by Gina Henning
“It’s rather hot in here, did you already pre-heat the oven?” I stride over to check on the ovens.
“I did. Pre-heating is essential in all things.” He dumps some of the pecans on the pies. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I bite my tongue. I need to refrain from responding, this kitchen is too hot for my liking. I won’t deny the attraction but I have to be real with myself. Jack lives here and I do not.
“Yes, Jack, pre-heating is part of the directions.” I measure out my own pecans and sift them onto the pies. I wish the battery on my phone wasn’t dead, I would take a pic.
“Not bad for a first time pie baker.” Jack pats my back.
“Yours aren’t too shabby either.” I laugh and follow him and his pies to the ovens. The kitchen has enough ovens pre-heated and ready to bake our eleven pies.
He closes the final white oven door and turns towards me. “Can I offer you that drink now?”
“Here?” I point my finger down, inquiring if he means in the kitchen.
“The pies take a little under an hour to bake, and I happen to have wine glasses here in the kitchen.” He gestures for me to take in our surroundings.
I purse my lips to the side and nod. Jack grins back at me and strides over to the cupboard near the refrigerators. He selects two wine glasses from a cabinet and the higher-shelf Malbec from the grocery bag. Jack tugs on the drawer under the counter and grabs a corkscrew. The bottle opens with ease. He sets the corkscrew on the counter and wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I laugh and shake my head. Yes, being flirty is definitely on his mind.
He pours a healthy amount into each goblet, and then offers me one. “Happy Thanksgiving Eve.”
We clink our glasses. I feel a bit of an electric shock from the goblet. That’s not scientifically possible.
“Happy Thanksgiving Eve, Jack Walker.” I take a taste of the wine. It’s spicy and robust. The aroma lingers in the air. I swallow a bigger sip and savor the complexity of it. Definitely a nice finish.
I gaze up at Jack. He’s watching me.
“I really like the flavors of the wine.” I tip my glass to him.
“Do you feel them dancing along your tongue?”
His eyes make my heart flutter. Music begins to strum on my inner chords but it’s not the bumblebee, it’s more like sun lightening up the daytime. His gaze is strong—stronger than the sip of Malbec. Or it could be the wine is full-bodied, with its high tannins, and my stomach is empty. Although the wine isn’t the only full-bodied adventure in this room.
“Yes. Almost like a tango, gliding across my taste buds.” I take another sip. The spicy liquid slides down my throat.
Jack double-steps toward me. In one swift movement he has his arm wrapped around my back, holding me close. I place my wine on the counter and grab onto his arms to steady myself. I hope I don’t fall.
His biceps are hard beneath the starched shirt. I rub my fingers over them. Jack smiles at me. His neck is close. The scent of freshly chopped wood and mint drift around, tempting me to lean in. It’s as though a trail of seduction has left a path and is asking me to take a walk in the forest on a crisp autumn day. And I want to explore further and see what I can discover.
Jack’s stare is like sitting by a fire, toasting inside and out. “Would you like to go sit down in the lounge?”
“That’s probably a good idea. I didn’t bring my dancing shoes,” I say as he brings my body back to a standing position. Wow, I need to catch my breath.
“Special attire isn’t necessary to tango. Just a good partner.” Jack grabs the bottle of wine and his glass. He takes my hand with the other.
I follow behind him, admiring his broad shoulders. Has he ever been a rancher? No, he has more of the architect type of style. He is so formal in appearance. But with those dance moves…that opens up an entirely different category for my imagination.
Wine wanderings of the mind, I need to circle on back. The lounge is a small room with a few tan leather couches and a sandstone fireplace. Seeing a fireplace in Central Texas is always funny to me. I guess on a night like tonight it isn’t so bad. But in general, how many opportunities do you really have to light a fire?
Jack motions for me to sit on one of the couches. I slide onto the leather loveseat. He swipes a match across the brick and tosses it inside. A flame flashes up, flaring white before settling on a golden hue. That was quick. It must be gas. He turns off the overhead light and the room is dark other than the flickering from the fire. The absence of the incandescent glare is soothing.
My hair is wiry and still a bit damp. I’m sure it emulates a disaster. I flush, embarrassed by how I must appear to him. I pat my hair, wishing I had a swat team makeover crew on call ready to execute a quick fix to this wreck.
“Your hair doesn’t look that bad,” Jack says, almost as though he’s reading my thoughts.
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment, though most gals might prefer something a bit more.”
“Well, it looks better than it did when you drove into the pecan farm parking lot,” he says, nudging my knee, “blaring, what was that?”
I blush… Aurora, and Brian for that matter. How is it that both of my siblings ended up with such ducks? One of my father’s terms. I guess it sounds better than whack jobs or loony-bin clientele.
Jack’s hand is resting on my leg. It feels heavy. Not in a bad way—rather, I picture it moving to other areas of my body.
My chest rises and falls. “The sounds weren’t mine, and…the blaring…that wasn’t by choice. My sister’s husband, Brian, recently installed a new disc changer for my mom, and the music…well, I’m assuming that was from my brother’s wife.” His eyes are squinted as I speak. “And…well, let’s just say he isn’t exactly the best electrician, or plumber for that matter.” I toss my hair back, or rather try to toss my frizz nest back.
Jack smiles. He massages my knee and runs his finger over my scrapes. He puts his wine down and kneels to inspect my wounds. “Did you fall today?” He gazes up into my eyes with deep concern.
I’m embarrassed. I purse my lips and speculate about how to respond. “Yes. I had a little Bambi moment when I was walking in the ice storm.”
“A Bambi moment?” He laughs. “I wish I’d been there.”
My mouth drops open at his admission, and I shove him backward. He loses his balance and falls onto the tile floor. I expect he’ll immediately get up, but he doesn’t.
“Jack?” I take a deep breath. “Jack, seriously. Are you pretending?”
He’s like a cadaver on an exam table, completely lifeless.
I get down on my knees and peer in close to his face. “Jack?”
He still doesn’t respond. Has he been knocked unconscious? Is that even possible?
I investigate his neck, checking for a pulse, assuming it’s there. Arms wrap around my shoulders and tug me down until I’m inches from Jack’s smirking face.
I bite my lip. “Not funny.”
“Lauren, I warned you when you had your flour-drawing moment.” He traces his index finger across each of my cheeks, reenacting what I’d done earlier.
Now I want to bite that finger. My shoulders and eyebrows rise up in unison.
Jack pulls me to my feet. “Seriously, though. I’m sure your Bambi moment was a sight to see. But what I was trying to say is that I wish I’d gotten to you before you fell.”
“I see.” I nod and look for my wine. I’m parched. Being with Jack on the floor, wrapped in his arms with the flames flickering in the background…I’m on fire. I need a distraction, something to focus on. In Jack’s arms I’m falling. Going down a path I’m not sure if I’m willing to take.
Jack sits back down and takes a sip of his wine. He runs his massive hand through his hair. Something I’m unable to do with mine. My frizz nest brushes up against the back of the couch. It sounds like some sort of animal scratching at the back door. It’s crinkly. Unlike Jack’s, which is undeniably soft and clea
n. I’m having hair envy.
“Do you have any crazy family stories or wild tales?” Maybe Jack’s great hair is like a softball thrown by Mother Nature to balance things out. But then if that were even possible, where are my softballs? So far today has been a bunch of strikes. Well, except for…Jack.
“Crazy family stories. Hmm. My Aunt Minnie has five cats. Does that count?”
“A herd of cats… No, that’s pretty average.” And also boring.
I’m more of a dog person. Cats have always scared me. They creep up on you and stare you down. But that’s beside the point, I actually don’t have any pets. Too much of a commitment. If I want a weekend getaway I can leave without making arrangements. And I do not take this for granted. Sure there have been plenty of times where I would have enjoyed a fluffy mate on the couch, but I haven’t been willing to give up my independence, yet. I never share this with possible love interests. The most responsibility I’m willing to take on with a living thing is a plant. And I have several, some that have been with me for years. Just give them the right amount of water and sun and all is good in a green world.
“Sorry. That’s all I’ve got,” he says with a shrug.
This is not the face of a dull man. The fire is reflecting from his eyes, only causing them to flicker even more. The light blue, pin-striped shirt he’s wearing is begging to be unbuttoned, maybe a few notches to start. Clearly, I need to keep talking. The roaming charges on my brain are going to a place of no return. Swerving back to my network of comfort, I decide chatting is the way to go. Talking I’m good at. It’s what I do for a living. People pay tons of money to hear me talk. Ha! This makes me sound like a phone sex operator, which I am not. I work at an investment firm.
I’m going to get under Jack’s skin. “Sometimes explanations of the ordinary are only attempts at a good cover-up. Maybe your buttoned-up, clean-cut look is your way of hiding something.”
“I’m not much of a hider. I think I’m more of a finder. Which worked out well for you today.” He brushes my cheek with his fingers. They move down to my jawline, as though he’s outlining my face. He reaches my chin and pulls it up.
“Yes, but I wasn’t really hiding.” I let my eyes meet his. They’re sending tugging sensations to my chest, causing me to breathe heavily. I break our tunnel vision and stare at my glass.
Jack knocks his knee against mine. “Lauren, is this your attempt at asking me to play hide-and-seek with you? ’Cause if so, I’ll oblige, but when I find you, then I choose the next game,” Jack says with an intense smile.
Apparently he didn’t get the memo about slow and steady wins the race. And he did mention in the kitchen about being a fast guy. Hmm…maybe he is looking for some sort of weekend hook-up. I’ve never been one for that scene.
He bumps our knees together. Electric currents flare up my thigh. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. My eyes are fixated on his but the invisible brigade over my shoulder forces me to look away. Taking an internal cold shower only helps me a little.
“We should probably check on the pies.” I’m not ready to play hide-and-seek with Jack, yet.
He offers his hand, and I clasp it with my own. This small dose of chivalry is further indication of something more than pie baking and maybe he doesn’t have quickie intentions. But I don’t have long-distance expectations, either.
The smell of the toasty pecan pies invades my senses as we walk into the kitchen. The aroma is delicious. Is it possible to gain weight off of fumes? I hope not. I want to sit in a hot tub of these smells and soak them all in. Maybe, even add a little whipped cream on Ja—
The release of our latched fingers slaps me back to my actual location, which is the kitchen. I stand by the counter with my glass of wine and watch as Jack rhythmically takes the pans out of the oven. One by one and on the counter they go. He works quickly, as if he’s in a hurry to get to something else and not just trying to make sure the pies don’t burn.
The pies are impressive. Like, front-page worthy. These are the types of pies that people grab their cell phones and snap twenty or so photos of to upload to Instagram, #MMM #Pie #NomNomNom, making sure they use every possible background and lighting. Oh yes, check out what I’m about to eat. I bet there is even a pie selfie hashtag. Maybe it’s called a #pieshelfie. Ha!
My smile can’t be any wider, not only from my own hilariousness but these pies are amazing. A sense of pride overcomes me. My grandmother will be proud. Even if she didn’t give me her prized recipe, I did make a beautiful pecan pie. In fact, I made six pecan pies! Each pie is placed on a separate cooling shelf that Jack arranged earlier. There is a round, black clock on the wall. It’s old school, like something out of the sixties. The hour hand is hovering over the ten while the minute hand is almost to the three spot.
“The directions indicate to let the pies cool before removing them from the rack,” Jack says as he places his recipe card on the counter. His gaze is burrowing into me.
It’s so intense that I have to look away. I pick up my glass and take a big gulp. The heat should be tempered on some other things as well. Starvation is crawling around inside my stomach. The smell from the pies is making me weak. Coupled with the wine, I feel a smidge dizzy. Jack must be hungry as well. Someone please send me a rope, I’m going to fall off the cliff.
“The pies smell sensational.” I nervously laugh at my own joke.
“It must be our special recipes.” Jack walks up behind me and kneads my shoulders.
Are pecan pies an aphrodisiac? I’ll need to check this out later.
“Very special.” I take a deep breath and turn around. He drops his hands to my waist.
“Would you like something to eat? We are back in the kitchen,” Jack says, motioning to the room.
“Are you a mind reader?”
“Maybe.” He grazes my chin with his knuckles, and then strides to one of the refrigerators.
Jack grabs several packages of cheese out of the fridge and a big, red heirloom tomato. His eyebrows raise as though he’s trying to prepare me mentally for what he is about to make. From the cupboard Jack takes out a different cutting board, and slices thick cheese squares and juicy tomato circles. At the stove he opens a drawer and takes out a large cast iron skillet. He flicks on the gas, heating up the pan.
Jack pulls a big loaf of bread from a white breadbox on the counter. He unravels the twisty tie with skill. I’m unraveling on my own accord as I view this live cooking show performance. With one swipe in the bag he has four pieces of bread. He places them on the cutting board. Jack layers the cheese and tomato into two large sandwiches.
The amount of butter Jack smears on each piece of bread would make Paula Deen and my mom nod with approval and any cardiologist shake their head in disappointment. Drizzling olive oil in the pan, he reminds me of an artist creating his own version of Starry Night. Okay, maybe not Starry Night. He’s probably more of a Pollack type of painter, but not as messy.
Jack slides the sandwiches off the spatula and into the hot pan. The oil sizzles. He feasts his eyes on me as if to imply the sandwich is only the beginning of the meal. His icy blues are dancing and his lips are curled. The butter melts on the outside of the sandwich and meets the oil in the pan.
I fan myself and back away, pretending I can’t take the heat from the stove. When really I can’t take much more of Jack’s hotness, he has moved into a completely different category than just piquing my interest. My imagination is throwing so many different scenes and versions of future situations that include Jack, my breathing is heavy. I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to take a slow deep breath, exhale and calm down. My wine glass is sitting all alone. I move in to rescue it from being a wallflower, and take a full-bodied sip.
Jack sears the bread. Brown rimmed squares with flecks of golden hues rest in the pan like a sunset in the fall. There’s not much room for error in achieving the ultimate level of crispiness in a grilled cheese sandwich. Obviously being a watchful chef, one with
an intense stare, is a key factor to this formula. My mouth salivates in anticipation of that ki-crunch.
I grab onto the counter behind me to steady myself into reality. Jack strides towards me and comes in close to my face. I part my lips expecting he’s going to kiss me. Sandalwood and apples sift in through my nose, I close my eyes and inhale. The sound of a cupboard door opening causes me to open my own eyes. Jack’s eyes are not on me. He selects two plates from the cupboard next to me and marches back to the stove. I drop my mouth open and quickly close it. I don’t want him to think I was expecting a kiss.
Jack lifts each sandwich out of the pan and places them on the white ceramic plates.
"Do you want to eat here or we can go and sit down in the dining room?” Jack motions towards a set of double doors in the back of the kitchen.
I need to stand and stay mobile. If I sit down, I can only imagine what types of footsie games could occur at a table.
“Let’s stay in here.” I grab the bottle of wine and refill each glass. I probably should be drinking some water along with this. My head is fuzzy. Not about where I am but with who. Is Jack someone I should be expecting a kiss from? Or should I eat my sandwich and get home?
The sandwich on my plate is amazing. It has the perfect mixture of crispy tan with just a few specks of black. The cheeses are oozing out of the sides. I cannot wait any longer inspecting the gloriousness of it. I pick up the masterpiece and take a big bite. Delicious would only be the beginning of descriptions. It’s so creamy—like magic in my mouth. I savor each one of the flavors.
“What types of cheeses are in this?” I ask.
“Mozzarella and Fontina.” His eyes flicker as he takes a bite and nods at me.
I take another bite and nod back. In unison we silently devour our sandwiches. Despite my hunger, this has to be the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever had—and my mom makes a mean grilled cheese. Jack has got some serious cooking skills. What other skills can he show me?
“You make a superb grilled cheese, Jack Walker.” I take another scrumptious bite.