Underneath the magazine, my phone, which is still in my hand, buzzes. Pulling it out, I look down, and there’s a single-line text from Marie.
Brace yourself. I don’t know what’s happening, but online orders are pouring in.
Pecan-Herb Cornbread Dressing
LOOKING OUT THE window of the plane, I see darkness, and off in the distance, lightning. Lightning makes me think of Lexi because she loves lightning, but then again, everything makes me think of her.
I don’t know why she likes lightning so much. When we were kids, she was fascinated. From the science of where lightning comes from to the compression of the air creating a shockwave or roll of thunder and the streaks that flash through the sky, she loved it all. I guess in many ways, she’s like lightning too, most specifically bolts from the blue.
Bolts from the blue are considered to be the most dangerous type of lightning. The lightning strike goes from a cloud to the ground, but it travels horizontally, sometimes for miles, before it turns down to strike. People often report that it’s as if it came out of the clear blue sky. It’s also a phrase that means something unusual that happens unexpectedly, kind of like my feelings for her. They set in out of the blue. One day she was James’s sister, a girl I saw every day, and then the next, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
A nudge to my shoulder has me looking over and finding Jack. He’s standing in the aisle, staring down at me. He’s never been one to sit still, so him pacing isn’t out of the norm. I pull out my earbuds and shift to face him.
“Hey, the guys have decided to cancel Wednesday’s dinner.” He tilts his head toward the o-line, who are sitting a few rows up.
I’m not surprised.
Every Wednesday night, the offensive line gets together for dinner. I’m not sure when this tradition started, but as long as I’ve been on the team, it’s something we’ve always done. Occasionally, one of the guys will host, but we usually go out. Rarely do we cancel unless it’s a holiday, like this week, and even then, those who are around will still get together. It’s what I’ve done the past few years, only this year, I’m not so sure.
“Sounds good,” I tell him.
“Did you decide what you’re doing for Thanksgiving?” Jack asks. His thumb starts thumping on the seat back he’s leaning on.
Zach invited a group of us up to his vineyard, and I’m certain Jack’s asking because he wants to ride together, but I don’t know. I love going to see Zach and Shelby—it’s so relaxing and nice where they live—but for some reason, I’m not feeling it this year.
“I think I’m going to pass this time,” I tell him.
“What?” He stands up straight. “Are you crazy? Shelby’s cooking, and my stomach is already growling. Just think, pumpkin pie . . .” He rubs it like it hasn’t had food in days when we just cleaned house at a little Italian restaurant an hour and a half ago.
“Shelby is an amazing cook, and I have no doubt she will go all out for Thanksgiving, but not this year. Maybe I’ll go next year.”
Reid’s head pops up from the window seat in front of me, and he eyes me knowingly. “You’re more than welcome to come over to our place. Camille and my mother are planning something, so I’m sure it’ll be great, but I think you should go home for Thanksgiving.”
Home.
It rolls off his tongue so easily, but it’s so hard for me to say, much less believe in.
“You think so?” I ask him. He understands more than anyone the conflict in my head. He’s really the only one I’ve talked to about her.
“Yeah, I do.” He nods with confidence and encouragement.
I’ve been thinking the same thing. I haven’t seen her for a few weeks, and I really want to, like deep down in my bones want to. It’s also where I want to be—at her house—but I’m still hesitant for many reasons, from the possibility of showing my hand and ruining a lifelong friendship to changing and disrupting my routines. These habits I’ve established for myself over the last few years have worked really well. Hell, everyone will tell you this is the best I’ve ever been, and change is scary.
“What if she doesn’t want me there?” It’s an honest question, one I hate voicing, but it’s what I fear the most.
“Why wouldn’t she want you there? James didn’t make it back this year, so who is she going to spend the holiday with? Who is she going to bake her pies for?” Jack chimes in, rubbing his stomach again as if this opportunity is just as good as Zach and Shelby’s.
“That doesn’t mean I can just invite myself,” I say to both of them. Neither of them responds; they just watch me and let this idea sink in. By nature, I’m not a spontaneous person. I think, plan, and then execute. I don’t like to do things wrong, and if I feel something isn’t going to go my way, I’m more likely to not do it at all than risk failing miserably.
However, she did say I could stop by whenever, said it’s still my home too.
Home.
There’s that word again.
“Zach said Shelby invited her up to their place, too,” Jack says, brows raised as if this might be an option.
“She did?” My forehead tightens as a frown slips onto my face. Many times over the years, she and I have been invited to be somewhere at the same time, and each time I caught wind that she might be there, I would get foolishly excited. But, for one reason or another, she never made it, and the letdown was always disappointing.
“Yep, but she told them she’s too busy with work, so you know she’ll be home.”
Why does he know these things about her? I only mentioned her article feature to Reid once. It’s not that I have a problem with him knowing things, but listening to him talk about her as if he knows her irritates me.
He’s right, though. She has been busy, and now with the gift guide, she told me she’d be working from sunup to sundown getting more pie fillings made, packaged, and mailed.
An idea sparks. Outside of it being Thanksgiving, I could offer to go down there to help her. She wouldn’t say no to free labor, would she? Then again, she’s always been a bit of an individualist. She likes doing things on her own and her way. However, I am great at following instructions, and it would be fun to watch her work.
It would be fun to watch her do anything.
“She does have friends.” I suddenly think of Marie and the possibility that there might be someone else in her life I’m not aware of. My stomach dips. “She might have other plans.”
“Then show up and make her change them.” Reid shrugs as if it’s that simple.
“I don’t know.”
I hate that, in the pit of my gut, there’s uncertainty. It’s always been there, and it’s always been one of the roots holding me in place. It’s stunted my ability to express how I feel and in turn forces me to internalize every emotion about everything, not just her. But, she did say she had a great time at the team event, and that was after spending the entire day with me, so she would be happy to see me, right?
Breaking eye contact, I look down at my phone and roll it between my hands. The ache in my thumb makes itself known.
During the third quarter, my hand hit a defensive player’s helmet, and my thumb jammed. We still won our game, but I’m grateful for the light practice week. Currently, it’s swollen and wrapped, and I’m hoping the pain will only last a few days. I cannot afford for it to take long to heal.
“Don’t you talk to her on a regular basis? Why haven’t you asked her what she’s doing yet?” Reid asks. I glance up at him, and he’s looking at me curiously. He knows we’ve been texting. Hell, we share a room together on the road, so he’s seen me texting her.
“We don’t talk. We text.”
“Still. How has Thanksgiving not come up?”
“It just hasn’t.”
Our conversations are brief and mainly focused on whatever is happening that day. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to ask her; I just haven’t, and she didn’t bring it up either.
I look back down at my
phone. I saved the photos of us together that popped up in the media after the event. She hasn’t said anything, so I’m not sure if she’s seen them, but they are out there and we look great together. There are a couple from our PR team, and I was tagged in several on social media. Sports bloggers have dubbed her the mystery girl, but it won’t take them long. Vultures—they’re all fucking vultures.
Two days after the event, I woke up to an email from James: That’s some mystery girl you’ve got there. I could hear his tone through the words, curiosity mixed with warning, but I’m not afraid. I’m finally going to be good enough for her. She’s what I want, so I manned up, owned it, and replied, You got a problem with this?
His response was quick. Nope. Just don’t make me have to break that golden arm of yours.
Relief I hadn’t known I needed swept through me.
A day after that, I received another email that said, Took you long enough.
I don’t know why I’ve been worried all these years about what he would say. I should have known he’s always known me better than I know my own self.
“You know, for being the most fiercely determined person I know, you’re kind of a pansy when it comes to this girl. It’s as simple as this: do you want her or not? Because if you do, go get her.” Jack pounds the seat next to me with his hand.
“Go get her,” I mumble, echoing his words back to him as I look back and forth between him and Reid.
He’s right; I do need to go get her. Texting with her has been great, but that only gets me so far. Also, I know her—she isn’t going to make the next move. It has to be me, and as I realize this, I feel like maybe she’s always been waiting for me to make my move.
Adrenaline stirs in my veins.
Jack sees it, the change in me, and pounds the top of the seat again. “That’s right. Go. Get. Her.”
I feel the attention of others turn our way, but I don’t care. A smile slowly splits my face, and my gaze moves to lock onto Reid’s. He smiles back; he knows.
Go get her.
I needed this pep talk from them. I know that’s stupid, but I did. I get stuck in my head, and I can’t help it. So much of the way I think is black and white. I follow the rules, I always do what’s right, and I’m unyielding in social situations. But, when it comes to Lexi, everything is uncharted waters, and there’s no playbook to help me navigate the best route.
Hmm, maybe that’s what I need—an offensive plan, a strategy. I need a plan that tears down the defense, one play at a time. As much as I’d like to throw a Hail Mary pass and get straight to the part where we’re together, I’m not desperate. Time isn’t running out, and I can do this right.
Yeah, I can definitely do this.
Going into this season, I knew it was going to be my year. I felt it deep down in my bones, and to date, our team is undefeated. We’re a shoo-in for the playoffs, and we will win the Super Bowl.
I’m going to be the best.
I’ve got the blessing from her brother, and I’m finally going to get the girl.
Pumpkin Pie
WITHOUT PAYING ATTENTION, it just barely registers to me that beyond the beveled glass window of the front door, there is the shadow of a large body as I throw it open and push through the screen door. No one was supposed to be there, and with the smoke billowing out from behind me, I trip into them, gasping for clean air. Strong hands wrap around my biceps to steady me, and they pull me out of the doorway.
“What the hell is burning?” a deep voice yells. The dots all connect, and I find myself being examined for injuries by Bryan as he walks around me and runs his hands up and down my body.
I repeat: he runs his hands up and down my body.
Oh my.
“Nothing is burning.” I cough. “Well, except for the fireplace, but I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” I fan out my shirt to try to erase the smell clinging to me.
“What do you mean you don’t know what’s wrong with it?” His body is tense, and when I glance up at his face, it’s locked tight with concern. Eyes framed in long honey lashes, ones I know like I know my own, bear down on me with alarm, and my heart stutters.
He’s here, standing on my porch.
“I mean I don’t know. It’s cold outside, so I thought it would be nice to build a cozy fire, and then this happened.” I wave my hand toward the inside of the house. Most of the smoke has escaped, but both of us can see it as it still hangs faintly in the air.
Stepping away from me, Bryan rubs his hand over his face and then the back of his head. I should be more frustrated—after all, I’m certain this is just going to be another repair added to the long list of them—but Bryan’s presence has me pinching my lips together to keep from smiling.
I’m so happy he’s here. The unexpected joy that has filled me outshines the part of me that should be angry.
But, what is he doing here?
And why am I so excited? I shouldn’t be this excited. We’re just friends . . . I think.
Dropping his hand, he takes a deep breath, rises to his full height, and scowls down at me. Eyes the color of the deep blue ocean penetrate me. “Lex, your house is filled with smoke. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Something could have happened to you.”
Taking a step back from him, I cross my arms over my chest. A red wave of defensiveness flashes through me at his tone. “I know it’s filled with smoke, Captain Obvious, but I didn’t plan for this. I had to put out the fire I was trying to build before it got worse and then get the windows open to air it out.”
A chilly fall breeze picks up and whips around us, loosening the messy bun I have on top of my head. Leaves litter the porch as I swipe my hand over my forehead, realizing pieces of hair are sticking out everywhere. I discreetly try to smooth them down, and then it occurs to me what my entire appearance is. I’m wearing an apron over old holey athletic wear, and I’m covered in flour, swipes of food, soot, dirt—you name it, it’s currently somewhere on me. I look like a filthy hot mess, and heat floods my cheeks with embarrassment.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, almost a little defensively, as I scan him from head to toe. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy shirt, dark gray athletic pants, and flip-flops. He looks so clean and comfortable, like a favorite blanket I want to curl into.
“I had some time, with the holiday and all tomorrow.” He rests his hands on his narrow hips. “I heard you weren’t going to Zach and Shelby’s, and I know James isn’t making it home, so I thought I’d come here and see how you are.”
“Oh.” My hands drop and the joy returns.
His eyes lock onto mine and we stare at each other. With each breath, I feel my heart rate pick up. Man, he’s so handsome it’s ridiculous. He’s so here. Right in front of me.
Several times over the last week, I was tempted to invite him for Thanksgiving, but something always held me back. Yes, we’ve known each other a long time, but this version of our friendship is new, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t have fears of overwhelming him. He’s busy, has this whole other world of people, and I feel cautious, like I’m trying to tread carefully.
“Yeah, oh.” He turns his head, breaking the connection between us, and looks out over the front lawn, his gaze catching on the brightly patterned quilts. Last night was really cold, so I covered the front hedges to keep the frost off, and I haven’t removed them yet. Cold air again whips around and between us, and I shiver.
“How am I? Well, as you can see,” I say, drawing his eyes back to mine, “this morning has been something else. Now, it’s one o’clock, my house and everything in it smells like smoke, and I’m behind on the pies I need to have made by four o’clock.” Which I stupidly waited until the last minute to make, although I don’t tell him this. I’ve lost at least an hour dealing with this, and he watches as I let out a defeated sigh.
“How can I help?” he asks.
I again look at his clean clothes and then up to his face. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is un-style
d like he just can’t be bothered with it, but his features have softened like he really wants to do this. My brows pull down. “You want to help?”
“Yep. I heard through the grapevine that you’re super busy and thought you might like two extra hands.” He holds his up and shakes them in a ‘look at me, I’m ready to work’ gesture.
Two extra hands—his overly large and perfect hands that are worth millions of dollars.
“How long are you staying?” I ask, wondering if this is real or not.
“Until Friday morning, if that’s okay?” He drops his hands to his sides and then shoves them in his pockets.
A tiny noise escapes me.
He. Wants. To. Stay. Here. With. Me.
I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be spending the holiday alone, and I really didn’t mind. It is what it is, but this is something straight out of my wildest dreams. Bryan could have gone anywhere and he chose to be here with me, and only me. My already overly affectionate heart for him just grew even more and sighed.
I smile up at him, the biggest smile, and he gives me one in return.
“That’s better than okay. Yes, a thousand times yes.” I briefly think about him working in my kitchen and how many mail orders I can get done with him here. Productivity wins out over being awestruck by his arrival.
Swinging the screen door open, I turn and quickly walk back toward the kitchen, hearing the door close behind me as Bryan follows. Looking up, I see there’s still smoke lingering around the ceiling, but I have to keep going; it’ll clear out eventually. I quickly wash my hands then reach into the refrigerator, my Southern manners kicking in as I pull out a pitcher of sweet tea along with two glasses and set them down on the island.
One by one, windows I missed across the downstairs are opened, and from the family room, the off-balance ticking from the ceiling fan starts. Heavy steps make their way across the old hardwood floors toward me, and again, I’m shocked this is real.
“What kind of pie are you baking this year?” Bryan asks, walking into the room. I glance over at him as he takes a seat in the same chair at the kitchen island as before and pours us both a tea. He said ‘pie’ as in singular, which means he knows I only bake one kind of pie for each holiday. The thought of him sitting somewhere and looking at my website, although it’s obviously public—it feels like he’s been reading my diary. The website and my social media accounts are me, and he’s been looking at them. It makes my stomach dip—in a good way.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 8