearing your perspective.” She pulls up in front of the grocery store. “I’m going to run in and get more milk. I’ll be right back.”
She jumps out before I can protest or offer her money, hurrying into the store.
Damn, she’s cute.
I’m starting to like her more and more every minute we spend together.
And I really wish I didn’t have to leave tomorrow.
Baking is serious business with Summer.
It’s clear she has the routine down pat because she starts by making the crusts. Then she mixes the filling for one set while warming the oven and starts on the next pies when the first group is baking. There’s sugar, flour, and butter everywhere and I’m a little mesmerized as I watch her work.
“Can I help?” I ask for the tenth time. “I hate sitting here watching you do it all.”
She smiles. “When the timer goes off, you can take the two pies out of the oven and put those two—” She motions with her head. “—in.”
“Okay.” I watch as she carefully creates the lattice-top for the strawberry-rhubarb pies she’s working on. It’s fascinating how easily she does it. I’d make a mess if it were me.
The timer goes off so I take out the two pecan pies and replace them with the two key lime pies that were waiting to go in. I turn just as Summer reaches for something and I accidentally bump her arm. The bag of flour in her hand goes flying and I snake out a hand to catch it, even as the top comes open, showering us with white powder.
I stare at her for a second and she stares back.
Then we burst out laughing.
“Sorry about that,” I say, putting the flour on the counter and dusting myself off as best as I can in the sink.
“If you wanted to take a shower, you could have just said so,” she says.
“I definitely want to take a shower, but it looks like we’ll be baking for the rest of the evening.”
“On and off.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief.
“Yeah? You planning on taking a break soon?”
“Once I have all the pies made, it’s just a matter of waiting for them to bake.” She moves closer to me. “And then we’ll be able to…play.”
“Yeah?” I dip my head and capture her lips with mine. She kisses me back for a full minute before reluctantly pulling away.
“I work tomorrow from three until close—I have to get these done today,” she whispers.
“No worries. Your not-very-helpful helper is here to…do whatever I can to make it go faster.”
“How about you order us dinner?” she suggests. “There is no way I’ll be able to cook tonight, even though I’d like to.”
“Ordering is something I’m very good at,” I say, pulling out my phone.
We decide on Italian, I order veal parmesan and penne a la vodka that we can both share, along with garlic bread and salad, and by then it’s time to take out two more pies.
The house smells delicious, and I’m a little bummed I won’t be able to taste them. Luckily, she gave me a huge slice of the chocolate peanut butter pie in her fridge, and I’m hardcore addicted. It’s the best pie I’ve ever tasted in my life. I wish I could bring some back for the guys.
