“Hey.” She smiles, her whole face lighting up as I reach to help her.
Damn, this girl.
“Hey, you.” I can’t help but grin back at her.
She’s here.
She’s finally here.
After all these years.
“How was the drive?” I ask, lifting the dolly over her head and putting it on the ground.
“Easy-peasy. Didn’t take me long at all, maybe an hour and forty-five minutes.” She pops up the handle on the dolly and moves it into position.
“That’s good to hear. So what are these things?” I ask as I haul the first of three large military-grade-looking cases out of the back and place them where she directs me.
She laughs. “They’re portable thermal food warmers that are used for catering.”
“Really?” Her business logo is displayed on the side of each one. In fact, as I take her in, I see she’s wearing a matching Firefly Kitchen T-shirt too, along with tight jeans and flip-flops.
“Yep. Each has six trays, three pies to a tray, which means I have fifty-four pies for you. I cut the slices large, too, so six slices per pie means there are three hundred and twenty-four total.”
“That’s a lot of pie.” My brows pull down. “When did you make all of these?”
“I prepped last night and baked this morning. You said there’d be a lot of people.”
“You made fifty-four pies in the last, what, eighteen hours?” Suddenly, I feel bad about all the work I put her through.
“That I did. It wasn’t awful, don’t worry. I had plenty of time to prepare the crust and filling, and I just baked them early this morning.”
“If you say so.” I reach for the second case and then the third, and then I move back as she locks up.
Turning toward me, she smiles, and the space inside my chest tightens as my gaze slides over her face, checking for each of my favorite features. “I’m happy to see you,” I tell her.
Her cheeks turn a little pink and her smile grows bigger.
Again, damn what this girl does to me.
“I’m happy to see you, too.”
“You ready?”
She takes a deep breath and glances warily toward the open tunnel. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
Together we push the cart into the open stadium and head toward the end zone, where large white tents have been set up for the food and dining. Our event coordinators went all out this year, and I’m proud to have Lexi here. Other than James, this is the first time I’ve ever had someone with me at one of our family events, and just like I predicted, I already feel curious eyes on us, on her.
“Well, butter my biscuit, if it isn’t the third leg of the tripod,” we hear as we find the dessert tables.
Lexi pauses and turns at the sound of the nickname for her and her friends. She smirks. “Let me guess—you’re Jack,” she says, giving him a once-over.
“The one and only.” He throws his arms out. “And you’re Lexi.” He winks before looking at me and grinning. Lexi laughs and just shakes her head. If I didn’t love the guy, I might strangle him for walking over here and immediately flirting with her.
“Meg was right about you.” She throws the words over her shoulder as she moves toward the tables assigned for dessert. “Come on, Jack, make yourself useful. Help us unload these pies.” She reaches for the first case and lifts the door to open it.
“Meg mentioned me to you?” he asks curiously, looking at Lexi as if she has explanations for all the mysteries of the universe, and then he gets distracted as the sweet smell of home-baked pies hits us both. “Pie,” he mumbles, breathing in. For him, it’s like he’s being rewarded; for me, it’s like going home. This smell is home.
One of the event staff sees us and runs over. “Oh, hi! We were expecting you, and I can take it from here.” She smiles warmly.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind,” she says.
“Absolutely. Y’all just enjoy your afternoon and eat lots of food. I hear the shrimp salad is to die for.”
“Okay,” Lexi says, clearly hesitant. She glances between the girl and me.
“Come on, they’ve got this, and I want to introduce you to a few people.” I hold my hand out and watch as her eyes drop to it. Shyly, she slips her fingers into mine, and I walk us away from the food and toward Billy and his wife, Missy. Jack remains, waiting patiently for the first piece to be handed to him.
If I thought people were watching us before, they definitely are now, and I find myself not caring. In fact, I feel good. I feel proud, and I stand a little taller. Let them look. Let them all look. Years—I’ve wanted, worked, and waited for this for years, and now here we are.
“It’s so different being down here on the field,” she says quietly, her eyes scanning the empty stadium.
I try to imagine what it’s like to see it from her perspective, but I can’t. I imagine it’s like when you first move into a new house—it feels so big, and then after a while, it just doesn’t.
“Have you never been on a field?”
“No, not since y’all were in high school.”
Huh. My memories swing back to those days when I would look up and see her right under the announcer’s box. That’s where she sat, nowhere else, and I was glad for it, because I always knew where she was, cheering for us . . . cheering for me.
“Well, this is it, my home away from home.”
She glances at me and, with a straight face, blinks as she says, “I’m not impressed.”
What?
Well, that stings.
Then she laughs, and it’s the best laugh in the world.
Pulling her toward me, I chuckle and wrap my arm around her shoulders. Hers goes around my waist. Both of us are smiling, probably a little too much, but I can’t help it.
I’m so damn happy she’s here.
One by one, I introduce her to my people. Everyone is respectful, as they should be given my position on the team, and everyone praises her for her pies. I’m certain they’ve all put the pieces together about her, me, and my love of pies. Good, I think to myself. I want them all to know. A lot of the guys on the team date and marry the Barbie doll type, but that’s never done it for me. Lexi does it for me with her T-shirt, messy hair, curves, and drive to make it all on her own—the house, the business, all of it. I’m so proud of her.
“So, she’s the one?” Reid asks. I can feel him looking at her, assessing her, but it doesn’t bother me. She should be looked at.
“Yep,” I answer without taking my eyes off her. He already knew this, but it still feels great to acknowledge it.
“Do you think she knows?”
“Nope.” At least I don’t think she does. I’ve never given her any indication that she might be. If anything, I’ve done the opposite.
She throws her head back and laughs at something Camille, Reid’s wife, says. Her laugh is infectious, and everyone near her smiles, including me.
“Good luck,” he murmurs.
Yeah, I’m going to need it.
Shrimp Salad
WEEKS HAVE PASSED since I saw Bryan, and I’m still riding the high of spending the day with him. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be—after all, we’re just friends—but still, I can’t help it.
He texted me when I got home that night to thank me, and since then his texts have been increasing in frequency. I don’t know what’s changed or why it’s happening now, but I’m not going to question it. I’m just going to roll with it. Each time I see his name flash on my phone, my insides do a little dance. It started with him wanting to know if I saw his game the following week, and then it progressed to asking how I’m doing and what happened during my day. He claims his days are boring—eat healthy, play football, work with his trainer, watch films, sleep, repeat—but I think what he does is amazing.
Bryan has always been made up of this perfect blend of perfectionism and purposefulness. At an early age, he set life goals for himself, and I don’t think he’s ever wavered f
rom them. I don’t think this is a bad thing, but I’ve often wondered if he’s enjoyed his life. He’s so determined, which can be both a pro and a con. I just hope he’s happy. He should be; he’s already accomplished so much.
My days, however, have been filled with being knee-deep in pecans. Marie and I have been curing, shelling, and making the pecan pie filling for what feels like a lifetime. Then again, each harvest season throughout the year feels like this. Whether it’s strawberries, blueberries, lemons, or whatever, when they’re ripe and ready, it’s crunch time to get as much accomplished as we can. Currently, we have more jars of pecan pie filling than we’ve ever had, and I’m so proud. I never thought I would see the gift shop—AKA my dining room—and the extra storage in the barn so full of so many jars.
Turning off the oven, I move the two pressure canners I used today from the stove over to the sink, pour out the water, and wipe down the insides. I’ve canned all the jars I’m going to get done today, and I’m in desperate need of a hot bath to loosen these muscles.
Behind me, on the center island, my phone buzzes with an incoming text, and a small smile voluntarily slips onto my face as I glance at the sender.
Bryan: Big plans this weekend?
I look at the clock and see it’s already three in the afternoon, which means he’s on his flight to Pittsburgh. The team decided to fly out a day early due to a cold front that’s expected to move through. It’s an open stadium and there’s going to be snow, so the team needs time to run drills, time to adjust.
Me: Nope. I’ll be working. As much as I love pecans, I kind of never want to see another one.
Bryan: Ha! But it’s so worth it. You make the best pecan pie in the whole world.
My heart might have just leapt in my chest. It didn’t go unnoticed to me that he ate several different flavors of pie at the team event, and two slices of pecan. Internally, I was beaming with delight.
Holding my phone, I make my way up the stairs toward my bedroom. It used to be GiGi’s, but she’s been gone for several years now, so it only made sense that it would become mine. It’s the largest room in the house and takes up the entire third floor.
It used to be the attic, but after my grandparents married, my grandfather slowly transitioned the space, making it the bedroom of her dreams. On both sides of the room there are French doors that lead to outside balconies; that way my GiGi could watch the sunrises and the sunsets. Additionally, there are large bay windows complete with built-in seating and surrounded by shelving for her favorite books. He added a fireplace with a lounge area, his and hers walk-in closets, and a large master bath. My favorite feature of the bathroom is the old claw-foot tub, and I can’t wait to toss in a bath bomb and soak.
Me: I think you’ve taken one too many hits to the head.
Bryan: Don’t you know I’m the most protected man on the field?
Me: Whatever! I’ve seen those hits you’ve taken.
There’s a pause as I sit on the edge of the bed, wait, and then watch as the three little dots appear.
Bryan: You have?
Oh. Did I just admit to something I shouldn’t have?
Lying back on the bed, I squeeze my eyes shut and hug my phone to my chest. Does him knowing I watch his games make me sound crazy? I hope not. Yes, I might have watched as many of his games as I could so I could see him, but I do like football as well and occasionally watch other teams too. He doesn’t need to know how many of his games I’ve watched, and we are friends, right?
I let out a deep sigh. Oh well. I have nothing to hide. I am who I am, and I may as well just go for it, dive down the rabbit hole.
Me: I have.
There’s another pause as I wait, and relief floods through me when he responds.
Bryan: Good.
Groaning, I toss my phone on the bed, not knowing what to say after that, and I move into the bathroom. I can’t imagine it would be a bad thing for him to know I watch his games. After all, it wouldn’t be if James said the same thing.
As I sit in the tub, my mind drifts back to what it felt like to have my hand in his and his arm around me at the event. Most of the day, he never left my side, and in one way or another, he was almost always touching me. When we were teenagers, he used to do that too, and I’ve missed it. People noticed. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad, but he didn’t seem to care. For years, I’ve dreamt about what it would be like to stand by his side, so I remained there proudly and just observed him in his natural setting.
Player after player stopped by to introduce themselves and rave about the pies. Part of me wondered if they were just being nice or if they actually liked the pies, but then I decided I didn’t care. I know the pies are good, and that’s all that matters. There’s also no denying how revered and beloved he is by his team and his coaches; they all wanted to tell me one of their favorite Bryan stories, most of them funny. Just like when we were younger, he remained quiet, but his eyes were bright as he chuckled along with everyone, and it was nice to see that side of him hasn’t changed.
It was the best day I’ve had in a long time.
A few hours later, the sun is setting, and I’m back in my dining room printing labels for today’s jars when my phone rings.
It’s Shelby.
I love Shelby.
She and I, along with Meg, became friends in culinary school. I was lucky enough to receive a scholarship, and for the first time, I left home and did something on my own outside of James and Bryan. Second semester, I moved in with the two of them, and the rest is history. We became known as the three legs of the tripod.
“I have something I need to tell you,” she says excitedly.
“Are you pregnant?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and pinching my lips together.
“What?” she yells. “No, I’m not pregnant! Why would you even suggest that?”
“Because it seems like the appropriate thing to think when someone says they have something to tell you, and you are disgustingly perfect with your boyfriend.” I laugh through my words, not able to hold it in anymore.
“Well, it’s not, and I’m not. I just shivered at the thought of having a baby. One day, just not any time soon. Sheesh . . .”
“All right then, so if you’re not pregnant, what’s up?” I ask.
“The new Food Network magazine went out today,” she says.
“Yes, I know. You know I count down the days each month, and I can’t wait to see what they have for Thanksgiving this year.” I glance to a bookshelf I keep filled with recipe books, except for the bottom shelf, which is where I keep my issues of the Food Network magazine. There must be at least six years’ worth.
“Well, you’re also going to see something else.”
“What do you mean?” I head toward the back door, slip on my flip-flops, and hop onto my bike, which is propped up against the porch.
Over the summer, Shelby pitched a television series to the network, and they decided to move forward with a pilot season. It’s called All Around the South to tie in with the magazine’s regional issue, All About the South, where she reviews well-known and not-so-well-known restaurants while tying in a do-at-home recipe for the viewers. I’m assuming it’s an article about that and never in a million years would have expected her to say, “Firefly Kitchen.”
I slam the brake on the bike and waver as I regain my balance. “Wait . . . what?” My eyes travel down the length of the long driveway to the mailbox.
“You heard me. Firefly Kitchen!” She squeals loudly in excitement, and my jaw drops open.
Heat hits my cheeks as ten different emotions charge at me at once.
“Are you serious right now? What for?”
Regaining my composure, I take off on the bike again and head down the hill.
“I might have suggested to people who know people who were at the party over the summer that your pie fillings would make the perfect Christmas gift, and they agreed!”
“Shelby, what does that mean?” An anxio
us current rips through me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think my little company would be featured in a magazine like this.
For. The. Whole. World. To. See.
“It means your company is listed in this year’s holiday gift guide!”
Rarely am I at a loss for words, but this . . . this has done it.
“Oh my stars,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. Being given this kind of exposure—it feels like the possibilities are endless, and this just might be the answer I need to help me with the house.
“Go get it out of your mailbox, look at it, take it in, and then call me back!”
“Okay, I will,” I answer automatically.
“This is so exciting! Congratulations!” She blows me a big smacking kiss and then hangs up.
I come to a screeching halt, dirt flying up from my tires, and I reach into the mailbox, pull out the glossy magazine, and stare at the gorgeous cover. There’s a beautiful photo of a roasted turkey with a side of pecan-herb cornbread dressing, accent shades of brown and orange, and there in the upper right-hand corner is a decorated green holiday wreath with Holiday Gift Guide included, page 58 in the middle. I don’t think my heart could be pounding any harder in my chest. For someone like me, this is a dream come true.
Looking around, I see nothing has changed, but suddenly I feel like everything has.
Slowly, I open to page 58, and there as the fourth item listed is Firefly Kitchen with a photo I’ve never seen before. It’s all five of my pie fillings in jars, and they’re wrapped together in cellophane with a silver holiday bow tied around the top. Underneath it lists the average price per jar and our website.
I can’t believe this is real life.
My nervousness at the enormity of this opportunity quickly subsides as determination and elation set in. Firefly Kitchen is about to be known coast to coast for those who love gourmet products and pies!
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 7
