Not Homemade

“Why don’t you let me make you a pie tonight?” They stood at the bakery counter, he eyeing the pies while she inhaled the sweet aroma of the place. “It won’t take long. I’ve got everything in the house already. And it won’t cost—” She glanced at the price board hanging behind the glass display case. “Eight ninety-five.”

He shook his head. “No. You’ve got too much to do already. The fig cookies and apple pies. And you’ve got to post an extra blog for Thanksgiving, don’t you? In case there’s no time in the morning?”

“No biggie. I’ve got time to do it all. No sweat. Come on, I’ll bake you a pie tonight.”

“Uh uh. I’m not going to add to your to-do list,” he insisted. He smiled at the tired-looking woman behind the counter. “A pumpkin pie, please.”

After dinner they turned to an old movie station and settled in to watch Cary Grant, a beautiful woman and several children in an old, leaky boat. Halfway through the movie he headed toward the kitchen. “Want anything?”

Her gaze stayed on Cary. “Nope, thanks.”

When the credits rolled she glanced down at his empty plate and fork. “How was your pie?”

With a scowl, he shrugged.

She knew that scowl. That shrug. “How was your pie?”

“Not so great,” he admitted. Disappointment shone clear in his deep, chocolate-brown eyes. “Pretty bad, actually. It tasted like…”

“Like what?”

“Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Yeah. That is the worst pumpkin pie I’ve ever had. Damn thing tastes like Ivory soap!”

She laughed. Leaning close and patting his hand, she met his stormy gaze and asked, “Want me to bake you a pie tomorrow?”

“You mind?”

“No, I don’t mind, darling.”

And she didn’t. Not one bit.