Sweet as Pie (Spring Hills Book 1)

by Brisa Starr

  I flip the chicken and inhale a whiff of my soon-to-be dinner. My stomach grumbles as it finishes cooking. I think about how Dad taught me to grill when I was thirteen. I smile at the memories, especially that time I almost singed off my eyebrows. OK, not funny at the time, but funny now.

  This reminds me, I need to reach out to him. He’s the one rock in my life. I pick up my phone to call him, and as I wait for him to answer, I plate my chicken and carry it to the patio table.

  Dad picks up, and I put the call on speakerphone.

  “Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Ryker! Are you in town?”

  “Yeah, just arrived today,” I answer.

  “Outstanding, son! I can’t wait to see you!”

  My dad and I are close. Closer than I am with my mom, for sure, but she’s the one who destroyed their marriage. And even though I opted to live with her during my teens, to keep my well-meaning dad off my back, I still cherished my time with my dad during senior year. He’s an overly upbeat guy, but his enthusiasm for life always rubs off on me and lightens my soul. We have fairly regular chats over Skype, but it’s nothing like hanging out in person.

  “So, Ryker! Doing anything exciting with your life these days?” he asks, trying to get a dig in, as he knows that I do nothing, now that I don’t have to. He always wanted me to be a lawyer and practice at his firm. It was his dream.

  I was on that path for many years, completed law school at the University of Michigan, and even passed the Michigan state bar exam. I was all set to become a junior associate at my dad’s firm, when in December 2017, the price of Bitcoin shot up to $20,000, and I sold most of my 100,000 BTC, which netted me $1.6 billion after taxes. So, I almost became a lawyer, and although I’m a solid debater, I couldn’t see myself arguing with people for a living. Honestly, I can’t see myself doing anything for a living.

  My dad understood when I opted out. He knew I’d never have to work another day in my life if I didn’t want, nor my future kids, or their kids.

  “I’m doing more Spartan races, traveling, buying homes, and philanthropy,” I answer.

  “That’s nice, but are you doing anything exciting these days? Something you’re passionate about? There’s more to life than just writing checks, ya know.” There he goes again. He comes out swinging any chance he gets.

  When I sold my Bitcoin, I spent the first year running around the world, playing hard, and fucking around. Too many people, too many nights I don’t remember, and too many hangovers. I fully embraced the idea that money buys happiness. It got old though, fast. Which is why my dad’s question annoys me, and I can’t lie to my dad. He’d see right through it.

  “Honestly, Dad, I don’t know. I’m staying busy with some things, but I’m still… what is it you like to say… ‘floundering’?”

  He chuckles. “Well, you can always come work with me. You’d make a ferocious lawyer.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yeah, no thanks. I can’t see myself living in this rinky-dink town. No offense.”

  “Well, the offer stands, as usual. You know, it’s not all litigation. I’ve got some fascinating IP work I’m sure you’d love to sink your teeth into.”

  “Not likely, Dad, but I appreciate the offer.”

  He won’t give up. “You need something that makes you jump out of bed every day. Goals! Aspirations! Something fun! You know… a purpose. Something that gets you juiced!”

  Juiced is Dad’s favorite word. He’s been harping about this all my life, and more than ever this past year. I appreciate it, but I never resonated with it, because I’d never tasted that kind of juice. I don’t jump out of bed unless I’m late for a meeting, which I never am. Punctuality is one of my virtues.

  “Got a lady friend, at least?” he continues. “Maybe you just need a wife and some rugrats running circles around you. You know, legacy stuff.”

  I’d laugh, but this topic isn’t funny to me. I wasn’t interested in love before my billions. Mom’s dalliances killed that for me. And, now? With all the money I have? I’d never know if that was the reason a woman wanted to marry me, so I don’t even bother. I avoid relationships like an antelope running from a leopard.

  My tone darkens. “No one special, Dad. Not looking either.”

  “Don’t let the past spoil you, son. Not everyone cheats. I promise. I never thought I’d be happy, but I found my own second chance at romance, and Nancy makes me happier than I’ve ever been.” He laughs to lighten his mushy words, but his tone is firm and serious.

  Enough of this for now.

  “Well, Dad, I’m gonna eat. Give Nancy my regards. I’ll come around next week to see you two, but let’s get in a round of golf this weekend. Care to pick up our usual wager?”

  “You better believe it. Let’s do it Sunday. I’ll call for a tee time. Wanna say 9:00 a.m.?”

  We say our goodbyes, and I end the call and eat my three chicken breasts and drink another beer while enjoying my deck and the view of the moonlight on the lake. I grab my black journal and start sketching. My thoughts return to Aspen, which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I can’t get her cherry-red lips out of my mind. Something strange ignited between us, and it pisses me off. Maybe I just need to get laid.

  I think about her mouth and the statement she made to me with it when we were sixteen. That day in the school cafeteria changed my life. And as much as I hate that mouth, today I wanted nothing more than to kiss it.

  What the hell’s wrong with me?

  It’s then that I notice what I’m drawing. Cherries. I scribble a big fat X over them.

  3

  Aspen

  “Oh no you don’t, Dagny!” I yell, setting down my first coffee of the day, and grabbing the neon-green plastic squirt gun from my kitchen counter.

  She ignores me.

  “Sorry, darlin’, but you gotta learn.” I hold out my plastic gun, arm straight, like an assassin. I close my right eye, aiming, ready to fire… and I squirt my gray-haired bunny just as she bites the electrical cord to my laptop in the living room. Bullseye! Right in her cute little butt. She takes off running.

  I feel bad, but it’s the best way to train the little gal, otherwise I’ll have gnawed and frayed electrical cords all over the condo. It’s a fire hazard. And a fried bunny hazard, too.

  “Discipline is the name of the game, Dagny,” I say with firm love, “and I’ll do what’s necessary to train you. You’ll be better off for it, too. And alive. Trust me.”

  I spin the brown, dinosaur-aged, high-top chair I’m sitting on, and it groans its displeasure, but it’s all I can afford right now. Most of the things in my condo are hand-me-downs. They’ll have to suffice until I make more money in a few years. I’ll get new furniture then. Until that day, it’s little things of quality that drip pleasure into my life, like my favorite coffee cup I’m drinking from now. It’s by Ralph Lauren and it’s striking, a cup and saucer, both rimmed with leopard print.

  My condo is sparse in decor, but I’ve managed to decorate it with a wildlife theme throughout. Each room displays some form of animal motif, even if it’s only a pillow on the couch, a towel in the bathroom, my cup in the kitchen, or the sheets on my bed.

  Since moving back here after graduating from college in Arizona a few years ago, I’ve been a workaholic, helping Mom with the bistro, signing up restaurant clients for my pies to save more money, and dreaming big. But I like it. I thrive on it. The buzz of waking up with a list of things to tackle energizes me. Well, that and coffee. When I have a list of a hundred things to do, the wind in my sail stays strong. It’s the emptier days, which, thankfully, are as rare as albino alligators, that I sludge through, drinking extra cups of coffee and needing toothpicks to hold my eyes open.

  The busier, the better.

  I take a sip of my coffee as today’s plans begin to take shape in my brain. Realizing that I should probably have something more substantial in my belly than creamy coffee, I get up and pad my way to th
e refrigerator for the bowl of leftover pasta. Standing in front of the fridge, with the door wide open, I start eating the cold, rubbery penne with my fingers.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Dagny going for that damn cord again. “No! Dagny! Wicked girl!” I yell and run to the counter to grab the squirt gun. She looks at me and takes off running behind the couch. Maybe she’s learning.

  I grimace, hoping she’s not too scared, and I pull the couch away from the wall. I grab her, cooing words of love to settle her rapidly beating heart. I sit with her on the couch and pet her luxurious, soft gray fur. I wanted a dog, but I knew I’d never get to the dog park, and I don’t have a yard. A cat wasn’t an option because Mom is allergic to them. She can step foot in a house that had a cat five years ago and still have a sneezing fit. Fish? I passed on the idea. They’re boring and unsnuggleable.

  I look at my adorable bunny, her tiny, black nose twitching. “Big day today, Dagny,” I say, and my grin grows wide. “My dream is coming true. Robert committed!” I yell, and Dagny looks up at me, her heart racing again. “I’m buying a hotel!” I don’t think Dagny understands, but she wiggles her nose, and her little whiskers dance back and forth, which makes me happy.

  “And do you know what that means for you? When Mom and I turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, you can live there, too, and meet all kinds of interesting people! You’ll never be alone!” Dagny glances at me nervously—as she usually does—but I think she understands that this big day is big for both of us.

  I look at my watch. I need to get going!

  I put Dagny into her cage, slam the rest of my lukewarm coffee, and sprint up the stairs two at a time. I take a shower and blow-dry my hair, wrinkling my nose at the dark, evil roots screaming at me from my scalp. I need to buy hair bleach from the store on the way home today, and finally take the time to color my hair. I like the simplicity of doing my all-over platinum blond hair at home. Who has the time to go to the salon to sit in a chair for hours? I just squirt-squirt, smudge-smudge, read a cookbook, rinse and voilà. Blond. But, heck, even that’s proven hard to do lately with my schedule.

  I add dark brown eyeliner around my eyes, bronzer for blush, and my signature red lipstick. I like making a statement, and my red lips and leopard-print apron add some pizzazz to my otherwise boring chef’s coat and jeans.

  I smile at my reflection. Today is extra special because it begins a new chapter: Mom and I are expanding our business. We’re buying a small, local hotel and turning it into a quaint bed-and-breakfast. We’ve always dreamed of doing it, and now that we have a successful bistro under our belts, it’s time to expand.

  We saved our asses off for two years to make it happen—every last cent—and, with Robert, our investor, it’s time to change our lives. It’s a chance to build something for myself, which I promised myself I’d do. After seeing Mom go through four marriages, where she depended on her husbands for financial security, I said, hell no, that will not happen to me. Those men used it to their advantage, and it killed me watching her suffer. So I’m making my way on my own, and I’m damn proud to be doing it.

  I don’t need a man.

  Never have.

  Never will.

  The sun burns brighter, and the air breathes fresher as I pull up to The Rose Hotel, a small, historic, brick building with eight rooms. I park my ancient, white Ford Explorer Sport out front. My automobile—another thing I’ll upgrade when I get the chance. I grab the cherry pie from the passenger seat and get out.

  With a perky bounce to my step, I smile as I pass the hotel, picturing how it will feel when it’s ours, and I head into the real estate office next door with a big-ass smile plastered to my face.

  Becky, the office manager, looks up as I walk in. “Well, there’s only one thing that smile means!” She yells and jumps out of her chair.

  “Yes!” I shout. “We got our investor, and we’re ready to buy the hotel!”

  Becky runs over to me and gingerly takes the pie from my hands like it went for a million-dollar bid at a Christie’s auction. She sets it down and then grabs me in a surprisingly strong bear hug for a petite woman in her 50s. She is a daily jogger though, and she’s always harping on me to join her. As if I have time.

  “Yay! Finally!” she says. “You must be pleased as a bowl of rum-spiked peach punch!” She eyes the pie on the desk. “And, um, is that cherry pie for us?”

  “Of course,” I say, picking it back up and handing it to her.

  “Mm mm. Thank YOU!” She holds the pie up to her nose and takes a big whiff and then licks the top of the entire thing. She yells out, “Charlie! I just licked the whole pie Aspen brought us, so you probably don’t want any now.”

  “Oh my god, Becky, you’re terrible!” I laugh and make a mental note to bring another pie for Charlie, our agent, though he already eats too many slices of my pie. He’s a regular customer at the bistro, and often has meetings with his clients there, signing papers and selling real estate, like it’s his second office. We don’t mind. Our goal from the beginning was to have a place for people to relax and enjoy simple foods made with love and quality ingredients. Now, we’ll take the same philosophy and apply it to our future bed-and-breakfast, which we’re calling The Rose.

  Becky smirks and shrugs, setting the pie on her desk. “So, how are ya gonna celebrate?” she asks as she leans against her desk. “Big fancy dinner or something?”

  “Probably just lots of rosé wine, cherry pie, and Netflix!” I sigh, thinking that would actually be a treat. I have five new seasons of shows waiting for me to binge on. If I could find the time.

  “That’s my girl!” We bust into a fit of giggles, and she takes me to the back office to update Charlie.

  “Hi, Charlie,” I say, standing in front of his desk. “We’re ready to buy The Rose Hotel!”

  He takes off his glasses and scoots his chair back far enough for his large belly to clear the desk when he stands up to shake my hand. “Hi, Aspen,” he says, laughing, and his kind, blue eyes sparkle with joy about my good news. “I could hear you from back here. That’s excellent. I’ll bet your mom is happy, too.”

  We shake hands, and he sits back down, while I take a seat in the chair across from him. Then, I lean forward in my chair and whisper loudly, “This will change our lives, Charlie!” I throw my hands up. “We’ll be busier than ever, but that suits me fine. I’m on a mission. And? It’s going to be so much fun!”

  “I know, Aspen. You’ve been hounding me about this property for—what is it?—a little over a year, if I recall. Always breathing down my neck, calling every week to see if someone else had made an offer.” He pretends I was a bother, but I know he’s happy for us. He knows what this means to me.

  He grabs a pen to jot something in his calendar. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up by the end of this week, and you can come in with a check for the down payment.”

  “Great!” I say. “And what’s the time frame after that? When can I plan contractors and start taking reservations?” I laugh. The place needs some work before we’ll open for business, but thinking about it gives me a burst of energy and makes me want to dance. I can’t wait to get our first reservation!

  “After we’ve got all the paperwork, we’ll make a formal offer, and we already know they’ll accept. You’ll give me the check for the down payment. You’ll plan an inspection. And if all goes well, in about 60-days, you’ll have the key to the place. Maybe earlier, if I can make some magic happen.”

  I jump out of my chair and my eyes get wet. “Thank you so much for your help, Charlie, and your patience with me.” I hold out my hand and we shake again. “It’s time. Really time,” I say.

  He nods. “You bet it is, Aspen. Your dream is coming true. We’re all proud of you.”

  I hug Becky on my way out and head to the bistro to share the update with Mom and make twelve pies for my client, Spring Hills Country Club. They’re expecting delivery by noon tomorrow.

  It’s 2:00 p.m. when I walk
into the bistro, and I hear Mom banging dishes in the back. She drops a pan and yells, “Goddammit! It’s hard living in this body!”

  It’s closing time, and we still have four regulars lingering, one of which yells back to Mom, not even glancing up from the book she’s reading, “Swear jar, Gabby!”

  I laugh, shaking my head. My mom is dramatic, but it’s also one of her most endearing qualities. Popster is still here, reading the newspaper in his usual booth, and he chuckles.

  I call out to him on my way into the kitchen, “Hey, Popster, how many today?”

  “Don’t ask, or it’ll stress you out,” he says and winks. I don’t know how the man can still smoke cigarettes, now that everyone knows the risks. I guess I should be grateful he’s no longer smoking two packs a day. He’s down to one pack, but even one cigarette is too many. My chest tightens at the thought of him dying, especially from something as unnecessary as cigarettes.

  I stroll into the back to get started on making pies, my arms full of flour and sugar. I put down the sacks, grab my apron, and wash my hands. I’m calculating the amount of flour I’ll need for the pies, when I hear Mack calling his goodbye from the dining room.

  His leaving cues the remaining customers that they should probably go, too. We normally don’t mind if they hang out a little while after closing, but I have a lot of pies to make, and I want to jam out to music while I bang through them tonight. Shaking my butt a little while rolling out pie dough is the most exercise I can fit into my day.

  I take my fresh cherries from the refrigerator and give them a rinse. I’m relieved to see Jessica has already pitted them for me. God bless her, I didn’t even ask. I don’t usually mind doing it—it’s meditative—and one of the reasons I enjoy making pies. For me, baking pies equals stress reduction. But this order is big, and Jessica’s thoughtfulness means I might get to watch an episode of Ozark tonight before bed. If I’m lucky.