of an argument. But don’t get me wrong, I’ll take this. Plus, I get the impression he’s trying to take my mind off what’s bothering me . . . and it’s working, so I’m going to go with it.
“Okay.” I walk across to the counter where my creations are and hand Levi a fork. I slide the first dessert in front of him. “This is tiramisu.” He dives right in and I giggle at his eagerness. Levi always did have a sweet tooth. “It’s a classic dessert that’s easy to make and I think your patrons would love it.”
“It’s so good,” he says, sliding the fork into his mouth again. My eyes stray to his lips and I watch as they lock around the utensil, sliding it out ever so slowly, ensuring that he doesn’t miss one morsel of his bite. I blink, my lips parted, as his tongue slides over his bottom lip and—
“What are these?”
“What’s what?”
“These,” he says, lifting up the container and waving it in front of my face.
“Oh, those. Yes.” I clear my throat, slightly embarrassed that I just lost my train of thought watching a man eat—then again, it’s not just any man. I’m hoping that Levi didn’t notice, or maybe he’s just gentlemanly enough to not mention it. “These little darlings are Espresso Cream Pies. Here, try one.” I lift the container and he pulls one out, his eyes dancing like he’s in heaven.
“This,” he says with conviction, pointing to the tiny pie. “This is fabulous. I want these on the menu.” A small bubble of hope forms inside of me, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I find myself getting excited about something.
“Wait!” I run over to the oven and pull open the door, first checking to see if it’s done. This is the one that’s important and I need it to be perfect. Pulling the pan out, I set it on the stove. Levi walks over and stands next to me. His eyes lock on the pie in front of us and he stares at it blankly for several seconds before looking at me.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Butterscotch Cream Pie,” I answer excitedly. “Yes, it is.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and that little bubble of hope I felt blossoms into something much more. “My grandma used to make that,” he whispers.
“I know.” His eyes widen in disbelief and he seems to be at a complete loss for words. That’s okay, I can talk enough for the both of us. “I don’t have her recipe, but I’ve been working to perfect that pie for the past eight years and this is as close as I can get to your grandmother’s.” Something in Levi’s expression shifts, though I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. An appreciation of sorts . . . maybe? “I hope you like it.”
I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE made me Butterscotch Cream Pie. And on top of that, Laney said she’s been perfecting the recipe for eight years. Eight freaking years.
I’m fully aware that I’m staring at her like a fucking idiot, but I really don’t know what to say. She made my Grammy’s pie. I can’t remember her ever eating my Grammy’s pie. How the hell did she even remember my Grammy used to make it?
I’ve been working really hard at keeping my distance and not allowing myself to get too close, but fuck me, she’s making it hard. If I don’t get a grip on what I’m feeling now, I’ll most likely get in way over my head. But I can’t just ignore this . . . this is so much more than just a pie. I’m just not sure I’m ready to explore exactly what it is.
“Well?” she asks hopefully, shoving a fork in my direction. “Are you going to try it?” She looks so damn cute in her pink apron, hair piled messily on top of her head and flour smeared across her face, and the sight of her tugs at something deep inside of me—something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Something I’m not sure I ever want to feel again. Unfortunately for me, Laney is my weakness . . . my kryptonite. One look from her makes me want to forget that the past eight years ever happened and beg her
“Okay.” I walk across to the counter where my creations are and hand Levi a fork. I slide the first dessert in front of him. “This is tiramisu.” He dives right in and I giggle at his eagerness. Levi always did have a sweet tooth. “It’s a classic dessert that’s easy to make and I think your patrons would love it.”
“It’s so good,” he says, sliding the fork into his mouth again. My eyes stray to his lips and I watch as they lock around the utensil, sliding it out ever so slowly, ensuring that he doesn’t miss one morsel of his bite. I blink, my lips parted, as his tongue slides over his bottom lip and—
“What are these?”
“What’s what?”
“These,” he says, lifting up the container and waving it in front of my face.
“Oh, those. Yes.” I clear my throat, slightly embarrassed that I just lost my train of thought watching a man eat—then again, it’s not just any man. I’m hoping that Levi didn’t notice, or maybe he’s just gentlemanly enough to not mention it. “These little darlings are Espresso Cream Pies. Here, try one.” I lift the container and he pulls one out, his eyes dancing like he’s in heaven.
“This,” he says with conviction, pointing to the tiny pie. “This is fabulous. I want these on the menu.” A small bubble of hope forms inside of me, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I find myself getting excited about something.
“Wait!” I run over to the oven and pull open the door, first checking to see if it’s done. This is the one that’s important and I need it to be perfect. Pulling the pan out, I set it on the stove. Levi walks over and stands next to me. His eyes lock on the pie in front of us and he stares at it blankly for several seconds before looking at me.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Butterscotch Cream Pie,” I answer excitedly. “Yes, it is.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and that little bubble of hope I felt blossoms into something much more. “My grandma used to make that,” he whispers.
“I know.” His eyes widen in disbelief and he seems to be at a complete loss for words. That’s okay, I can talk enough for the both of us. “I don’t have her recipe, but I’ve been working to perfect that pie for the past eight years and this is as close as I can get to your grandmother’s.” Something in Levi’s expression shifts, though I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. An appreciation of sorts . . . maybe? “I hope you like it.”
I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE made me Butterscotch Cream Pie. And on top of that, Laney said she’s been perfecting the recipe for eight years. Eight freaking years.
I’m fully aware that I’m staring at her like a fucking idiot, but I really don’t know what to say. She made my Grammy’s pie. I can’t remember her ever eating my Grammy’s pie. How the hell did she even remember my Grammy used to make it?
I’ve been working really hard at keeping my distance and not allowing myself to get too close, but fuck me, she’s making it hard. If I don’t get a grip on what I’m feeling now, I’ll most likely get in way over my head. But I can’t just ignore this . . . this is so much more than just a pie. I’m just not sure I’m ready to explore exactly what it is.
“Well?” she asks hopefully, shoving a fork in my direction. “Are you going to try it?” She looks so damn cute in her pink apron, hair piled messily on top of her head and flour smeared across her face, and the sight of her tugs at something deep inside of me—something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Something I’m not sure I ever want to feel again. Unfortunately for me, Laney is my weakness . . . my kryptonite. One look from her makes me want to forget that the past eight years ever happened and beg her
Similar Books
