“Apple or Boston cream?” Tessa offers.
I’m not a fan of apple and Boston cream isn’t pie, it’s cake, dammit.
“Coffee would be fine.”
There then follows the most beautiful sound in the world: a plate sliding across the counter surface.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.” I most certainly could. The pie has now taken on epic proportions in my night’s narrative.
I raise my gaze from the pie to him. A river of sensual heat threatens to overwhelm me. I really love pie.
Just kidding! It’s all him.
“You came in here expecting your favorite dessert.” I hear it clearer now. New York, maybe. “I haven’t taken a bite yet.”
Tessa pours my coffee and pushes it toward me with an eyebrow tilt of her own.
“I really couldn’t.” I look at my friend, who should be offering to officially split it with a knife and two separate plates, but strangely … isn’t.
Matchmaker instincts are overriding server ones, I assume.
I grab a Splenda packet from the caddy and use the adding and stirring time to contemplate my next move. Refusing to acknowledge his offer would be rude. This way, he can have it back with a bite taken out of it and we can return to our respective corners, pie enemies once more.
“How about I take a small bite?”
A fork appears—the ever so helpful Tessa again—and five seconds later my taste buds are dancing to the tune of tart fruit and buttery pie crust. I must have moaned on my way to Heaven because when I come back to earth, Pie Guy is staring at me.
“Well, that was worth it.”
I push the pie back to him. “Your turn.”
Two
Roman
I’d been stood up and was forced to share my pie. Yet somehow the night has improved.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still ticked off about my lack of a date. My co-worker and former friend, Luke, spent weeks that felt like years trying to talk me into meeting up with a friend of his wife’s at the bar around the corner. Or maybe she was a friend of a friend of his wife’s. Whatever she was, “present” wasn’t another one of her attributes (hence the former friend label because Luke’s going to fucking hear it when I see him next).
Between my job and my kid, I don’t have time for dating. And I certainly don’t have time for dates that are no-shows.
But I do have time for pie.
After waiting for a fruitless hour at the bar, I decided to walk around Andersonville on Chicago’s Northside, a cute neighborhood of bars, at least three dog groomers, and one good-looking diner tucked off the main drag on a quiet side street. I’d passed it a few times when I varied up the route on my morning run. Not a great place for a business but I had to admit I’m glad it’s low key.
I’m even more glad it no longer is. Because she walked into it.
The woman who lusted after my pie is tall, about five-ten in flat-heeled shoes, with pale skin, almost translucent except for the freckles dotting it like a map to destinations sexy. Auburn red waves fall in loose curls over her shoulders, which are bare except for the narrow straps of her green dress. I wouldn’t call it overly sexy but she is hella sexy in it—it hugs her curves in a way I haven’t noticed on any woman in years.
When Luke said it was time to get out of my rut, I resisted. Especially as (a) I’d known him for all of three months so where the hell did he get off? And (b) the fucker was right and that chapped my ass more than anything. I don’t like to be pushed. My sister Chiara would say I’m stubborn to the point of it getting in the way of life. That would be the sister who got all the drama genes, so she’s a fan of pointing out my flaws.
I’m trying to be less stubborn and more open-minded to new things. Which is why I’m sitting in a diner, sharing pie with a beautiful freckled stranger.
“Your turn.” She pushes the pie back.
I really should let her have the whole thing. I mean, what are we going to do? Nibble on the sides of the slice until our forks meet in the middle like something out of Disney?
“You can finish it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She smiles and I realize I should accept this for the gift it is.
It’s more than pie. It’s connection.
I fork a sliver off the slice, decide it isn’t enough to get a decent taste, and carve out a bigger bite. Once in my mouth, I try not to get too excited about it but damn, that’s mighty fine pie.
“Kind of wish I hadn’t offered to share it now,” I say once I finish chewing. “Second worst decision of my life.”
“Oh, now I need to know.” She sections off a small piece and holds it close to her mouth, waiting for me to fulfill the promise of that cryptic statement.
“Maybe after a few more bites. I hardly know you.”
Another killer smile precedes the wrap of her lips around the fork. Her mouth looks as sweet as the treat in it, or maybe it’s just too long since the last time I’ve gotten laid. The way this woman is eating the pie is about as close to sex as I’ve come in a while.
The fork tines slide from her mouth slowly as she makes sure she didn’t miss a crumb. Maybe she’s doing it to tease me. Intentional or not, it’s working.
My turn.
“Stood up, huh?”
I nod. No idea what possessed me to share that with the server but she was kind of chatty when I arrived and I blurted it out, probably to justify why I was sitting single at a diner counter at 9:15 on a Tuesday night.
“Is that your worst decision? To go on a date with this rude, unfeeling individual?”
I shake my head. Take a bite. Finish chewing.
She watches my mouth. Nice to know I’m not the only one with the oral fixation.
“You’re not getting my worst decision out of me that easily.”
“Worth a shot. Did your date even text you?”
I check my phone. Just a flurry of messages from Chiara, each more dramatic and intrusive than the last.
How’s it going?
Then thirty minutes later. Must be getting along if you’re still out and not responding.
Twenty minutes after that. Should I wait up? Not wait up?
Ten minutes ago. Did you bring enough condoms?
She will be so disappointed, though I’m not. Because if it had gone well, I wouldn’t have stopped in here and had the perfect slice of pie.
“Nope.” Your turn. I push the plate toward her.
“Chatty, aren’t you?”
“Not as much as you.” I don’t mean it to sound like a dig. It’s a reflex because in truth, I’m enjoying the conversation even if I’m not contributing to it much. “Tell me where you were before you got here.”
“Where I was? Oh, that’s a long story.”
I want to hear it but it already sounds too invasive. “Out with friends?”
She assesses me, and I can’t tell if she’s glad I reeled in the conversation from an enquiry about her life to this point to the more manageable “why are you dressed up and looking so damn fine?”
“Yeah, a celebration. But my buddies wanted to club-hop and I’m feeling a bit old for that scene.”
“There comes a time when we all feel we’ve aged out of the discotheques.”