by Jackie Lau
Nancy and I talk about her kids and the weather for a bit, and then I end our conversation and call my parents.
The phone rings and rings. My father is usually the one who answers the phone in the house, but when he sees it’s me calling, he’ll tell my mother that it’s “your son,” and she’ll sigh and pick up the phone.
Yes, my family is messed up, and I’m aware that the way my family operates makes no sense to most people, though I could say the same of many other families. Amrita’s, for example, completely baffles me, just like mine baffles her.
I don’t want it to be this way, though.
As it stands, I go to Ottawa once a year, for Christmas. Once a year, I return to my childhood home, loaded with presents for my nieces and nephews and sisters and mother. I used to buy presents for my father, too, but he threw them straight in the trash, so I don’t bother anymore. I act friendly and warm, even though my stomach is churning, and I pretend not to notice Dad glaring at me. Occasionally, he makes snide comments, but not often; mostly, he just talks as though I’m not there.
Once a year, I put up with that crap for my mother and my sisters, and I try to see the rest of my family a couple other times a year at Wendy’s house in Kingston.
I just want, so badly, for us to be a semi-normal family, but to him, what I did was such an embarrassment that it’s unforgivable. Everyone else has moved on, but not him.
On the sixth ring, my mom answers. “Hi, Josh. Nice to hear from you. What’s up?”
I take a deep breath. “I want you and Dad to come to Toronto for a Pi Day party.”
Chapter 7
Sarah
It’s Thursday night, and I’ve been Googling Nutella pies, mousses, and other desserts for the past hour. I’ve blocked off some time tomorrow for experimenting in the kitchen, which is exciting. I don’t get much time to experiment anymore.
I refined my repertoire of pies over the five years before I started Happy As Pie. Now we have our staples, and I can make pretty much anything on the list in my sleep. I’ve toyed with the idea of having a “special of the day” pie; perhaps when we start doing well enough for me to hire another employee, I’ll do it. Maybe every day, or maybe just on weekends.
Anyway, it’s fun to be creative. I thought about the possibilities when I jumped in the shower after getting home from work, and now I’m looking at recipes for inspiration.
The following morning, once everything we need for the day is made, and Fatima and Dylan are working on a big batch of beef and mushroom filling, I attempt two pies. Both have a chocolate cookie crumb crust, which should work well with Nutella. The first pie is a fairly simple no-bake pie (no-bake once the crust is done, that is), with a Nutella and mascarpone filling. The second is a two-layer mousse. The bottom layer is a sweeter mousse with Nutella, and the top layer is a lighter bittersweet chocolate.
I’m anxious as I wait for the pies to cool in the fridge. While I work on vegetable pot pies to put in the freezer, I imagine the look on Josh’s face as he tries the Nutella pies. I imagine him tilting his head back in bliss, exposing the long column of his throat, his eyes closed...
God, I really want to make something he loves.
I doubt I’ll get everything perfect today, but hopefully it’ll only take one more trial to get them right. However, I won’t wait until next Tuesday to tell Josh about them; I plan to text him with pictures once they’re finished, and I’m practically giddy with excitement at the thought of him texting me back.
I know, I know. But I just can’t help it.
Josh can be endearingly awkward one moment, then smoothly seductive the next. I suspect he turns on the seductive charm with many women, but the first...it feels like it’s just for me. Like when he sent me that e-mail with the truly bizarre postscript.
It only seems fair, as he makes me feel a touch awkward, too. Like when I wiped the butter tart filling off his lip and apologized for it two days later.
We fluster each other.
Sure, I’m not a CEO like he is, but we’re both competent, confident people in our regular lives, and we’re used to being on top of things professionally. When we’re together, though, it’s different. It’s new and thrilling.
I don’t let myself think about what that means.
At two o’clock, I take both pies out of the fridge. I decorate the first one with chocolate shavings and the second with chopped hazelnuts. After I take a few pictures, I cut two small slices and call Fatima and Dylan over to taste them.
Fatima takes a bite of each and chews thoughtfully.
“Well?” I say impatiently. “What do you think?”
“My kids would love the first one,” she says, “but I prefer the second, although the top layer isn’t quite the right consistency.”
Yes, I can see that now. Should be pretty easy to fix.
“Although I’d personally do something with banana. Nutella and banana is a great combination.”
She’s right. I’ll ask Josh what he’d prefer and go from there.
“Strawberries and Nutella are pretty great, too,” Dylan says before he tries each of my pies. “These are both really good, Sarah.”
Ann barges into the kitchen. “Are you guys trying a new pie without me?” She grabs a fork and helps herself to a bite of pie from Dylan’s plate.
“Hey!” he says. “That’s my pie. Get your own.”
I’m already cutting Ann a small slice of each.
“Mm,” she says. “That’s good.” She tries the second pie. “Okay, that one’s even better.”
I try both pies, and they’re good, but not perfect.
“I don’t know why you aren’t smiling,” Ann says. “They’re delicious. But I guess you want them absolutely perfect for that handsome CEO, don’t you? You were flirting with him on Wednesday—”
“No, I wasn’t!” I protest. “Not at all. What did you see?”
“Ha!” Ann points at me. “You’re defensive. I knew it! Not that I saw anything. I just suspected it from the way you were mooning about the kitchen after your little meeting.”
“I was not mooning about the kitchen.”
“He’s handsome?” Fatima asks. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Very handsome.” Ann’s smile is smug, as though she’s particularly pleased that she got to meet him. “He’s also on a list of the top thirty-five eligible bachelors under thirty-five.” She takes out her phone and pulls up the list. Fatima and Dylan gather around.
“Ooh, he is very attractive,” Fatima says.
“These lists of eligible bachelors are always full of straight men.” Dylan shakes his head. “Where are the eligible bachelors for people like me?”
“Actually, this is a very inclusive list,” I say. “There’s an ‘interested in’ section, and four of the thirty-five men are interested in men.”
“Oh, really?” He pauses. “Not Josh Yu, though?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Ann says, “since he already has the hots for Sarah.”
“Excuse me?” I say. “How would you know that?”
“Lucky guess.” Ann smirks, and I can’t help my cheeks from heating.
“Sarah,” Fatima says, “you seem quite familiar with this list of eligible bachelors. Have you been studying it?”
Okay, this tease-the-boss business has gone on long enough.
“Thanks for all your opinions,” I say, “but it’s time to go back to work.”
For me, that means figuring out how to make these Nutella pies the best they can be.
* * *
That evening, I settle on my couch with my phone, a large piece of Nutella Pie #2, and a glass of red wine.
I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day.
I pull up Josh’s contact information, type out a text, then decide the message isn’t quite right and try again. It takes three tries before I get annoyed with myself and just send what I have, plus a pictur
e of each pie.
Nutella Pies, version 1.0. The first is mascarpone and Nutella. The second is a layer of Nutella mousse, followed by a layer of bittersweet chocolate mousse. Not quite perfect, but almost there. I’ll have one for you to try next Tuesday. Which sounds better to you?
I wait. And wait.
Five minutes later, he still hasn’t replied. I’m annoyed that he didn’t reply immediately, but more than anything, I’m annoyed that I’m annoyed about this.
Josh could be at a fancy dinner meeting for work, having dinner with his family, or working out and building his lovely muscles. Or he could be in the shower, water sluicing over his skin and dark hair, down, down, down...
Get it together, Sarah.
To kill some time, I pull up that stupid eligible bachelors article and go down the rabbit hole of looking at the comment section. There are 1047 comments, which seems a tad much. Some assholes accuse the list makers of trying to be too politically correct by including so many men who are Asian and black, and a few who are gay. Others are thrilled with the list, and one of them compares Josh Yu to a warm loaf of bread slathered in butter...
My phone buzzes, and I drop it in surprise. I’d been so absorbed in the comments that I’d forgotten I was waiting for Josh to text me back.
They both look amazing, but I think I’d go for the second.
I stare at the text. It’s a perfectly reasonable text, replying to the question I’d asked. Why do I feel disappointed?
I gulp my wine.
Yeah, okay. I admit it. I’d been hoping for something a little flirtatious.
I could also try something with Nutella and banana, I type. Or Nutella and strawberries. What do you think? Would you find that scrumptious? Would you like to put that in your mouth?
As soon as I send that text, I regret it. What the hell am I doing? He’s a client, and I can’t afford to screw this up.
Yet I have a feeling he will appreciate that comment.
Oh, God. Now I’m thinking about bananas, and how they look like...well, you know.
Fuck, it’s been a long time since I had sex. That must be the problem.
I would like to put all of it in my mouth, he replies. Both of those sound amazing, too. If you have a chance to try making them, go ahead. He follows this up a minute later with: Are you putting Nutella pie in your mouth right now?
I take a picture of my slice of Nutella pie and my glass of wine, grinning as I do so.
Sarah, Sarah, he says. That’s not proof you’re eating the pie. Just that you have a slice in front of you.
Well, I say, what would I be doing with a slice of Nutella pie other than eating it?
It’s a full piece of pie. Not a single bite missing.
This is true. I eat a bite, then send him another picture of the pie and the glass of wine.
That’s still not proof, he says. For all I know, someone else could be eating the pie.
He wants me to send him a picture of myself? I hold a forkful of Nutella pie to my lips and take a selfie, feeling a little ridiculous.
He replies immediately: Very pretty ;) You have a tiny bit of Nutella mousse on the corner of your lip. I would wipe it off with my finger if I was there.
My breath catches, and then I do something truly ridiculous: I make a short video of myself licking off the errant bit of Nutella pie and send it to him.
Hot is his reply, and that single word sends a current of pleasure through me.
It’s been a while since anyone has thought of me this way. It’s rare for me to get attention from men, but to be fair, a lot of that is probably because I don’t put myself out there. I don’t have much of a social life, and I don’t use dating websites.
And I’ve never had attention before from a man quite like Josh Yu before, a successful man who looks like he could be a freaking swimwear model.
What are you doing now? I ask, so I can get the picture of him modeling swimwear out of my head.
I’m at the office.
Now I’m imagining him standing in front of a large window, looking out at the city below. Except instead of a suit, à la Fifty Shades of Grey, he’s wearing a Speedo.
Okay, enough with the swimwear.
I imagine him wearing jeans and a Henley instead.
I need photographic evidence, I say.
Happy to oblige.
A moment later, I receive a picture of his face. He’s quirking up one corner of his mouth and looking intently at the camera. It’s not obvious he’s at the office, but it’s exactly what I wanted. Just a picture of him.
As I’m sure he knows.
This conversation is probably nothing to Josh. I bet he’s had many such texting exchanges with women.
Yet I feel special.
I don’t respond to the picture of his face; I can’t think of what to say.
And then I receive another text.
May I kiss you the next time I see you?
My cheeks get warm at the thought, at the way he’s asking permission.
Another text from Josh: Just to be clear, you are free to say no, of course. It will not affect our business relationship. I will still have you cater the party.
I appreciate him saying that, because mixing business and pleasure can get tricky.
I exhale unsteadily before typing my reply.
Chapter 8
Josh
I want.
I want to feel the slide of her lips against mine. I want to feel her melt against me. I want to taste Nutella pie on her lips.
I’m not used to feeling like I’ve lost my restraint. I’m not used to being distracted from my work.
When I’m doing business with someone, I normally keep things strictly professional. Friendly, but professional. I didn’t plan for this to be any different, despite my attraction.
But I can’t ignore it any longer. I had to ask if she’d be willing to take it further.
This isn’t related to my business in the usual way. It’s not like she’s hired me to design an app. And when I see her, I get to eat pie.
It doesn’t feel like business to me, but I’m aware that it’s business to her. Her business is pies. This will probably be the biggest order she’s ever had. The money isn’t a big deal to me, but it’s a big deal to her.
The level of anticipation I feel for our next meeting is, frankly, bordering on ridiculous. I don’t understand this pull she has on me. She’s a beautiful woman, yes, but there are many beautiful women. Why her?
Usually, I plan things out in advance. I figure out what I want, and then I figure out how to get it. It’s all calculated.
But with her, all I know is that I want. I can’t think beyond that.
I want to kiss her, I want to take her to bed.
And to my surprise, I also want to wake up in the morning with her, our limbs tangled, and hold her in my arms as we talk about everything and nothing.
I haven’t seen her very many times, but I like how I feel when I’m talking to her. Relaxed. Like I can be myself. A little goofy, even. At the same time, though, I feel keyed up in her presence, bursting with desire. It’s full of contradictions, somehow, but it feels right.
I guess that’s the simple answer: I like how I feel when I’m with Sarah.
It’s been two minutes since I asked if I could kiss her, and she hasn’t replied. I fear I’ve read her wrong.
When my phone beeps, I pounce on it.
Goddammit. It’s not Sarah but Neil, telling me about some “sweet party” he’s planning to attend on Saturday and asking if I want to go.
The idea doesn’t appeal to me, but maybe I’ll feel differently tomorrow.
It’s doubtful, though.
I could be in a room with a couple dozen hot women—if Neil is going to a party, this will certainly be the case—a number of them interested in me, and I’d be thinking about being in a pie shop on the other side of the city, eating pear ginger crumble pie and bantering with someone else. Leaning toward her, and hopeful
ly...
Sarah finally replies.
Yes, she says, you may.
* * *
I’m going to a Nutella pie tasting. I should be thinking about Nutella pie and my party.
But all I’m thinking about is kissing Sarah. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for days.
I knock on the door to Happy As Pie. The curtains are drawn, so I can’t see inside. My heart beats rapidly as I hear someone unlock the lock.
Maybe I’ll kiss her as soon as she opens the door.
Or should I wait?
I’m still debating when the door swings open, revealing two people who look nothing like Sarah: a young white man and a South Asian woman who looks a little older than me.
Good thing I didn’t move in for a kiss right away.
“You must be Josh,” says the man. “I’m Dylan.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say automatically, shaking his hand. Inside, however, all I can think is, What the hell?
“I’m Fatima,” says the woman.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Dylan says.
“So much,” Fatima agrees.
“Lovely things, I’m sure.” I look around the shop. There are a number of pies laid out on a table, but Sarah is nowhere to be found.
A moment later, she walks out of the kitchen, looking sexier than it should be possible to look in jeans and a lemon-print apron.
I’ve really developed a thing for aprons.
“Alright, you two,” she says. “Back to work.”
Dylan and Fatima head to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about that,” Sarah says as we sit down at the table of pies. “They were, uh, curious.”
“Why?” I lean toward her. “What did you tell them?”
She shakes her head. “Let’s get down to business. I’ve got the strawberry-rhubarb, key lime, banana cream, and pumpkin pies, in addition to the Nutella pies for you to try. What would you like to start with?”
“Let’s start with the pumpkin and banana cream.”
She cuts me a sliver of each, and when she slides the plate over to me, I think, Now.
But I chicken out at the last second, which isn’t like me at all.
