The Ultimate Pi Day Party

by Jackie Lau

  “I’m pretty sure it’s been around for at least five years. And I’m shutting down this conversation right now. I refuse to talk about Tinder with you.”

  “Why not? Or...what’s it called. OkFish? Such a weird name for a dating site.”

  “I’m not sure whether you’re talking about OkCupid or PlentyOfFish.”

  “Ah. That makes more sense. Plenty of fish in the sea, yes. Toronto is a big city. Surely there must be someone in Toronto for you.”

  She’s shouting again, now that she’s reminded herself that I’m in the big city and everything must be at a high volume here. I don’t bother telling her to be quiet.

  “There’s more to life than getting married and having a family,” I say instead, despite the fact that we’ve had this conversation a million times before. “I don’t need to be on OkCupid or PlentyOfFish or Match Me.”

  “Life has no meaning if you have no one to share it with.”

  “No meaning at all? Really, Mom?”

  There’s nothing wrong with not being in a relationship, though I admit it would be nice to come home to someone at the end of the day.

  I push that thought aside. A man would be a distraction more than anything.

  But I will nurture a friendship with the women who work across the street, because that’s definitely something I could use.

  Fortunately, my mother changes the topic. “Your aunt Gabby showed me an article the other day, saying I just wouldn’t believe it. I thought of you when I saw it, because you make pumpkin pie for your shop. Apparently canned pumpkin isn’t actually pumpkin but squash...”

  I let my mom prattle on about the weird articles Aunt Gabby has forwarded her in the past week, and she makes me promise that yes, I’ll watch the video with the dog and the lemon, as well as the video with the dog and the sprinkler.

  I end the call and sigh. Talking to my mother always takes a bit out of me.

  I try to think of something pleasant.

  Hmm... I wonder when Josh Yu will email me?

  I can’t help it. The thought of seeing an email from him in my inbox makes me grin.

  I don’t remember the last time I was so excited at the thought of a simple email.

  Chapter 6

  Josh

  Sunday evening, I’m in my home office, struggling to compose an email to Sarah Winters. This shouldn’t be so hard, yet my latest attempt is a pile of crap.

  I am most intrigued by the idea of the caramel pear pie. How much does it differ from the pear ginger crumble pie I had the other day? That pie was the most scrumptious thing I’ve ever had the delight of putting in my mouth.

  Intrigued? Scrumptious? I sound like a pretentious ass, and “putting in my mouth” makes me think of—

  Never mind.

  I try again, focusing on the important information.

  I am interested in moving forward with the plans for my Pi Day party. I would like to try the following savory pies: chicken pot pie, vegetable pot pie, and tourtière...

  I also tell her which dessert pies I’d like to try, and suggest a time for meeting up.

  The email provides the required information, but I’m not happy with the result. What tone am I going for? It sounds a bit stilted and formal. I want something...more casual? Friendly? Flirty?

  I run my hands over my face. God, what is wrong with me? I’m just hiring this woman to cater my party, but some foolish part of me wants more than that.

  Whatever. I push that thought aside.

  See, here’s one of the things I’m great at: self-control.

  I wasn’t always this way. During my wild years—when I was fifteen and sixteen—I didn’t exhibit anything remotely approaching self-control.

  However.

  That was before the mistake that brought my rebellion to a screeching halt. Before my father stopped talking to me. Before I gave up on relationships.

  Self-control. I have it in spades.

  I’m not saying I’m an uptight workaholic who has no idea how to have fun. Nor am I a work hard, party hard type. I think I generally come across as friendly and easygoing, and a little charming when I want to be. I know how to have fun; I’m just very careful about the kind of fun I have. At home, I enjoy videogames and movies. I go out for beers with Amrita and Eduardo every couple of weeks, and if I feel like something more, I’ll call Neil and we’ll hit a fancy club.

  I haven’t seen Neil in a few months, come to think of it.

  Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking of Sarah as someone other than the woman who’s going to cater the party that will finally convince Dad to come to Toronto.

  Yes, that must be it. I haven’t gotten laid in a while, and going out with Neil is usually the solution to that problem. Neil is a work hard, party hard kind of guy, and he knows the best places to meet women who aren’t looking for anything serious.

  Alright, I’ll get in touch with Neil soon, but first, I have to fix this email.

  You know what? No. It’s fine. It’s straightforward and will do what it needs to do.

  I hit “send.”

  Awesome. I’ve finished everything I needed to get done today. Now I’ll—

  Oh, shit.

  I have a sneaking suspicion...

  I open up the email I just sent, and my suspicion is confirmed: I did not delete the caramel pear pie paragraph. It appears below my name.

  I cannot believe I made such a stupid mistake. I am not the kind of guy who makes mistakes like this; that’s how I’ve gotten where I am in life.

  But Sarah does something to me and...dammit. She’s going to read those utterly inane lines and wonder what kind of drugs I’m doing. That paragraph makes me sound like a pretentious prick who’s high on...I don’t know what. I stopped doing drugs—other than alcohol and caffeine—when I was sixteen.

  No, this definitely isn’t just happening because I haven’t gotten laid in a few months.

  Sarah makes me feel things I’m not used to feeling. There’s a desire that goes beyond a night in bed together. A kind of desire I’m not used to feeling.

  I try not to think about that.

  I grab myself a bottle of beer and turn on the hockey game, but my knee is bouncing up and down. I can’t concentrate on the stupid game, not when I keep thinking of that email. I just hope she’ll stop reading at “Regards, Josh” and won’t notice the paragraph below.

  However, the response I receive twenty minutes later reveals this is not the case.

  From sarah@happyaspie.com: I found your e-mail most intriguing, especially the postscript. I would be most delighted if you could come to Happy As Pie on Wednesday at 10 am, at which point I will have several scrumptious pies for you to put in your mouth.

  I bark out a laugh. I can’t help it.

  I’m looking forward to Wednesday morning, and I will try to be on my best behavior. To be normal, rather than sound like a pretentious prick.

  That shouldn’t be too hard, right?

  * * *

  “I’ll be back in an hour or two,” I tell Clarissa as I’m putting on my winter jacket.

  “No problem, boss,” she says.

  Amrita appears in front of me. “Where are you going? There’s nothing in your schedule.”

  I might as well tell her. After all, I intend to send out an email later today with the details of the party, once Sarah and I agree on timing.

  “I’m throwing a Pi Day party.”

  “You mean ordering a bunch of pizzas for lunch and buying some apple pies, like the math department used to do when we were in school?”

  “No, I’m inviting everyone in the office—and their families—over to my house after work and hiring someone to cater the party. Which is why I’m going to a pie shop now to discuss the details and try some pie.”

  “Right. But why do you personally need to spend an hour on a Wednesday at a pie shop?” She looks at me suspiciously. “I bet the person you’re meeting with is a very attractive woman, am I right?�
�

  “Why would you say that?”

  “No reason.” She smirks.

  Amrita is correct, but even if the owner of the pie shop were a foul-tempered man, I would be going myself. This party is for my father more than anyone, and I need it to be perfect.

  I don’t want to tell Amrita the true purpose of this party, however, even though she’s my best friend and of course she’ll attend. It feels weird.

  “See you later,” she says. “Have fun.”

  “Stop smirking!”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  When I arrive at Happy As Pie, the door is locked, so I knock. A minute later, Sarah ushers me inside. She’s wearing a navy sweater and a white apron, and her hair is pulled back in a loose bun. My heart speeds up a little just at the sight of her.

  “Hi, Josh. Ready to put some pie in your mouth?” she says, then covers her own mouth with her hand, as though she can’t believe she actually said that out loud. Since she seems a touch embarrassed, my instinct is to put her at ease.

  And admire the blush creeping up her cheeks.

  “Mm. Very ready.” I send her a smile that has worked quite well for me with women in the past, followed by a wink.

  Sarah ushers me to a table filled with pie, and my mouth waters. God, that looks good.

  “Alright,” she says, all business now. “The savory pies are five inches in diameter, meant to serve one person, so there will be one per guest, and some extras. The sweet pies are nine inches—”

  “Nine inches, huh?” I can’t help myself.

  She’s blushing again, and I like it.

  However, this is a business meeting.

  It’s hard to remember that when I’m staring at Sarah and all of those pies. She’s so pretty. Her hair is light brown with gold highlights, and a few wisps have escaped her bun. I want to push them back behind her ears and cup her cheeks in my hand.

  I fear I’ve gone too far. All I did was repeat the diameter of the pies; I didn’t ask if she’d like to put nine inches in her mouth. But I can’t pretend my mind was anywhere else.

  Self-control, Josh.

  She soldiers on. “I have the three savory pies you wish to try. I’ll cut you a small piece of each. Best to do these ones first, as I heated them up for you—they should be eaten warm.” She puts a quarter of each savory pie on my plate.

  I try the tourtière first. It’s meaty with a flaky crust, and I groan in satisfaction. The chicken pot pie is delicious, too. I’ve never had chicken pot pie before, so I don’t know how it compares to anyone else’s, but this has to be about as good as it gets. The vegetable pot pie is also pretty tasty.

  “Good?” she asks. It might be a question, but her voice is confident.

  She knows I’m satisfied.

  Although Sarah blushed earlier, she’s not going to blush when I compliment her food. She knows she’s great at what she does for a living.

  I like her confidence.

  “They’re amazing,” I say.

  I polish off the pie on my plate. I’m tempted to lick it to get the last of the creamy filling from the chicken and vegetable pot pies, but I restrain myself from using my tongue...

  Which makes me think of other things I’d like to lick. Like her lips.

  Focus.

  Seriously, I’m usually the king of self-control and making things go the way I want them to, but there’s something about her that makes me do stupid things like send that ridiculous email and get distracted by the thought of licking her lips.

  It’s damn inconvenient.

  Sarah grabs an empty plate. “Now I’ll cut a slice of the caramel pear pie you were so eager to put in your mouth. We’ll see if you think it’s as scrumptious as the pear ginger crumble pie.”

  I groan. “I really must apologize for that email. I didn’t mean to send that postscript.”

  “You know there’s something called the delete key? Or the backspace, if the delete key isn’t working for you.” She smirks.

  Dammit, today has been a day of women smirking at me.

  I put my head in my hands. “I know, I know.”

  “But even if you had managed to find the backspace key on your keyboard, that wouldn’t change the fact that you wrote the paragraph in the first place. Maybe you were reading some interesting literature, and somehow you ended up channeling the author’s style in that email?”

  I think frantically for an author’s name. “Jane Austen. I was reading Jane Austen.”

  “Of course you were. That explains everything.” She pauses. “I’m a little disappointed. I expected you to be more...suave. After all, you are number nineteen on the list of ‘35 Most Eligible Bachelors Under 35 in Toronto.’”

  “You saw that list?”

  “It might have popped up in my Google search.”

  “Ah, so you were Googling me.” I lean closer. “Tell me what you wanted to know.”

  “Whether you really are a CEO. Whether your company is legit.”

  “You wouldn’t have needed to read the eligible bachelor list to know that. And you did read it, didn’t you?”

  “I might have.”

  “Stop being coy,” I murmur. “You read it. You wanted to know about me, and not just because I’m hiring you.”

  It’s suddenly very, very important that she says “yes.”

  I wouldn’t say I’m a man who always gets what I want. Exhibit A: my father still isn’t talking to me. My business career hasn’t been without its hiccups. There have been failures; there usually are many failures on the way to success.

  And it’s not like I can get every woman I want. I’m not Neil. Though I usually do pretty well with women; I’m not complaining.

  But now, I really need this particular woman to admit to having a little interest in me, because I haven’t had this strong of a reaction to anyone in ages. I have a good life, but I’d been in a bit of a funk for the past couple months. This woman and the party we’re planning have started to get me out of my malaise.

  “Yes,” she says at last. “I did. I was curious.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I rest my hands behind my head. Not gonna lie, it’s partly so she’ll have a chance to admire my arm muscles. I’m not above pulling a move like that.

  When she licks her upper lip, I feel like I’m regaining a little control over this situation.

  I have a taste of the caramel pear pie. It’s good, but I still prefer the pear ginger crumble pie. Next, I try the coconut pie, berry crumble pie, lemon-lime tart, and lemon meringue. I’m getting full, but I’m certainly not going to turn any of this down. One, it’s delicious, and two, I need to test everything so I can tell Sarah what I want for the party. They’re all amazing, though the lemon-lime tart is particularly good. Even better than the lemon meringue pie—and I’ve always loved lemon meringue.

  “So, what are you thinking?” she asks. “Do you want just a few different types of dessert pies for the party, or a wide variety?”

  “The second. Now, what about the pies with Nutella and hazelnuts?”

  “Still working on those. You can try them the next time we meet. Does next Tuesday work for you? Ten in the morning is good. A nice break in the middle of my work day.”

  “This is the middle of your work day?”

  She shrugs. “It’s supposed to be. I get here at six to start baking, and I try to leave before three, but often I end up staying until we close at seven. It’s my business, and I’m a bit of a control freak at times.”

  “Yet you accused me of being a control freak last time.”

  She shrugs again. “I understand what it’s like.”

  “Ten o’clock, next Tuesday. Sounds good.” I should probably check my schedule first, but whatever, I’ll make it work. Clarissa can rearrange some things for me if necessary.

  “Now, uh.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and once again, I’m hit with the urge to touch her hair, to caress her cheek. “It might be easier if you give me your cell number so we can
correspond in the next week as needed. About the Nutella pie and plans for the party.”

  “Of course.”

  I give her my number, and she enters it into her phone.

  “And also because you kind of suck at e-mail,” she teases as she puts her phone away.

  “Thank you for your insight into my e-mail skills.”

  “Always happy to help.”

  We discuss the timing of the party, then she walks me to the door and unlocks it. I’m hit with the desire to give her a kiss goodbye, but I muster up some self-control.

  “Bye, Sarah.”

  And then I leave, before I lose my restraint.

  * * *

  “I finally figured out how to get Dad to come to Toronto,” I tell my sister Nancy on the phone that night.

  “You’re getting married?” she shouts.

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Because it’s the easiest way to get him to visit you in Toronto. He’s not going to miss your wedding, despite the fact that he no longer speaks to you. I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out sooner.”

  “I’m not getting married.” But she has a point. My father would show up to my wedding.

  Probably.

  My idea, however, is much better.

  “I’m throwing a big Pi Day party,” I say.

  She chuckles. “Yes, that might work. Who are you inviting to this party, Number Nineteen?”

  I groan. “Nancy...”

  Since that damn “Most Eligible Bachelors in Toronto” list came out a few months ago, my sisters have started calling me “Number Nineteen”. Whenever we’re all together, it sends them both into a fit of laughter.

  “Okay, okay,” Nancy says. “Who are you inviting to the party, Josh?”

  “It’s a work party. I’m inviting everyone at Hazelnut Tech.”

  “And our parents.”

  “And our parents. You’re welcome to come, too, but I assume you have to work.”

  “Dammit. Why is Ottawa so far from Toronto? Maybe Wendy will be able to go since Kingston is closer. You’ll have to tell me all about it.” She pauses. “I’m sorry. I wish Dad was more reasonable.”

  Yeah. If only.

  If only Dad didn’t hold seventeen-year grudges. If only I hadn’t been so stupid.