Fuck. Inappropriate!
I think it’s safe to say she’s terrified of me now, and once again, I crossed a pretty obvious line. A thick, bright white line on fresh black asphalt. Unmissable. Maybe it’ll be better that I scared her off. The woman does not need me in her life.
Instead of sleeping, I headed right to the kitchen and started making dough for pie crusts with Sir Fluffy as my sous chef. When done, I threw them in the refrigerator to chill and moved on to the filling. With afresh pot of coffee, I peeled and sliced all the apples in my house, and by the time the sun rose, I had four beautiful apple pies prepared.
At least I got to play around with some unique designs for the upper crust. That’s where I’m going to shine this year at the Portland Springfest. It’s hard to create art with crust, but I believe it’s the way to stand out.
But four apple pies are too many, so I’m here to donate two of them to Killer Beans a few days earlier than usual. I’m a little embarrassed by the one with the top crust that looks like a fish but is supposed to be a loon. That design needs work.
“Wes!” Emma, the seventy-year-old owner of the coffee shop, gives me a bright smile as I approach. “What do you have for me today?”
“Two apple pies. I got in the zone this morning—I meant to make a blueberry as well, but I blacked out and created a row of apple pies.” I chuckle and slide the disposable tins on the counter.
“They are beautiful. Is that a bear?” She peers down.
I groan. “It’s meant to be a loon, but I can see where you got bear.”
“You’ll get there, dear.” Emma reaches over and pats my arm.
“Can I have a coffee and a croissant while I’m here?” I always buy something when I walk into a shop in Lake Savage, especially in the winter when the tourists are away and traffic is slow.
“Absolutely. On the house, of course.” She turns to pour me a coffee. “How much do I owe you for the pies?”
“You know the answer to that.” I put a ten-dollar bill down as Emma chuckles. “And keep the change.”
This is a game we always play. She always tries to pay mefor the pies, and I throw money at her instead. I’m just happy to support her business.
When Noah and I moved to Lake Savage a decade ago, we rented a place on the outskirts of town. We had little to our names until our family’s house sold, and we were still deeply mourning the death of our parents and younger sister.
Mourning. Planning. Plotting.
We were a mess.
Emma was so kind. She somewhat forcefully invited us to community events like the quaint Christmas market and Fourth of July community street party. She dragged Noah to the local book club at the library, where he realized he hated book club fiction but had a thing for horror novels. Emma suggested a local baking class for me, which led me to my apple pie obsession and eventually entering the competition at the Portland Springfest.
Now that we’re both in a much better place, we try to give back.
Emma thanks me and talks about her upcoming plans to hire more help so she can wind down her hours spent at the shop. She doesn’t want to depend only on the high schoolers.
I nod and murmur in the appropriate places—I think—but I’m mostly wondering if Callie thinks I’m a total creep. I fucking smelled her. What is wrong with me?
A lot. A lot is wrong with me.
But the scent of that woman when I got close to her pussy? It made me feral. I was convinced if I pressed my face between her legs, I’d find her wet for me. She might have even wanted me to.
Probably not.
I sent her a good morning text a few hours ago. She read it, but she hasn’t responded. I touch my phone in my pocket but resist the urge to check it while talking to Emma.
I’d never hurt Callie. Not in a million years. But she doesn’t know that, so why do I feel the need to break into her fucking apartment and creep into her room like a stalker serial killer?
Which, I guess I am, but—fuck, I am.
It’s too much, and she’s never going to talk to me again. Between my behavior and the fact that she probably has some baggage from her marriage, she would never want to date me. Not that I’m thinking about dating her!
I leave Killer Beans with my coffee in one hand and croissant in the other and walk down Main Street, passing my parked car to head to the general store. There’s a much bigger grocery store towards Portland, but I always get what I can here. I grab coffee creamer and a dozen apples, as I don’t have a single one left in my house, and am checking out when my phone buzzes.
It’s Callie.
