Page 25 of Last Slice of Pie

But, what is he doing here?

And why am I so excited? I shouldn’t be this excited. We’re just friends . . . I think.

Dropping his hand, he takes a deep breath, rises to his full height, and scowls down at me. Eyes the color of the deep blue ocean penetrate me. “Lex, your house is filled with smoke. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Something could have happened to you.”

Taking a step back from him, I cross my arms over my chest. A red wave of defensiveness flashes through me at his tone. “I know it’s filled with smoke, Captain Obvious, but I didn’t plan for this. I had to put out the fire I was trying to build before it got worse and then get the windows open to air it out.”

A chilly fall breeze picks up and whips around us, loosening the messy bun I have on top of my head. Leaves litter the porch as I swipe my hand over my forehead, realizing pieces of hair are sticking out everywhere. I discreetly try to smooth them down, and then it occurs to me what my entire appearance is. I’m wearing an apron over old holey athletic wear, and I’m covered in flour, swipes of food, soot, dirt—you name it, it’s currently somewhere on me. I look like a filthy hot mess, and heat floods my cheeks with embarrassment.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him, almost a little defensively, as I scan him from head to toe. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy shirt, dark gray athletic pants, and flip-flops. He looks so clean and comfortable, like a favorite blanket I want to curl into.

“I had some time, with the holiday and all tomorrow.” He rests his hands on his narrow hips. “I heard you weren’t going to Zach and Shelby’s, and I know James isn’t making it home, so I thought I’d come here and see how you are.”

“Oh.” My hands drop and the joy returns.

His eyes lock onto mine and we stare at each other. With each breath, I feel my heart rate pick up. Man, he’s so handsome it’s ridiculous. He’s so here. Right in front of me.

Several times over the last week, I was tempted to invite him for Thanksgiving, but something always held me back. Yes, we’ve known each other a long time, but this version of our friendship is new, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t have fears of overwhelming him. He’s busy, has this whole other world of people, and I feel cautious, like I’m trying to tread carefully.

“Yeah, oh.” He turns his head, breaking the connection between us, and looks out over the front lawn, his gaze catching on the brightly patterned quilts. Last night was really cold, so I covered the front hedges to keep the frost off, and I haven’t removed them yet. Cold air again whips around and between us, and I shiver.

“How am I? Well, as you can see,” I say, drawing his eyes back to mine, “this morning has been something else. Now, it’s one o’clock, my house and everything in it smells like smoke, and I’m behind on the pies I need to have made by four o’clock.” Which I stupidly waited until the last minute to make, although I don’t tell him this. I’ve lost at least an hour dealing with this, and he watches as I let out a defeated sigh.

“How can I help?” he asks.

I again look at his clean clothes and then up to his face. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is un-styled like he just can’t be bothered with it, but his features have softened like he really wants to do this. My brows pull down. “You want to help?”

“Yep. I heard through the grapevine that you’re super busy and thought you might like two extra hands.” He holds his up and shakes them in a ‘look at me, I’m ready to work’ gesture.

Two extra hands—his overly large and perfect hands that are worth millions of dollars.

“How long are you staying?” I ask, wondering if this is real or not.

“Until Friday morning, if that’s okay?” He drops his hands to his sides and then shoves them in his pockets.

A tiny noise escapes me.

He. Wants. To. Stay. Here. With. Me.

I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be spending the holiday alone, and I really didn’t mind. It is what it is, but this is something straight out of my wildest dreams. Bryan could have gone anywhere and he chose to be here with me, and only me. My already overly affectionate heart for him just grew even more and sighed.

I smile up at him, the biggest smile, and he gives me one in return.

“That’s better than okay. Yes, a thousand times yes.” I briefly think about him working in my kitchen and how many mail orders I can get done with him here. Productivity wins out over being awestruck by his arrival.

Swinging the screen door open, I turn and quickly walk back toward the kitchen, hearing the door close behind me as Bryan follows. Looking up, I see there’s still smoke lingering around the ceiling, but I have to keep going; it’ll clear out eventually. I quickly wash my hands then reach into the refrigerator, my Southern manners kicking in as I pull out a pitcher of sweet tea along with two glasses and set them down on the island.

One by one, windows I missed across the downstairs are opened, and from the family room, the off-balance ticking from the ceiling fan starts. Heavy steps make their way across the old hardwood floors toward me, and again, I’m shocked this is real.

“What kind of pie are you baking this year?” Bryan asks, walking into the room. I glance over at him as he takes a seat in the same chair at the kitchen island as before and pours us both a tea. He said ‘pie’ as in singular, which means he knows I only bake one kind of pie for each holiday. The thought of him sitting somewhere and looking at my website, although it’s obviously public—it feels like he’s been reading my diary. The website and my social media accounts are me, and he’s been looking at them. It makes my stomach dip—in a good way.

Looking to the left, I glance at the twelve pie crust dough balls sitting on two large cookie sheets. I need to get each one split in two, flattened, wrapped in plastic wrap, and in the refrigerator for at least an hour. I can do this. I can get it all done in time.

Flouring the counter, I grab the first ball and split it in half with a large knife while answering him. “We had such a haul on pecans this year, I’m doing a twist on a classic pumpkin pecan pie recipe by adding maple, bourbon, and candied bacon.”

One side of his mouth quirks up. He’s pleased.

“Will you be making one for us, too?”