Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace

Chapter Five

“We’re just concentrating on hockey and the upcoming season.” That’s what Glaz had said on ESPN last night when the Kelty scandal had broken. That’s also what the players had been instructed to say—and nothing else—in the team meeting earlier. Beyond that, it wasn’t to be discussed.

That was fine with Jake. There was hockey to play—and the team lunch to eat. That’s where they were headed now. After that, they’d hit the ice with their new team for the first time.

“How was your physical?” Jake asked Robbie.

“Not the best,” Robbie said. “I gained ten pounds in Scotland. I thought I’d lost it, but I’m still up four pounds. I blame it on the pie.”

Pie. Evie. She’d said she was catering this lunch. Was she here yet? “Blame it on all the cake frosting you ate over the summer.”

Robbie looked around. “Shut up about that.” It was common knowledge that Robbie’s ancestral home was the premier wedding venue in the Highlands, but he wasn’t anxious for his teammates to know he had a knack for cake decorating and still helped his grandmother make wedding cakes in the off season.

“How many icing roses did you eat?”

“None.” Robbie hissed. “You don’t eat flowers you’ve gone to the trouble to make.” He looked chagrined. “But it’s hard not to scrape the bowl. The point is, I’m fat and slow.” Robbie could whine when he was of a mind to.

“You are,” Jake agreed. “You should quit today. Maybe some minor league team will take you on. But don’t tell them you’re up four pounds. That would be a deal breaker. Then there’s nothing for you but the beer league.”

“You’re a hard man, Sparks.”

“If you want to be coddled, call your mother.”

“I did. Right after my physical. She said I should weigh after we skate today. Do you think I can skate off half a pie?”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to skate. I doubt any of your equipment will fit. Probably your feet are so fat, your skates won’t fit. Don’t even try your pink lace thong.”

“You are an ass,” Robbie said.

“But not a fat one.” The truth was he’d put on some weight, too—too much French cheese—but he wasn’t worried. Skating would take care of it.

“Can’t complain about the facility,” Robbie said.

That was for sure. The Laurel Springs Iceplex had three sheets of ice, great workout equipment, and was brand-new.

“I wish we played where we practice,” Robbie said. “Like in juniors and college.”

“Maybe your new farm team will play where they practice. I don’t know any major league teams that do.”

Robbie sighed. “How long does it take to get to the arena downtown?”

“Ten minutes for me because I drive fast. Fifteen minutes for other people. Longer for you, since you’re fat and slow.” Jake paused before a door. “Meeting room C. This is where we’re supposed to be.”

“How about we go downtown tonight?” Robbie asked. “You can show me where the arena is.”

“No.” Jake pushed open the door. “You don’t care where the arena is. You just want to go downtown to find some nightlife—the very thing I came here to get away from.”

“What’s the harm in seeing if we can scare up a little fun?”

“We have a bet. I don’t need to scare anything up.”

“Not sure I thought it through before making that bet,” Robbie said. “It’s no fun carousing alone.”

“You have a whole new team. Pick a new guy,” Jake said. “Or maybe we could join a knitting club.”

“You can be celibate, but you’re not taking me down with you.”

“I’m not trying,” Jake said. “I just want to take that pretty little necklace off your hands.”

Robbie put his hand over his heart. “Are you going to stand there or go in the room? I’m hungry.”

Right. The room where Evie was likely to be.

“Nice,” Robbie said as they stepped inside. It was. Thick carpet. Round tables for six set up around the room. They were some of the first to arrive, though there was a tableful of rookies in the corner and a few guys looking around, getting the lay of the land.

No Evie. Maybe she had a meringue emergency, or the bow fell off her apron.

“Let’s sit here by the door,” Jake said. He liked to be able to make a quick exit.

“Naw,” Robbie said. “That’s not how it works. Didn’t you see the list on the door with seat assignments? We’re at table four.”

“I did not. What is this with the seat assignments? Kindergarten?”

“Here we are,” Robbie said. Sure enough, there was a sign in the middle of the table, with a big 4 and a list of names. Their table was front and center, but there was nothing to do but sit down. Robbie plucked the sign from the holder.

“Who are we eating with?” Jake asked.

“Able Killen,” Robbie read off the card.

Jake remembered him. “From Iowa. Defense. He played for the Ice Demons last year. Decent guy. Next.”

“Dietrich Wingo.”

“Goalie. Fresh out of University of Denver. He’s phenomenal. He might need an attitude adjustment. But he won’t be the number one—not with Dustin Carmichael on the team.” Carmichael, lately of the Ottawa Ice Demons, was a two-time goalie of the year trophy winner and had hoisted the cup once.

Robbie nodded. “We can adjust Wingo’s attitude.”

“Spoiling for a fight, are you?”

Robbie shrugged. “Not much else to do around here.”

“You can practice the piano or maybe open up a cake decorating business. Who else?”

“Logan Jensen,” Robbie read the next name. “I met him earlier while waiting to get weighed.”

“The Walleyes?”

“Aye. Before that, the University of Minnesota. He’s from Minneapolis. Forward. He has a kid. Single dad.”

“Who else?” Jake fiddled with his silverware. The table was set with real dishes, but there wasn’t any food. No buffet line either. Maybe they were just having pie—or not. Still no sign of Evie.

“Holy family and all the wise men!” Robbie burst out. “What is Luka Zadorov doing here?”

“No!” Jake snatched the card from Robbie. “Let me see that.” But there it was in black and white—the name of the big Russian center.

“That’s what it says,” Robbie said. “I didn’t see him in the team meeting.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “But we were sitting on the second row. I didn’t look around much.”

Robbie looked back at the card and shook his head in disbelief. “No way the Colonials would have traded him.”

“Maybe he asked for the trade. We did.”

“I suppose, but they didn’t let us go easy and we weren’t even skating first line. I can’t believe the Colonials would agree.” Robbie glanced at the door. “Here he comes.”

Yep. And it looked like the other three were trailing behind him. They must have read the door.

But still no Evie.

They all shook hands and Jake noted the expressions. Wingo was cocky, Killen looked happy and friendly, Jensen was pleasantly neutral, but Luka Zadorov was nothing short of pissed off beyond reasonable understanding. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

Might as well take the bull by the horns. “So, Zodorov,” Jake said, as they settled into their seats. “You’re the surprise of the table—probably the whole team.”

Zodorov reached into his backpack, removed a water bottle, then tossed it back in with a grunt of disgust—but not before Jake noticed that it was a Boston Colonials water bottle.

“Da,” Zodorov said. “Was surprise to me as well. The trade came last night. I flew in a short time ago. I am in hotel. Not even my smoothie maker do I have.”

They were all silent for a moment. It happened all the time, traded and gone in a matter of hours. It could happen to any of them.

“They traded you?” Robbie said.

Zodorov gave Robbie the stink eye. “Why else would I be in Alabama? The Colonials need goalie. This new team had Dustin Carmichael. No more.”

“What the hell!” Cold washed over Jake. Carmichael was gone? Zodorov was good news, but did it balance out the bad news that Carmichael was in Boston? He thought back to the team meeting. Was there anyone else missing who should have been there?

“Seems like they would have told us this in the meeting earlier,” Robbie said.

“Bigger fish to fry, I guess,” Logan Jensen said. “Kelty, and all...”

“Sounds like they weren’t willing to trade me.” Wingo spoke for the first time, and the words that flowed from his mouth did not do one damn thing to negate Jake’s fear that he needed an attitude adjustment.

Zodorov slowly turned his head and gave Wingo a look that would have frozen a flame, though Wingo didn’t seem to notice. For a few seconds the only sound was from the tables around them.

“And you would think that,” Zodorov spoke slowly, his Russian accent getting heavier with each word, “the Colonials offered for you first? That they would trade me for a rookie? An unknown quality?”

“I think you mean quantity.” Jensen cleared his throat. “The word is quantity.”

“Who are you, Logan?” Zodorov said. “Suddenly Mr. Daniel Webster?” There was clearly some camaraderie between those two, but Jake couldn’t ferret out why. As far as he knew, they’d never played together.

“Noah,” Jensen said. “And I didn’t say no, as in the opposite of yes. It was No-ah Webster who wrote the dictionary.”

“Shut up, Logan. Is the same.”

“It’s not,” Jensen insisted.

“Then it makes no difference.” Zodorov turned back to Wingo. “You think I would be traded for a rookie?”

Wingo grinned. “I won the National Championship at Denver last year.”

“You won? You won alone? That tells me more about you than I want to know.” Zodorov shook his head. “But never mind. I am already tired of you, college boy. College sports mean nothing.”

As the only Southerner there, Jake supposed it was up to him to break it to Zodorov. “You will find that the good people of Alabama do not agree with you on that last point. In fact, no one in the South would.”

“What?” Zodorov narrowed his angry eyes.

“You are in the college football capital of the world.” Jake paused to let it sink in. “I’m not saying college football is a religion in the South, but when my little cousin was asked in Sunday school if she could name three of Jesus’s disciples, she rattled off two Southeastern Conference coaches and a starting quarterback.”

Everyone except Luka laughed. If possible, he looked even more incensed.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Zodorov looked around as if there might be a hockey fairy who would whisk him away. “Hockey should be revered.”

But then a voice boomed from the sound system. Jake jumped and looked up, and saw Nate Ayers, the Yellowhammers’ general manager, at the podium.

“Hello again, gentlemen.”

“Is he going to talk?” Robbie whispered. “Are we never going to eat?”

“It was that attitude that got you ten extra pounds,” Jake whispered back. “Be quiet.”

“I think we’re all here,” Ayers continued. “We’re about to get lunch underway, but I’d like to introduce you to the principle shareholders of Yellowhammer Hockey Team, Inc—Marc ‘Polo’ MacNeal, former first baseman for the New York Yankees, and Tiptoe Watkins.”

The men made the usual speeches—looking forward to a great season, welcome to the Yellowhammers, blah, blah, blah.

Jake had heard it all before. He looked around for Evie. Where was she?

When the owners finished, Logan Jensen leaned forward. “I heard that Polo MacNeal put up most of the money. He’s related to Mr. Watkins by marriage. Claire, who owns Hammer Time and The Mill, is Mr. Watkins’s niece, and she also owns a little piece of the team. Nobody thought they would get an expansion team, but they did. Obviously.” He gestured to his surroundings.

“How do you know all this?” Wingo asked.

Logan grinned and Jake decided he liked him. “I come from Hockey Country, USA. Everything worth knowing about hockey is everyday talk in Minnesota.”

“Is true,” Luka said. “I must get out of this land of college football and get to a place where hockey is respected as it should be.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Glaz now had the mic. “Team, meet me in the locker room after lunch. A fine meal is about to be served, courtesy of Hammer Time and Crust. Thank you to the owners of these fine establishments, Claire Watkins and Evans Pemberton.” Jake surveyed the room again. Where was she? Claire and a gang of servers were gathered next to a set of double doors, but no Evie. “I’ll see you in an hour,” Glaz continued. “We’ll get you some equipment and see who can still skate.” Laughter floated through the room and Glaz went to sit at a table with all the other important people.

“I can still skate,” Wingo said. “I’m in the best shape of my life.” Jake shook his head. That boy would be lucky to make it to the season opener.

“Can you skate with broken limbs?” Luka asked. “Because that’s where you’re headed if you don’t stop bragging.”

Thankfully a girl—Jake figured her for college-aged—appeared at their table with a tray as big as a bicycle wheel.

“Hello, gentlemen.” She made gentlemen sound like three separate words. “I have some lunch for you.” Jake looked around again. Still no Evie—just this girl in black pants and a white polo with Crust embroidered on the left breast. Should he ask her where Evie was? No. Apparently Evie had just sent staff.

He wasn’t sure if it was the girl’s pretty smile or the smell of the food that distracted his tablemates, but he was grateful for it. For the moment, college football, the loss of a seasoned goalie, and Wingo’s self-love seemed forgotten. She leaned over between Wingo and Robbie. “If you will just excuse me, I’ll set this here.” Hellfire and brimstone. Robbie sniffed her hair. Jake gave him a dirty look and Robbie shrugged.

She pulled a card from her apron pocket. “We have today traditional Upper Peninsula Michigan pasties with beef, rutabagas, potatoes, and onion.” There was a plate of golden brown half-moon pies that looked like fried fruit pies, except twice the size of any Jake had ever seen—plus a bunch of different salads and some little casserole dishes.

Able Killen let out a happy groan. “I played my junior hockey in the Yooper. I love those things. Never thought I’d get them in Alabama.”

The girl smiled. “That’s great. I’ll tell the chef.” That would be Evie. Chef. Good for her. “We also have Caesar, fruit, and spinach salads, and macaroni and cheese with chicken. Joy is right behind me with a drink cart. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Jake started to speak, but Zodorov beat him to it. “Thank you so much. You are very kind.” He could find his manners when he needed to, and maybe he’d realized he was the alpha at the table.

“Please let me know if you want anything else, but save room for dessert.”

After Joy of the drink cart left them with a tableful of Gatorade and water, they passed the food. Though he’d been taught to eat his salad first, Jake was too curious about Evie’s meat pie to wait.

Nothing could have prepared him for the party in his mouth. He took another bite. The first one had not been a fluke. He eyed the serving tray and counted. They had each been provided with two pies. He almost reached for his second one right then, and would have if he hadn’t been afraid his grandmother would suddenly swing in from the Delta on a flying trapeze and give him an etiquette lesson. You did not take a second helping of something until you had finished the first.

“Just as good as what I had in the UP,” Able said.

“Better,” Jensen said. “It’s got a smoky taste.”

“You’re in barbecue country now,” Robbie said. “Everything tastes smoky.”

Jake looked around the table to make sure everyone was eating Evie’s pies with the relish she deserved. No one had touched a salad or the macaroni and cheese, though he knew they’d all get around to it.

Jake finished off his pie and reached for another.

“Don’t you think you ought to eat some macaroni and cheese before you eat another one of those?” Wingo asked. He had catsup on his mouth.

“I do not.” He bit into the pie, though Wingo was probably right. It was practically a law for hockey players to eat pasta before an important skate—and the first skate of the season was almost as important as a game.

“You should carb up before you skate,” Wingo persisted.

Jake pointed at the pie. “Plenty of carbs here. Potatoes, crust, maybe rutabagas. Do they have carbs?” He’d never had a rutabaga that he knew of.

“But pasta—”

Able cut Wingo off. “Wonder who that is. She’s a cute one.”

Jake immediately knew who she was. Slowly, he raised his head and followed Able’s gaze. There she was, walking from table to table, smiling and making small talk. Just then, Miklos Novak, the forward from the Czech Republic, said something to her and she laughed, patting his shoulder lightly as she walked away.

It was lightly, wasn’t it?

“She looks nice,” Logan said without much commitment and went back to eating. Jake was somewhat annoyed that he hadn’t been more emphatic.

“That’s the look I like,” Able said. No one could have argued with his enthusiasm, though Jake didn’t like that either—though he saw Able’s point.

Unlike yesterday, Evie’s dark hair was down, shiny and swinging around her face. She wasn’t wearing clogs and chef’s pants today, but a black skirt with a scalloped hem that hit right above her knee, and a white cotton blouse with a collar and a pocket over her left breast.

And on that pocket was a tiny bow, which made him think of the apron bow. Her shoes had enough of a heel to make you look at her legs without making you think she might break her neck.

She continued to work the room, but she wasn’t getting any closer to their table. She didn’t look his way.

“Do you suppose she’ll come over here?” Able was half out of his chair.

“Whoa there, Killen.” Jake had been silent as long as he could. “I know that woman. She’s not a puck bunny.” She’s a Delta-born cotillion graduate who minds her manners, kneels for communion, says hotty toddy, and loves her mama. She is not for you.

Able looked incensed. “I never thought she was. I lost interest in puck bunnies in juniors. I like real relationships. She’s my type. That’s all.”

“How do you know? Have you had a conversation with her?” Jake asked.

“What’s wrong with you?” Able asked. “And why do you care? Are you seeing her? Because if you are, just say—”

“I’m not. But you need to stay away from her,” Jake said.

“She’s Sparks’s childhood friend. Cousin of his ex.” Thanks for the help, Robbie.

Able nodded and his good-natured manner returned. “I understand. So she’s like a sister to you?”

No.“Yes.” A lie, but you don’t date your teammates’ sisters. That was part of the Bro Code. Everybody knew that. It was a lie well spent.

“Good. She’s single, then, and fair game.”

Jake nodded before he realized what Able had said. Then the words sunk in.

Jake took a deep breath to clear his head. “What? No.” Apparently Able did not understand the Bro Code. “I don’t think you under—”

The eyes that had been on him suddenly shifted above his head and Jake smelled cinnamon.

“How is everything?” The voice behind him had the cadence and sound of the Delta. “Is your lunch to your liking? Do you have enough of everything?”

Everyone sounded off at once, like a bunch of puppies trying to get attention.

“Fantastic, Wonderful. Never had anything like this, but it’s great. Really good. Better than in the UP,” all tumbled out of their mouths at once. Not surprising. Hockey players worshipped those who fed them. He looked around. Able was the only one who appeared to be smitten in a way that had nothing to do with pie. He was looking at Evie, while the others looked back and forth between her and their plates.

“How about you, Jake?” She laid a hand on his shoulder. He caught himself before he reached up to cover her hand with his. “Did you like the pasty?” It wasn’t lost on her that he hadn’t joined in the Greek chorus of pie praise.

He turned and met her eyes—happy eyes. Really, her whole face was happy. That made him smile. “It was delicious. I ate two.”

She raised an eyebrow. “As good as Mississippi mud?” Outstanding. Let them know he’d had her pie before.

“That’s a hard question. I guess I’d just have to say it’s a whole different part of my mouth. There’s room for all pies.”

She opened her mouth to reply but, damn it all to hell, Killen jumped to his feet.

“I’m Able Killen. Defense. I really enjoyed the pasty. I played in the Yooper and you could teach them a thing or two.”

“That’s very kind, Able.” She looked pleased, but there didn’t appear to be any sparks flying. That was important. He owed it to her parents to see to it that she didn’t get involved with the wrong guy. The Delta Queens, as he thought of Evie’s mother and his own, would have plenty to say if he let Evie get involved with an unsavory sort. Able seemed like a good guy, but that’s what the neighbors always said about serial killers.

And things were just getting better and better. Robbie was either trying to help him out or didn’t want to be outdone because he was on his feet, giving Evie that smile he mostly used in bars.

“I’m Robbie McTavish.” He leaned forward, just a little. Jake knew that move, too. He was going to have to kill his best friend. “Of Kennamara. Near Inverness. In the Highlands.” He gestured to the table. “These are our other teammates: Logan Jensen, Luka Zadorov, and Dietrich Wingo.”

They all stood and made polite greetings—and a damned good thing.

Jake was about to bring this little meeting to a close and help Evie move on, but Robbie wasn’t done.

“Really good pie that Sparks brought home last night.”

“Are you two living together?” Evie asked.

“No!” Robbie and Jake said at the same time.

“No,” Robbie repeated. “We’re across the hall from each other at The Mill, but I’m staying with Sparks until I get a bed. We ate all the pie.”

She looked amused and cut her eyes at Jake. Her dimples deepened. “Oh, you did? All? I hope it didn’t make you sick.”

“Could nectar of the gods make a man sick?” Robbie asked.

She laughed. “Is that what it was? I thought it was Mississippi mud. Maybe I’ll change the name to nectar of the gods.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Wingo piped up. And why not? It had been a while since he’d heard the sound of his own voice.

“It’s a chocolate pie,” Evie said. “Some say it originated in our home—the Mississippi Delta.” Their home. A warm feeling came over Jake. “Some say not. I like to think it did.”

“My nana says it did, and that’s good enough for me,” Jake said.

Evie laughed, so joyful sounding, and put her hand on his shoulder again. “If Miss Althea says so, that’s good enough for me, too. No one would dare argue with her.”

“Is her pie as good as Evans’s?” Able asked.

Jake and Evans looked at each other and burst out laughing. No one else joined in. Why would they? Only he and Evie knew how ludicrous the very thought was.

“Nana doesn’t make pie,” Jake said. “She directs someone else to make pie.”

Evans brushed her hair back. “She has more important things to do—like take her hats to the florist to have them decorated with fresh flowers before every bridge club, luncheon, and church service.”

Jake hadn’t exactly forgotten that about Nana, but he hadn’t thought about it in a long time either. He suspected that he and Evie were visualizing something very similar right now: Nana’s Lincoln parked in front of the Flower Cart—the same shop that had provided flowers for every dance, wedding, and funeral in Cottonwood all their lives and before.

“Well.” Evie closed her eyes and shook her head. “If I can’t get you anything else, I’ll move along. I want to make sure your peach cobbler gets served while it’s still warm. It was nice to meet y’all.”

With the exception of Luka and Jake, everyone at the table made noises like baby birds who were about to be fed.

“Will there be ice cream?” Wingo asked.

“Is there any other way to serve peach cobbler? I hope you’ll all stop by Crust and see me,” she said as she walked away.

“Aye,” Robbie said. “Pie makes every day better.”

“For sure,” Wingo said.

“Absolutely,” Logan said.

“Of course,” Luka said, though he didn’t sound sincere.

“You can depend on it.” Able sounded exceedingly sincere.

Jake didn’t say anything. He just watched her go.

The cobbler had been served and Evans’s feet were beginning to ache from her heels. Noting that Claire, who had been sitting beside her uncle, had disappeared, Evans surveyed the table where the brass was sitting, but didn’t interrupt. They didn’t appear to need anything and were in deep, intense conversation.

It was over. There was nothing left to do but clean up, and Claire had said the Hammer Time staff would do that. She’d see about things in the prep kitchen, get her purse, and head home to change before going back to Crust.

She reached in her skirt pocket for her phone to check the time just as it vibrated. There was a text message from Ariel.

Sarah Jane Cathcart wants ten apple pies because the PTA is having Apple of My Eye Day tomorrow at the high school for the teachers. She needs to pick them up at 7:30 am because they are serving pie and coffee in three shifts starting at 8. What should I tell her?

How about that, as pie makers, we don’t advocate serving pie at that time of morning?

Did no one think ahead? But what else was she going to say, but yes? They were in the pie business. It was reasonable that Sarah Jane should expect to be able to buy pies from them—no matter what time she wanted to serve them. It wasn’t Sarah Jane’s fault that Evans had used her time unwisely this week.

Evans quickly typed: Tell her we’ll have them ready. I’m on my way and I’ll get them knocked out.

In the interest of optimum freshness, she debated on getting the pies oven ready and baking them early in the morning, but they might be too warm to cut. She’d have to go for fresh enough and pies that wouldn’t fall apart.

Ariel replied: Should I measure out the flour for you and grate the cheese for the pastry?

Evans considered. It would be nice to be a step ahead before she got there, but Ariel had said measure the flour and Evans baked by weight. And what if she didn’t use the small holes of the grater for the cheese? There was no time for mistakes today.

Evans texted back:

That’s okay, but you can peel and slice the apples.

Ariel knew she liked the apples almost paper thin and would put them in lemon water to keep them from discoloring.

But she didn’t answer—maybe because she was disappointed, maybe because her brain had moved into a different universe.

Evans stepped quickly toward the kitchen, intent on asking Joy and Dory to pack up their equipment and meet her back at Crust. But Claire popped out of the kitchen before Evans could pop in.

“That went well, wouldn’t you say?” Claire looked pleased.

“I would say that,” Evans agreed. Jake had eaten two pasties and the last time she’d sneaked a peep at him, he’d been wolfing down peach cobbler.

“I have some excellent news for you.”

Oh, hell. Evans got the feeling that the news was not going to be excellent at all.

“What’s that?”

“Nate was really impressed with your food.”

“Nate?”

“Nathan Ayers. The general manager,” Claire said with exaggerated patience, like she did when Evans suspected she really wanted to add, “Keep up!”

“They have a team chef, but Nate would like for us to do some catering for special events.”

Not excellent. Not even good. Just plain bad. She lifted her shoulders. She needed to say so. She’d had a half dozen pissed-off customers yesterday because they couldn’t have the pie they wanted and now there were ten apple pies breathing down her neck.

“That sounds...amazing. And—to be honest—a little overwhelming.”

“I have faith in you,” Claire said. “It’s a great opportunity. And you wouldn’t be doing it for free in the future.”

But at what cost?

Evans knew she ought to flat-out tell her she didn’t want to cater, but she didn’t have the time or energy. Or gumption. Couldn’t leave that out.

She put on a bright smile. “That’s amazing!”

Claire nodded. “It’s certainly a start.” She paused a beat. “Still nothing from Hollingsworth, I take it?”

“No.”

Claire nodded. “Well. Have a good afternoon,” she said as she walked away, leaving Evans with her guilt over the half-truth, anxiety over impending catering jobs, and dread of producing ten apple pies because of everything she’d let slide today for this lunch.

But even with all that on her mind, she didn’t forget to glance back at Jake before she left. To her surprise, his gaze was on her. They didn’t wave, but their smiles met in the middle.