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After the required cooling period, Delancey cut into the pie and lifted out a piece. Even before the pie touched the plate, drops of liquid were dripping out of the sides.

Marlowe’s stomach clenched. “Why is our pie leaking? Are the apples too juicy?” She groaned. “They’ve probably been genetically modified with more moisture or something.”

Delancey didn’t answer. She took a bite and her bakery show judge persona was back, back and not pleased. “The filling is too runny, and if I were Gordon Ramsay, I would be yelling at someone about this crust right now.”

“Nooo!” Marlowe moaned. “It had one job.” She took a bite in the hopes that Delancey was just being picky. If anything, it was worse than their first attempt. “It must be the apples. They’re making the crust soggy. She grabbed the recipe they’d been following. “This said we could use Honeycrisp, but I bet we really needed to stick with the Granny Smith.” She rubbed her forehead and summoned her resolve. “I’ll go back to the store and buy those.”

Delancey surveyed the kitchen while biting her lip. “At this rate, we’re not going to be able to bake two pies at a time or we’ll be up until two or three a.m. We’ll have to put all of them in at the same time and switch them halfway through the cooking time so they get an even amount of heat on the top and the bottom.”

But Marlowe was already doing the math. She had the day off tomorrow, but Delancey had to be at work in the morning. “I’ll do the other pies by myself. You can go home and go to bed.”

Delancey wiped her hands on her apron. “You can’t make four apple pies by yourself. You won’t get any sleep.”

“It doesn’t matter if I sleep. I won’t be wielding scissors next to anyone’s head. You’re the one who needs to be awake.”

Delancey hesitated, looking around at the mess with tired eyes. “I have a recipe for chocolate s’mores pie. Those are fast and easy. The cooking time is only about ten minutes. Let’s just do four of those.”

Marlowe considered it for one brief, hopeful moment. Then she imagined Mrs. Clark’s expression as she received four chocolate pies after requesting apple. She’d even lent Marlowe her apple peeler and taken the time to demonstrate how to use it.

Marlowe would either have to admit she tried to make apple pies and spectacularly failed or seem like she just ignored instructions. Neither of those things would win points with Jace’s mother.

“Mrs. Clark specifically asked for apple … but it wouldn’t be so bad if I did two apple pies and two chocolate ones, right? I’ll tell her someone requested chocolate, and hey, we want to raise money for charity, so we had to oblige.”

Delancey pulled out her phone and began scrolling. “I’ll send you the s’mores pie recipe so you can pick up the ingredients while you’re buying more apples. You’ll be able to handle those pies no problem. And before I go, I’ll make two more crusts and put them in the fridge to chill.”

“Thanks,” Marlowe said. She gave her friend a hug, managing to transfer bits of flour to her. “You’re the best.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t the best at apple pies,” Delancey said with a shrug. “Who knew they were so hard?”

Jace had known. He’d known and warned her.

Marlowe drove to the store in a haze, bought the ingredients, and hauled them back to her house. It was going to be such a long, long night. Her shoulders drooped just from thinking about it. She was unpacking the groceries—round three—and looking at the desolation the kitchen had become when a soft knock sounded on the door. Had Delancey come back? She must have. Who else would be knocking at this time of night?

She answered the door and found Jace standing on the porch, a large mixing bowl in his hand. “I saw your light on,” he said, like he didn’t live across town. “How are the pies going?”

“I feel like that’s a hurtful question,” she said.

He nodded. “I figured as much.”

“Turns out, I should’ve skipped the cruise pictures and put something about cooking on my vision board.”

“It’s not too late to add new goals. Also, I made and refrigerated some piecrust four hours ago.” He pushed past her and strode into her kitchen, taking in the mess: brown bits of apple scattered everywhere, patches of flour on the counters, and the sad remnants of rejected pie pieces piled on plates. “Well, nobody can say you didn’t try.” He set the bowl down and began wiping off a section of the counter.

She peered into the bowl, and yes, perfectly round balls waited there to be rolled out. “Hold on. You know how to make piecrust?”

“Yep.” He tossed his rag in the sink, dried the counter off with a clean one, and opened the flour container. He sprinkled a layer on the counter and smoothed it out the way an artist might set up his paints before creating a masterpiece. “I not only know how to make piecrust, I know how to make apple pie. You don’t think my mother baked it for all of these years without forcing her children to help, do you?” He slapped the first ball of dough onto the counter and spun the rolling pin over it. “You apparently had a very different childhood than I did, and I envy you for that.”

She walked over to him, still processing this. “You know how to make pies? All of you? Why didn’t your mother ask you or Lucas to bake the pies in the first place?”

“Because ability and willingness aren’t the same thing. Apple pies take way too long. Also, she didn’t have to ask Lucas or me because you told her you loved cooking.” He nodded at the bag of apples on the counter. “Those aren’t enough for four pies.”

“I decided to make two s’mores pies. They’re easier, faster, and it’s hard to ruin a graham cracker crust.”

“I can get behind faster. And if we’re not using all the crust for pies, we’ll have some to make lattice tops.”

She surveyed the crust he had tamed into a circle. “It’s perfectly even,” she said in awe. That’s when she really began to hope she wouldn’t spend the entire night failing, only to end up sobbing in a grocery store at three in the morning while buying the premade stuff anyway.

“I told you I’ve done this before.”