Sweet as Pie (Spring Hills Book 1)

by Brisa Starr

  I sit up straighter in the booth and drape one of my arms on the back of it. It’s not a bad idea. Aspen gets her hotel. Aspen will be happy. Then I’ll make my move for Aspen, and we’ll both be happy.

  “You have a deal,” I say, our backs still to each other.

  He lowers his voice even more, and I have to strain to hear him. “In case it isn’t obvious, let’s keep this between the two of us. Otherwise, she’ll never go for it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The old man slides out of the booth, and as he walks by, he slips me a napkin and winks, then walks away. I look down and see his phone number and email address written on the napkin.

  I text a brief message to Patrick, to begin the process.

  Later that day, I’m at home, sitting on the deck with my laptop. As a high-net-worth individual, I have access to what’s known as private banking. It means that my assistant can call “my” VP at the bank and get anything done, immediately, 24/7. No waiting on hold, no waiting three days for things to clear. Emerson Kingsley, AKA Popster, will have his money in his bank account in an hour. I’ll never see a single document or need to sign anything. I have lawyers and accountants on retainer to handle such things. In a few days, the title will clear, and I’ll own another house. Well, technically, one of my corporations will own it. It’s all just a bunch of details I don’t worry about. At some point, a FedEx driver will pull up and hand me an envelope with the keys in it. All from a single text message to Patrick.

  Aspen is within reach.

  11

  Aspen

  “Aspen!” Popster calls to me from the bistro’s kitchen. He’s tinkering.

  I walk into the kitchen and find him with his head under the sink and his body sprawled on the floor, belly side up. I think he’s trying to fix the sink.

  “Yeah, Popster?”

  “Turn on the cold water, please.” I step over him and turn the faucet. Water pours out and runs down the drain.

  “Dammit. OK, one second. OK. Turn it off.” I do as instructed. Then, I lean my back against the sink and pull out my phone to play Candy Crush. There’s no telling how long I might have to stand here.

  Err. Err. Clank! Clank! I don’t want to know what he’s doing under there, but it doesn’t sound good. “OK, try now!”

  I follow my orders. Water flows from the faucet once again. “Done,” I say.

  “Yes! Great!” He pushes himself out from under the sink and his hands are black and dirty. He stands and turns off the faucet. I hand him a towel, and he wipes his hands.

  “Is that all you needed?” I ask him.

  “No, there’s more, but we can talk in the dining room. Have a seat in my booth, and I’ll be there in a minute. Oh, and get your mother.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “That’s for me to know, and you to find out. Very soon. Now scoot!”

  “OK,” I laugh. “Let me check on my pies first.” I walk to the oven and peak inside. I inhale the sweet cherry and butter aroma. Yum.

  I get Mom, and we go into the dining room to wait for Popster in his booth. “Any idea what he wants to talk about?” I ask her.

  “None, but hey, get this. I came up with a new diet idea.”

  “Oh boy, I can’t wait to hear this one.” Mom has a history of diet pills, diuretics, and slapping her own hand if she reaches for the breadbasket at a restaurant.

  “It’s a good one. Ready?” She nudges my foot under the table.

  “Uh, sure.”

  She leans forward, her eyes glittering with promise. “When I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat because I haven’t gone long enough between meals…” she pauses for effect and raises her eyebrows.

  “Yeah?” I drawl.

  “I put on tight clothes! Appetite curbed!”

  I snort. “Hilarious, Mom.”

  “No, I’m serious. It works!” she exclaims, and that’s when Popster joins us. “What works? The sink? I know… I fixed it.”

  “No, Mom’s new diet idea,” I tell him, and he waves his hand, dismissing Mom’s latest way to lose weight.

  “Clearly, we have more important things to talk about, seeing as you called a family meeting. What’s up, Popster?” I say and smile, hoping everything is OK.

  “Weeeeeeell,” Popster draws the word out, his blue eyes twinkling even more than usual. “I have hatched a brilliant plan, and I’m finally ready to tell you both about it.” Mom and I look at each other. We’re intrigued.

  He leans under the table and pulls out a bag. He reaches into the bag and reveals a bottle of champagne and three plastic champagne flutes.

  “What are you up to, Dad?” Mom says, and she turns to face him, squinting skeptically. For my mom to be as clueless as I am right now makes this extra intriguing.

  He claps his hands together and rubs them fiercely like he’s warming them up. “I have big news, my favorite ladies.”

  “We know, Dad. You already said that. So, what is it?” Mom asks.

  “I am formally investing in The-Rose-Hotel-turned-The-Rose-Bed-and-Breakfast.” He grabs one more thing out of the bag. It’s a check, and he slides it across the table to me.

  My eyebrows furrow, and I look down at the check, wondering, for the first time, if I need glasses because… I think it reads $300,000. Made out to me.

  Mom gasps, and I stare at Popster. “B… but how?” I stutter. “Why? Where did you get this money?!”

  “That, my precious, is where my brilliant plan comes into play,” he replies, and his eyes take on a glow like blue morpho butterflies.

  My heart pounds with conflicting fear and amazement, because this is too good to be true!

  He shrugs, trying to calm my anxiety, and says, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner, but it makes perfect sense. I sold my house.”

  “You did what?!” Mom screeches. “You sold your house?!”

  Mom freaking out is now making me freak out, so I jump in. “Popster, are you OK? What is going on? Is this a joke?” I think back to the year he became obsessed with pranks and practical jokes, from palm buzzers, to that damn whoopee cushion. It was a long year, and swear jars filled quickly.

  He gestures for us to settle down. “Ladies. I am perfectly sane, and I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions,” he says and gives Mom a glance before continuing. “As you might recall, I thought about selling my house last year.”

  “Yeah?” Mom and I say in unison, both of us still not believing our ears.

  “Well, I found a buyer.” He says, matter-of-factly. “You know how people are always coming in here, talking to me. Well, the house is too big for me, and I spend all my time here with you two, anyway.” He leans his elbows on the table and articulates, “I want Aspen to get her hotel, and I want to be a part of it.”

  My eyes wet and my throat swells. I choke out the words in a whisper, “Popster, what are you doing?”

  “So! I sold my house. I pocketed some money, and the rest is there. I’m loaning it to you. And here’s the deal. You don’t have to pay all of it back, because I want to live at The Rose! You know I love nothing more than talking with people, and I can see myself now welcoming all the guests coming through, telling tall tales to them. I’ll meet and greet them. Be like a concierge, too. And! I’ll be your handyman and gardener!” He finishes his speech and looks up and off to the side, swiping his arm in a big gesture, like it’s a big idea.

  And it actually is.

  Huge, in fact. And brilliant.

  My eyes go wide, and I look at Mom, and her eyes are enormous, too. “Mom?” I ask.

  She bites her lower lip, and her eyebrows knit together. “Well, I don’t know what to say.” She turns to Popster, at a loss for words as she scrunches her face a little, processing the information. I sit up straighter in my booth and look at her expectantly, letting the idea take root in my brain, until it swells and lights up like a million shooting stars.

  “Well,” she continues, “it so
unds like an amazing idea. And yeah, it’d be great to have someone there all the time that we know and trust. I mean, you’re the eyes, ears and social backbone of this place, Dad. You’d be perfect there, too!”

  I draw in a deep breath. “Popster, are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Does a cat have an ass?” he quips one of his favorite lines. I never really understood it, but it means yes.

  And I let my smile grow as big as the sun. “You’re right, it’s brilliant! I love it more than anything.” I reach across the table and grab his hands. “You were right, Popster, something better did come along. You!” My voice breaks, and tears stream down my face.

  Popster uncorks the champagne and fills the three plastic flutes. He raises his and makes a toast. “To the best granddaughter a man could ever have.” His voice wavers, and I see his eyes moisten. I go to the other side of the table and give him a giant hug, ignoring my glass of champagne.

  Then he looks me in the eye.

  “Take that check, Aspen, and go deposit it right now. Then, get your butt down to that real estate office and make this happen,” he orders. I scoot out of the booth, check in hand, and I run to grab my purse. Trying not to burst out in tears.

  Out in the parking lot, I jump up and down.

  I’m getting my hotel!

  “Oh, my god! It’s really happening!” I say, utterly failing to control the delirious joy in my voice. “I have to go to the bank! I have to go… buy a freakin’ hotel!”

  The whole time I’m driving to the bank, exhilaration saturates my brain like the bubbles in the champagne.

  I pull into the bank parking lot and park my car. As I walk inside, I call Becky and Charlie at the real estate office and fill them in. Becky squeals in delight, and I hear Charlie in the background say, “I still have the paperwork we filled out from last week! I’ll call The Rose Hotel and let them know it’s a go!”

  When I’m done at the bank, I drive home, and my unrestrained smiling is making my cheek muscles sore. I feel weightless, as all the tension, concerns and worries from the past six months evaporate from my body. I feel as if fairies have filled me with glittery pixie-dust and rainbow light.

  I want to celebrate!

  I want to make this moment last!

  I want to share the news!

  And as I pull into my garage, Ryker’s handsome face suddenly pops into my head. He’s been a regular at the bistro the past few days, trying to wear me down, asking me to go out with him every chance he gets. I just smile, genuine more often than not, but I don’t waver. I keep turning him down. I don’t have the time, and my head keeps reminding me that men are not on the menu right now.

  Yesterday, just to annoy him, I sent Jessica to serve him. Which she was more than happy to do, as much for the eye-candy as the hundred-dollar bill, “keep the change” tip he always leaves. She suspects there’s something more between us, and she’s peppered me with questions, but I just give her vague, meaningless answers. She seems satisfied. Not only does she know me better, but she’s also too busy with her nose buried in her phone to know what’s going on around her.

  But, feeling invincible from my incredible news, I pull out my phone to share it with Ryker. My fingers itch to type the message. I start it quickly: Hi, Ryker! Great ne… but then my fingers slow down. I stare at my half-written message and softly exhale.

  Why do I want to tell him this? So he’ll stop pestering me about investing?

  No, I want to tell him because I want someone to share my news with, someone who will appreciate it. Someone special.

  A sad smile plays on my lips, and I close the app. I put my phone back into my purse. It doesn’t make any sense to tell him. I don’t have anyone special to share this news with. I drop my chin to my chest. For the first time, I feel lonely.

  Besides, I’m sure he’ll hear about it, eventually. There’s no reason to celebrate with him. It would only lead him on, give him hope. And I’m about to be busier than ever. I lift my head and pull my shoulders back. I don’t have time for celebrating. I punctuate my determination with a single firm nod. It’s convincing. Almost.

  I head into my condo and inform Dagny that she’ll soon be moving, and my smile turns more genuine, because I’m officially closer to my goal of independence. But I still have to prove myself with the bed-and-breakfast. There’s a lot of work to be done, now, more than ever. I won’t have time for anything but work. I’ll be lucky if I find four hours a day to sleep. Yeah, I definitely don’t have time for a man.

  Even one that, I admit, makes me hot and jittery.

  I walk to the refrigerator for a celebratory glass of rosé. I raise my glass and pause to count my blessings. Then I drink it.

  Alone.

  12

  Ryker

  I’m eager for our round of golf today. I need Dad’s advice. He’s the one I go to when I seek important counsel.

  The sun is high, and there is just a smattering of clouds in the sky as I pull my car into the Spring Hills Country Club parking lot. I get out of the car, and the pungent smell of fresh-cut grass hits me. As I’m crossing the parking lot, I catch the eye of someone practicing in the sand trap next to the putting green, and he scurries out of it, stomps the sand off his shoes, and jogs over to me.

  “Hey, Ryker, how are ya man?” He holds out his hand to shake mine, but I don’t recognize him.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, putting my hand out.

  “Bobby. Bobby Johnson. I work with Sax. You and I met last year at one of his barbecues.”

  “Oh. OK.” I keep walking.

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey, I wanted to chat with you for a second. Mind if I walk with you?” he asks, and it seems I don’t have a choice, but the hair on the back of my neck is already standing up.

  “Sax said you’d had some luck with Bitcoin, and so I’ve got this idea. I’m about to put it on Kickstarter, b…”

  I cut him off right there. “Hey, Bobby, I’m sure it’s a good idea, but no thanks.” Annoyed and ready to punch Sax the next time I see him, I pick up the pace, but Bobby doesn’t take the hint.

  “Well, you haven’t even heard my idea!”

  “Look man, sorry, I’m just not interested.”

  Miffed, he says, “You’re missing out, man. I just needed a little money, not much, and it’s not like you don’t have enough. I was gonna let you in on something special. You’d double your investment in three months, tops.”

  I stop and square my shoulders at him, “Bobby, I’ll be straight with you, and hopefully you can appreciate this. People ask me for money ten times a day, offering all kinds of investments and opportunities to me. And what nobody seems to understand is, I have enough.” I turn and walk away, and this time, he has the sense to stay back. I exhale sharply and wonder if it’ll be like this for the rest of my life.

  I step into the locker room and see my dad changing into his old brown golf shoes, his locker open next to him. “Ryker! Good to see you, son!” He stands up and gives me a big hug.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Dad.”

  “Are you ready to get your ass kicked?” he says and laughs. “I’ve been taking lessons from the pro. Remember that problem I had last year, three-putting on every hole?” He stands up straighter and has a cocky gleam in his eye. “I haven’t had a three-putt in a week!”

  “Dream on, Dad,” I say, as I spin the dial to the combination lock and open my locker. I get out my golf shoes. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m in better shape than ever from doing my Spartan races, and I’m cranking it from the tee box almost 250 yards.”

  He whistles in response, “Well, son, that’s impressive, but haven’t I taught you? It’s the short game that matters.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I say, and we head outside. We get into a golf cart, and the bag boy loads our clubs onto the back. While Dad drives us up to the first tee, I pull on my royal blue golf glove, cracked with age, and stretch out my fingers, enjoying the snu
g fit.

  We’re waiting for a group in front of us to tee off, when Dad turns to me and says, “So what have you been up to this past week?”

  “Not much,” I say, leaning back in the passenger seat. “Working out, falling for a woman. You know, the usual.”

  He turns to me. “What? You? Falling for a woman? I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, in fact, I want to talk to you about it.” I reach my hands up and interlock my fingers behind my head. “I think I found my juice, Dad.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He cackles and pats me on the leg before sliding out of the golf cart. “I can’t wait to hear about her,” he says as he gets his driver from his golf club bag.

  The group ahead of us is now on the green, and we’re ready to tee off. Dad hits his ball straight down the fairway, though it only goes about 150 yards. He shrugs and says, “I’ll take it.” He steps off the tee box and says to me, “You might want two balls, in case you want a mulligan.”

  “I think one will do, Dad.” I grab my Callaway driver and step up to the tee box. I bend down and put my tee in the ground, setting my ball on it. I stand up and take a deep breath, addressing the ball. No need for a practice swing. I’m focused. My eye on the ball, I swing the club back and power my forward swing through my hips, smashing the ball straight down the fairway. It lands just short of the green.

  “Looks like I’ve set myself up for a birdie. Not bad.” We get into the golf cart and drive to my dad’s shot, and I tease, “Hey, should we make our wager now? Or are you afraid to?”

  A hearty guffaw comes out of him as he gets his five iron. “Oh no, son, nice try. You’re not getting off that easy. Just because you think your big muscles will make you a winner today, I’ll show you otherwise. Like I said, it’s all about the short game.”

  When I was fifteen years old, my dad and I played a game of golf at the beginning of my summer break. He made me a deal. If I got straight A’s in school the next year, he’d buy me a car for my sixteenth birthday. And if I didn’t, I’d have to work at his law firm the following summer. I got the straight A’s, and the car. The following summer, he made me another wager. And it’s been our tradition every year since. Only now, we wager something based on who wins the game. Over all these years, I’ve managed to never work a day in his law firm, despite getting a law degree.