Sweet as Pie

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  She opened the big refrigerator and began to pull things off the bottom shelf—ham, cheese, mayonnaise, and a dish with a partial stick of butter. He opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t like mustard, but she left it where it was. She remembered. Over the years, their families had grilled hundreds of hamburgers together. There had always been two kinds of potato salad—one with mustard and one without.

  She walked toward the counter with her arms full. “Would you mind closing the refrigerator door for me?”

  “Sure.” He was about to do that when he caught sight of something interesting behind the cartons of yogurt—a half-eaten pie that looked like one of his favorite things in the whole world.

  “Is this chicken pot pie?” He held it up. It had to be. The chunks of chicken, potatoes, peas, and carrots were suspended in rich, yellow gravy. The crust was brown, flakey, and had been oddly embellished with what looked like Santa’s sleigh and half his team of reindeer—the other half gone by the way of someone’s fork.

  Evie looked up from the bread she was opening. “Oh. That. Yes. I had some leftover dough, and I made it for the staff’s lunch a couple of days ago. I wanted to practice for some Christmas pie decorations.”

  “Can I have this? Instead of the sandwiches?”

  She had been about to slice the bread, but stopped. “Are you sure? It’s not what I would call fresh. This bread was just baked this afternoon, and it’s fabulous. I trade savory pies for bread from Kirstin’s Bakery.”

  She sure worried a lot about how old stuff was.

  “My rule is if there’s no green growing, it’s good.”

  She shuddered—actually shuddered. “You’re welcome to it.”

  “Chicken pot pie is my favorite food.”

  She looked surprised. “I didn’t know that. I thought tamales were.”

  “It’s my non-Delta favorite food. There was a diner in North Dakota that made chicken pot pie. I got in the habit of eating it the night before a game.”

  “I’ll warm this. How much do you want?” She held up the pie.

  “I can eat it all—save it from getting a day older. That ought to make you happy.”

  “There is that.” She removed the plastic wrap and covered it with aluminum foil.

  “Hey, you can’t put aluminum foil in the microwave. Even I know that.”

  “It’s not going in the microwave. It would come out soggy.” She walked over to a contraption with glass doors and racks underneath. “A convection oven is almost as fast.”

  He gathered up the sandwich makings and returned them to the refrigerator. “I usually eat the frozen kind.”

  “Here. Sit.” She gestured to a small round table for four in the corner that held a laptop, a mug of pens, a notebook, some cookbooks, salt and pepper shakers, and a stack of napkins. He sat down. Thankfully, these chairs were real—wood with high backs and seats that would hold a hockey player.

  “Do you still eat chicken pot pie the night before a game?”

  “I try to. It doesn’t always work out when I’m on the road.”

  “Is that for luck?” Evie opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk from a gallon jug.

  “I don’t worry about luck like I used to.” That was true, though it didn’t mean he didn’t worry at all. “I eat the pie because it’s high carb, and I like it.”

  She set the milk in front of him. “Even the frozen kind? You must be easy to please.”

  Not that easy. But just then she smiled all the way to her eyes until they sparkled and he realized, easy to please or not, she pleased him. She wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup and no jewelry except for some small silver earrings shaped like leaves.

  “I would only consider frozen chicken pot pie emergency food.” She wrinkled her nose. So cute, so flirtatious. He smiled back at her—and then made himself stop.

  There were about a hundred reasons he couldn’t be attracted to Evie—good reasons, even aside from the bet. One: she was his ex-wife’s cousin. Two: she was his childhood friend. Three: she was the daughter of his parents’ best friends and his godparents. Four: he had just gotten his friend back and found a piece of home. He couldn’t ruin it.

  That might have seemed like only four reasons, but the last one counted for at least ninety-six times. Maybe he needed to say something to remind himself—and possibly her—that there could be no flirtation or anything else beyond friendship between them.

  “It is a chicken pot pie emergency if you don’t have anyone to make it for you, and you don’t know how yourself.” He took a drink of his milk. “Your cousin used to make it for me.” With those words, he placed an elephant in the room, to remind himself of reason number one.

  Evie nodded but she didn’t change her facial expression at all. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been trying to flirt with him. She was just a happy person, spreading smiles and joy for those who would take it. “I could teach you to make it.”

  He laughed. “I don’t see that happening. Maybe you could just make them for me.”

  “You play how many games? Eighty-something? I don’t see that happening.”

  “Not all of them are home games. I wouldn’t need a whole pie for every game. One per series would do me.” He sipped his milk.

  Evie closed her eyes, and her face went sad. “I should have said this yesterday, but I’m sorry about all that happened with Channing. Do you miss her?”

  The question caught him off guard. He did not miss Channing. He missed who he’d thought she was and what he’d expected them to have together. There didn’t seem to be a right answer.

  “It’s hard to miss a woman who put you out of your house on game day because ‘it wasn’t like she thought it would be.’” Time to lighten the mood. “I for sure don’t miss the house. It was like Pinterest threw up in there. Lots of jars with candles, and chalkboards with sayings on them.”

  Evie smiled. “Pinterest can lead you astray if you let it.”

  “She got her chicken pot pie recipe from Pinterest, too. It had canned mixed vegetables, chicken, and soup. She used those frozen crusts.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” But from the purse of Evie’s lips and the tone of her voice, it was clear just how little she thought of that.

  He laughed. “You’re such a pie snob.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” she repeated and raised an eyebrow—just one. “Stick around. I’ll turn you into a pie snob, too. I’ll ruin you for all other pies.”

  Their eyes locked and a moment of pure, light amusement passed between them. How long had it been since he’d felt that? Just the joy of being with another person, with no complications? No one was trying to get into anyone’s pants. No one was trying to get a game-worn jersey. No one was trying to get a giant diamond ring and a mansion in which to hang lying chalkboard signs that spouted philosophy about forever. It was just a fall night, a glass of milk, and a girl who felt like home.

  A little ding sounded and broke the spell. Evie snapped her fingers. “Your food is warm.”

  He closed his eyes to keep from watching her walk away. He was in a good place now, and he wasn’t about to let a bow do him in.

  “Here you go.” She set the pie plate on the table and hurried across the kitchen. “I’ll be right back with a plate and fork.”

  “Just a fork,” he called after her. “No need in dirtying up a plate.”

  “As you like.” She handed him a fork, closed the laptop, and pushed it to the side. “Let me get this out of the way.”

  “Is this your office?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She sat down across from him, opened a bottle of water, and drank deeply. “And our lunch table. Sometimes our dinner table if we have to stay late.”

  “Like tonight?”

  He took a bite of the food—and immediately knew food was too generic a description for the morsels
in his mouth. The parade of flaky pastry, rich gravy, and tender chicken might have brought him to his knees if he’d had a little less pride. It was pure buttery and creamy comfort.

  “Like tonight? What do you mean?” Evie spoke and broke the food spell.

  He swallowed and got his brain out of his mouth. “Tonight?”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Yes. Like tonight. It’s a dinner table tonight because I stayed late. Have you been hit in the head too many times?”

  “Probably.” He took another bite. “But I was distracted by this manna from heaven.”

  “Ha! That’s not manna from heaven. The Israelites complained about the manna.”

  He laughed. “You’re pretty cocky about your talents, aren’t you?” It struck him that Evie displayed more confidence here in her shop than he remembered her ever showing anywhere else.

  Suddenly, some things made sense. She was prettier, funnier, happier, and more charismatic than he’d ever seen her—and it was all because she’d found the place where she was entirely comfortable in her own skin. That was what drew his eye to the bow on her apron and made him want to bask in her laughter.

  She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be cocky? You’re the one who was so distracted by that pie you couldn’t remember what we’d been talking about.”

  “About that...”

  “About what?” He liked how she leaned forward a little when she asked a question, like she cared about what his answer would be.

  “That you’re here late.”

  “What about it?” She leaned in a little more.

  He pointed toward the door that led to the shop. “You shouldn’t let them run over you. You should have made them leave.”

  “It wasn’t any big deal. I had to stay anyway. I had things to do.” She gestured to some pies on the counter and sat back again. “Besides, it was sort of fun.”

  Fun? “They were taking advantage of you.”

  Her smile faded a bit. “No. Miklos came in first, wanting pasties. He thought they were a regular menu item. They aren’t, but I had some left and was glad for him to have them. We had a little bit of language barrier, and the next thing you know, I had a shopful of hockey players—and a case of beer.”

  “I don’t think you understand how hockey players can be. They can have ulterior motives.”

  A storm cloud descended over her face. “Ulterior motives? Are you implying that they praised my pie in hopes I would have sex with them? One at a time, Jake? Or all at once? Either way, I can take care of myself, but I’m just wondering what imaginary tale you have racing around in your head.”

  Fuck. This was going all wrong. “No. That’s not what I meant. They didn’t even pay you!”

  “It was my food to give away—food that I wasn’t going to sell anyway. You must not think much of me if you think they were just being nice to me to get free pie.”

  “I think the world of you. That’s why—”

  Evie didn’t seem to hear him, but plowed ahead. “Though I’d like to point out that they don’t need free pie. I suspect there’s not a person on your team who couldn’t buy and sell this shop ten times over—land included.”

  Worse and worse.

  She stood and put her hands on her hips. There were probably more disagreeable things than a woman looming over you with her arms akimbo, but he couldn’t think of much right now. “Do you think I’m so hungry for attention that I have to buy it with pie?”

  No, Evie, I don’t think that. I’ve passed enough time with enough puck bunnies to know what a woman hungry for attention is like. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he repeated.

  “Then, tell me: what did you mean?”

  He took a deep breath. “It’s just that hockey players are unpredictable. You can’t trust them. They say one thing and then forget it in a flash. And they can be a little wild.”

  She nodded. “Oh yes, they bought a whole case of Budweiser. Beer and pie today and what next? Driving through cotton fields? Rolling yards? Setting up dogfights?”

  “I never knew you had such a sarcastic mouth on you. You’ve always been so nice.” He knew the minute it came out, he’d said the wrong thing.

  “I’m plenty sarcastic in my head. I just don’t usually get mad enough to let it out. And I never knew you could be so insulting.”

  That wasn’t fair. He had not insulted her. It was time to take this situation in hand, and he was going to do it on his feet. He did not, however, put his hands on his hips.

  “I did not insult you. I was trying to look out for you.”

  How could such a sweet face suddenly look so huffy? “I think I’m a better judge than you whether or not I have been insulted.”

  “No.” He crossed his arms. “You are a better judge of whether you feel insulted. I am a better—no, the only—judge of whether I meant to insult you. And I did not. That’s not the guy I am.”

  She looked a little uncertain or at least a little less huffy.

  Time to go in for the kill. “I know hockey players. They’re used to getting their way. They think every woman they run across wants to sleep with them.”

  I know because I have been that guy, and I’m trying to not be anymore. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “There’s been a lot of...virtue surrendered to a lot of hockey players.” He made sure his voice was soft. She wrinkled her forehead, which he took to mean she was considering what he’d said. Placing his hand on her arm hadn’t been a conscious act, but there it was. There was warmth there and a little slow burn sparkle. She felt it, too. It was evident in the way she briefly looked down where he held her arm. He ought to remove his hand. “I can’t let you be a casualty at the hands of one of my teammates.”

  She jerked her arm away from his hand. “A casualty? If you think I can’t take care of myself, you know less about me than I know about hockey players. Furthermore, you’re not the boss of me.” Her eyes blazed.

  There was no pure, light amusement and fun between them now. No slow-burn sparkle either—not a bit. She had some hellcat in her and he’d brought it out. And somehow that was very appealing.

  “I—” he began, but his mouth went dry and images that were wrong, wrong, wrong moved in. He should not be thinking about backing Evie up against that big stainless steel refrigerator and lifting her against that part of him that had a mind of its own.

  He began to sweat. He didn’t really want Evie. It had been a long dry spell and he had that fresh-off-the-ice horny adrenaline going. Combine all that with the knowledge that women were forbidden fruit right now, with Evie the most forbidden—the apple that would doom all of mankind—and you had yourself some impure thoughts.

  Hellfire and brimstone, times a hundred.

  Maybe he should apologize, even if he had meant well—get things back on a friendly even keel. Maybe if he explained himself a little better, she would get it.

  He hurried to add, “There was a time when you would have listened to me when I tried to warn you about something, when I was trying to help you.”

  She nodded. “I agree. But that was back before you abandoned our friendship.”

  His gut bottomed out and he suddenly felt hollow inside. “You said you forgave me.” At least his impure thoughts took a hike. “You said it was behind us.”

  She nodded. “I did forgive you. I do. I meant what I said. But it happened, Jake. We can go on from here, but we have to deal with the new reality, where we didn’t talk three times a week and share everything that went on in our lives. There are things that are off-limits that wouldn’t have been before.”

  Before. Before was exactly what he wanted—before Channing.

  And what if there had been instead of Channing? His mind wandered back to that Christmas party when he’d almost asked Evie to the Sigma Chi formal. Funny thing. He hadn’t been planning to invite her, wouldn
’t have thought someone so smart and focused would have been interested in going out with a guy who had a pro hockey pipe dream and no backup plan. Besides, the dance had still been a long way off and his head firmly in hockey season. But he and Evie had been laughing about something and she had pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at him a certain way and it suddenly just seemed right that he should ask her. He would have if Channing hadn’t appeared and he hadn’t gone out of his mind over her. What would have happened if Channing had arrived five minutes later?

  Well, that ship had sailed. Probably for the best. But he wanted—needed—this friendship back. He didn’t want anything to be off-limits. He needed to apologize. Again. More. Better.

  “Evie—” But before he could finish and just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, who should come through the kitchen door but the clean-shaven, Midwestern picture of morality and integrity, wholesome Able Killen? And he was carrying a stack of dirty plates.

  “Evans, I told the other guys to go home and that I’d make sure everything was cleaned up.”

  I’ll just bet you did.

  Evie turned to sunshine again. “Oh, Able. How nice. But you didn’t have to do that.”

  “No way I’d leave you with this mess.” Would Jake have cleaned up after himself? Maybe. He wasn’t exactly known for it, but he had put the sandwich stuff back in the refrigerator. “If you’ll show me the way to the sink, I’ll just wash these dishes up.”

  “No need to do that. We’ll put them in the Hobart.” Evie turned her back to Jake. “This way.”

  Jake stepped away from the table. “I’ll help. I know how to run a Hobart.” And he was almost sure that was true. The church back at home had one. He’d never actually done it, but he’d hung around and seen it done.

  “Sit back down and eat your chicken pot pie, Jake. We’ve got this.” Her flat tone said it all. Don’t you dare follow me.

  “This was really nice, Evans,” Able said as they walked away. “I’d like to take you to dinner to say thank you.”

  “Oh, Able, you’re sweet! No thanks are necessary.” But, again, her tone said it all. That would be just grand!