Sweet as Pie (Spring Hills Book 1)

by Brisa Starr

  And, whoa, how in the hell does he kiss like that?

  I knew there was a drought between my legs, but damn, drought’s over for the night, enjoy the gush because that is not happening again. I sigh and touch my fingers to my lips. I never dreamed a kiss could be so hot. It seared more than just my lips. I mean, like, wow… everything is magnified, my senses heightened, and I’m hot just thinking about it again.

  I couldn’t believe how hungry my body was for his the second I pressed against him. And his scent—and taste—I could survive on it alone. My heart picks up speed, and I think about his sexy, full lips. Well, I guess that question is answered. He’s a skilled kisser. He made my thighs quiver and my nipples hard the second he held my face in his hands. I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened to the pies on the counter had Jack not interrupted with his phone call. I don’t know if I would’ve been able to stop myself.

  But thankfully, Jack did call.

  Right?

  What the hell was I thinking, kissing him?

  I blame it on curiosity, and now that curiosity has been satisfied. I can go back to ignoring Ryker, and my body’s reaction to him. I close my eyes and think again of the kiss though, just one more time. I was frantic with need the second his lips touched mine. A need thicker than any I’ve ever felt. A need to let someone else take control of me. To decide for me. To let go, for once. The shocking part is my yearning for his dominance. I should be abhorred at my reaction, but I was aroused.

  And that scares me. How could I so easily betray myself?

  I shake my head hard enough to hurt my eyes.

  Maybe I’m the manic one.

  What was he thinking, getting involved and calling Jack? I didn’t want his help. I didn’t want any man’s help—unless he’s over sixty or married. But a sexy, single, handsome billionaire who ogles me like I’m his next meal? No, that’s not who I want help from.

  But a tiny part of me is also excited. I let myself giggle. He got the inspection moved up almost four weeks! Hallelujah! It’s gonna happen in a couple of days, which means he did help me get closer to attaining my goal. It’s still my goal. It’s still me attaining it. Even with his help. So why am I so hard on him? It’s not like his helping me means he has any stake in my future bed-and-breakfast.

  But it does mean I’m obliged to him.

  I feel like I owe him.

  And I told him I was doing it by myself.

  I’ll concede he made some points tonight. Annoying as that is, he’s right… it feels good to imagine what it could be like to have somebody out there for me. Even during a time when I’m super busy working toward my goal, and I could still be safe and secure.

  I bark a laugh—ha—dream on.

  Daydreaming time over, I put the pies into the oven and clean up. Then, with nothing to do but wait for them to bake, I pour myself an ice water and sit down in Popster’s booth. I lean back and tip my head to the ceiling and stare at it. And, of course, I think about Ryker’s kiss.

  I distract myself and grab my phone to look at my to-do list. I start jotting down details and time frames for the things I need to get done. Now that the inspection is this week, I should thank Ryker, but I’m too mad at him right now. Mad at him for kissing me. Mad at him for yelling. Mad at him for butting into my business.

  My heart says otherwise, nudging me to interpret each of those from a different point of view…

  I could love that he kissed me and woke my body up.

  I could feel that he was sexy when he yelled.

  I could appreciate that he helped my situation.

  Devil or angel?

  Nah. I’ll go the angry route. He’s the devil.

  I look back down at my phone and add a few more items to my list. A half-hour later, I’m satisfied, if a bit daunted, at the list I have before me, now that the timeline is sped up. But I know a lot of the things will get done with Mom and Popster’s help, and we’ll have a contractor lined up to work on the renovations as soon as possible.

  I have to wait until I have the key in my hand, and everything is finalized before I take next steps, anyway. I go to the kitchen and take the pies out and set them on the counter to cool.

  Once the pies are put away, I turn off the lights and let myself out of the bistro, locking the door behind me.

  I get into my car and drive home. Content and satisfied, for a couple reasons. Though I hate to admit that anything about Ryker would ever be satisfying to me.

  It’s a sunny morning as I pull up to the homeless shelter to deliver the pies I made. Correction, Ryker and I made, last night.

  As I get out of my car, I see contractors’ work trucks out front. Interesting. I grab a few pies, and when I walk inside, I see the homeless shelter is getting a facelift. There are people painting, hammering, and moving things around. There are new beds, too!

  I take the pies to the kitchen, and Leslie, the young gal who manages the shelter, comes in. “Hi, Aspen! Your pies look amazing! As always, thank you so much for donating them.”

  “You’re welcome! I have more pies in the car and 30—well, 29—boxes of Girl Scout cookies. I’m still unloading.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” she offers, and we walk out to my car to get more.

  “So, what’s with the renovations?”

  “Oh, Aspen! The most wonderful thing has happened for us. We received an anonymous donation of a million dollars the other day. Can you believe it?”

  “Seriously? A million? And anonymously?” I immediately think of Ryker. This is a small town, and although I don’t know everybody in it, nor everyone’s financial status, I find it mighty coincidental that a billionaire who seems intent on working his way into my heart—or pants—or both, is back in town, and he knows of my passion for helping the shelter.

  “That’s amazing, Leslie. You must be thrilled.”

  “You have no idea, Aspen. This helps us so much. We depend on private donations, and when people step up like this, it means the world to us. We couldn’t survive without other people’s help.”

  Other people’s help.

  Her words needle their way into my brain, bypassing my heart because my heart already knew this. It’s why I make the pies and donate them every month.

  “This donation will feed so many people, Aspen, and keep us solvent for years. We’re even planning to expand by opening another twenty-bed shelter in Flint,” she says, and her eyes fill with tears of gratitude. “I just wish I knew who it was so I could kiss the person! I don’t care if it’s a man or woman!” she says, chuckling.

  A stupid chill hits me as I think about Leslie kissing Ryker, despite my appreciation for what I think he did here. Leslie is petite and beautiful. And available. My gut twists.

  We unload the rest of the pies from my car and take them into the kitchen. I give Leslie a hug goodbye, telling her I’ll see her next month. I wish I could make pies for them every week, but there’s just no way. Not with the cost or the time required.

  I get into my car and start the engine. I turn on the air conditioner and let it blow full force on my face as I think about Ryker. I’m sure this was his donation, and I think how great it is that he could do that. He just wanted to help them. He could’ve spent his money anywhere, and although I could claim he has an ulterior motive—me—he did it anonymously. It warms my heart.

  I tilt my rearview mirror so I can see myself. Pep talk time. “Stay focused, Aspen. Keep your eye on the prize. It’s almost yours.”

  And then, for the first time, I wonder what exactly the prize is.

  I pull my car into the parking lot at the bistro, jamming out to Taylor Swift. It’s time for fun! I pop out of my car, still humming as I walk into the bistro to prepare for teaching my monthly baking class to a small group of adorable kids. I’m two hours early, but I want to touch base with Mom and Popster, and research contractors for The Rose.

  I turn on the lights, and I make myself a cup of hot coffee before sitting down in a
booth. I’ll need all my energy for the kids. I take my phone out of my purse, and I’m about to text Mom, when I see a text message from Jessica.

  Jessica: Did you see the review on Yelp? >:(

  Me: Uh-oh. No. What did it say?

  Jessica: Don’t freak out, but it wasn’t positive.

  Me: Stand by.

  I open up the Yelp app and tap the link to Gabby’s Rooster, and there it is. The latest review, one star! I open my mouth in horror as I read about how much this reviewer hated my pie. It’s a stab in my chest, and my breathing turns shallow. I sit there for a moment, stunned and deflated. I can’t believe someone didn’t like my pie.

  Aspen: That’s awful!

  Jessica: They don’t know what they’re talking about. Still, sorry. :(

  Anxiety sours my stomach, and I frown.

  Me: This sucks.

  Jessica: I know it’s hard, but try not to think about it. The overall average is stellar! You can’t please everyone, girl. Besides, you’ve got great things ahead! I heard the inspection got moved up. Exciting!

  Me: Yes, in a couple of days, we’ll be full speed ahead, I hope. Well, thanks for letting me know about the review.

  Jessica: At least you have your favorite customers coming in soon. They’ll cheer you up.

  Me: Yeah, you’re right. Talk to you later.

  I close the messaging app. My heart weighs heavy in my chest, and I slouch my shoulders. I wish I hadn’t seen that review. I should stop reading them, but sometimes I can’t help myself.

  I sigh.

  Somebody didn’t like my pie.

  What’s not to like?

  I let the review take me down a dark rabbit hole. Putting myself out there with things like this—food—well, you’re going to get reviews.

  But what if people stop coming in for my pie because of the review?

  What if I’m just dreaming about this bed-and-breakfast, and I can’t pull it off? All this time, I just push-push-push, confident in my abilities. But what if somebody leaves a bad review for The Rose? What if we get a lot of bad reviews? Bookings could drop off. I could go bankrupt! I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh.

  I waste enough time in this dreary space, and my alarm goes off, letting me know I have an hour before the kids arrive. I have to get up and set out the ingredients. As I scoot my butt from the booth and stand up to go into the kitchen, the bells above the door ring, and I glance up. Ryker walks in.

  My heart picks up its beat. He’s carrying his black journal and wearing faded, soft blue jeans that hang perfectly on his waist, and a navy-blue, V-neck T-shirt that’s, again, a size too small if you ask me, because my hands are itching to run themselves all over his beefy chest and biceps. He’s also wearing Reef leather flip-flops. Even his toes are sexy.

  Wait.

  Why is he here?

  And what did I last decide about him?

  I was mad at him, right?

  Yes, I was mad.

  I am mad at him right now!

  And I’m mad at that reviewer!

  I scowl, and my eyes wet as I remember the bad review.

  He cuts the distance between us in four powerful strides, my heart pounding heavier with each one, and he sets his journal on the dining table. “Aspen. What’s wrong?” Concern etches his face, and he puts his hands on my shoulders. My skin overheats under his strong touch.

  I wave him off and blink back my tears. “Nothing.” I shrug, and before I know what I’m doing, I open up. “I got a bad review on Yelp.”

  “A bad review?” He cocks his head and wrinkles his eyebrows. “What did it say?”

  “Ohhh… just that my pie sucked. It ‘lacked passion,’” I say with air quotes, “whatever the fuck that means. And it had ‘horrible mouth feel,’” I say flippantly and head to the kitchen.

  He follows me back there, which I find funny. Until yesterday, I considered him just a customer, and his coming into the kitchen would’ve been inappropriate. But since he helped me make pies last night, I guess it’s earned him certain privileges. With the kitchen.

  He stands there and leans against the counter, looking at his phone. Then he blurts out, “Fucker! No passion? Mouth feel? What the hell kind of bullshit is that, anyway?”

  I smile inwardly… he’s on my side. He puts his phone away. “Want me to have that reviewer kneecapped? I’m a billionaire,” he says, his eyes flashing. “I’m sure there are people I can call.” And he’s so serious that I crack up with a full-on belly laugh. I slap my hand on the counter and shake my head. I think I’m delirious.

  Then, I look at his face, and he cracks a big smile. My heart leaps from my chest in its attempt to reach his, like a trapeze artist flying to her partner. And in that moment, I want him to have my heart. It’s that simple. I was so alone ten minutes ago, sad and scared, insecure, and then he came in, and, well… I wanted to share my problem with him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he helped carry my burden. Even made me laugh over it!

  And so, now I want to cry. What is wrong with me? Hormones? I’m a mess. Part of me—from my neck down—is light, warm, and bubbly. But the other part—my unyielding head—is tense, hard, and frosty.

  Ugh! Who has time for this?

  I tuck my feelings away. I’ll unpack them later. Maybe.

  But he’s looking at me with such tenderness in his beautiful green eyes. “I love your laugh so much, Aspen.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. You mentioned that once.” I blush, and some of that warmth from below tries to make its way north to soften my neck and above. He steps closer, and my instinct is to meet him, but my brain short-circuits my heart and pulls the reins, steering me backwards instead.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “School.”

  “What school?”

  “Baking 101. I signed up.” He gives me a flirty smile.

  “Are you serious? It’s for kids, Ryker. Not adults.”

  “I gathered that. But I read the fine print—well, there was no fine print—and there weren’t any age restrictions. Anyway, you won’t let me take you on a date. So I’m gonna keep coming to you. Every day, if I have to.”

  Shit.

  He’s winning.

  My lips pursed and my hands on my hips, I stand there staring at him. Then I mutter, “Aren’t you mad at me? The way you stormed out of here last night, I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

  “It’ll take a lot more than that to keep me from you, future wife.” He turns his flirty smile rakish and says, “I was frustrated, but I’m not one to give up. And you and me? This thing we have? We both know there’s something going on between us… and that kiss was amazing. You’ve got a lot on your plate. I understand. So, if I’ve got to carry the load for the two of us for a while, then so be it. Here I am.”

  My heart and my brain play tug-of-war with the reins, pulling in opposite directions, and it’s making me dizzy.

  “Did you really sign up for the class?”

  “Sure did.” He smirks, proud as a lion. “You’ll see my name on your registration as RM.”

  I hadn’t even looked at the list. I figured my regulars would be here. They always are. I take five kids at a time, and the same four always come. Sometimes the fifth spot is empty, and other times, we get a new kid. They’re all my little buddies, and their moms love that they can drop the kids off for a couple of hours, knowing they’ll learn something about the kitchen and get a babysitter out of it. Plus, they get to eat whatever we bake. It’s a pleasant distraction from my busy life. Sometimes they’re a handful, but they make me laugh.

  “Well, this should be interesting,” I sigh. “Fine. Make yourself useful, and help me get the classroom set up.” I head into the kitchen, a smile spreading on my lips.

  17

  Aspen

  “MS. ASPEN!” I hear two kids scream my name as they run through the door of the bistro. I walk out of the kitchen and wipe my hands on my apron as they slam into me with huge hugs. Sam and
Tanner, my two regular boys, ages seven and eight, are the first to arrive for class.

  “Hey, guys! How are you?” I hug them back, ruffling their towheads of hair.

  “Great!” they both say in unison. “Hey, Ms. Aspen, look what Mom bought us!” Sam says, and they each pull out a creepy-looking Baby Yoda toy figurine.

  “Wowwww!” I drawl, emphasizing my excitement for them. “That’s, um… super neat!”

  Then, just as fast, show-and-tell is over. They run over to the counter and climb onto two stools and start spinning on them, while we wait for the rest of the kids to arrive.

  The boys entertain themselves, so I go back in the kitchen and finish getting ingredients and supplies ready for class. I also grab my phone and check the registration, and sure enough, there’s Ryker’s $20 payment and registration. I chuckle and shake my head in resignation.

  As I take the tray of ingredients out to the counter in the dining room where the two boys are playing, the front door opens, and two little girls, both age seven, scamper inside, giggling. They carpool because they’re best friends. “Hi, Ms. Aspen!” they screech. Who needs coffee with a wake-up call like that?

  “Hey girls, how are you?” I ask as I set the tray on the counter.

  They each fill me in on the latest in their lives, speaking extra loudly when I head into the kitchen, to make sure I don’t miss a thing. I keep up with the story by injecting the right number of uh-huh’s and oh’s!

  I come back out and stand by the counter, almost ready to start the class. “Attention everyone! Guess what? I’m excited to tell you that we have a new student today!”

  “Who? Where?” Sam asks, looking around.

  “Could you please give a warm welcome to Ryker?” I say, and Ryker comes out of the kitchen wearing an apron. He saunters up to a stool next to Tanner. He must think he’ll side with the boys.