Every fucking day I threw them all away. I considered taking them with me into the feed store but I worried Thatcher would figure out who was making them. What if lemon with sugar sprinkled on top was her signature dessert? Or the apple pie that she claimed was her specialty? Didn’t all cooks have some kind of signature dish? I couldn’t risk it.
I was already too conscious of how attuned to her I was. When I’d seen Thatcher yesterday, I felt guilty enough that I could have sworn he knew what was going on with Grace. Every time she came over, she chatted about…well, everything. The Founder’s Day Picnic, which happened tomorrow. She talked about how her school day was. How the elementary copy machine was on the fritz and because the school year was winding down, the principal didn’t want to do anything about it. She talked about why some parent volunteers were better than others. Why she couldn’t stand Dixie because they’d discussed their salaries with each other in confidence and when Dixie realized she wasn’t paid as much as Grace, she complained to the principal. Which made Grace look bad and frankly, I didn’t care for the bitch either after that.
Every day that I seen her, wearing modest length skirts that hugged her hips and ass like a stocking, I couldn’t help but want her more. Her tops that covered her boobs so bad, you’d think they were Fort Knox. I didn’t get why she hid them. There was nothing more I’d like to do than bend her over my Harley and fuck her into silence. I wanted to silence her into passion. Oblivion. Into a place I knew there’d be no coming back from.
On Saturday, after I finished attaching the seat to the motorcycle, I showered and made my way to the Founder’s Day Picnic in the Park. Lone Star had a large park where the community center was located – the park went around the building. Inside the park was the swimming pool, a children’s playground, the community center as well as a tennis and basketball court.
Today, it was jam-packed with rectangular tables that were covered in red and white checkered table cloths. On top of each table, there were old-fashioned milk jugs decorated with red, white and blue party confetti, and a single, small American flag. A few tents had been set up, where, if it was anything like the previous years, the food and cake were held. A larger tent was set off to the side and because of the rows of chairs set up, I knew that had to be where the pie auction was going to take place.
I made my way to the tent, amidst the chatter of children and adults. I shook hands with the few guys I knew from work and said hello to their wives before I found nice old Mrs. Reynolds manning the auction booth.
“Mrs. Reynolds, how are you?”
“Doing just fine, Mr. Carter. How are you today?” I knew Mrs. Reynolds because she was one of the ladies that had requested I make her a bench by using the headboard of an old bed frame.
“I’m good. I’d like to get a bid number, please.”
“No problem. Sign your name there and, what number is that? Okay, let me write your number on your sign.”
I signed my name as she instructed and watched her while she wrote my bid number on the sign. It was in the shape of a flag and had been stapled to a painter’s stir stick.
“Did you know I still hold the record for the highest bid Lone Star has ever seen on a pie?” she asked me in a proud voice.
“I might have heard something about that,” I said.
“Four-hundred and ninety-five dollars. Isn’t that something for a town like this?”
“Absolutely. While I’m happy it’s been you to hold the title this long, I find it hard to believe there hasn’t been another person in this town to out-bid that amount.”
“Considering it will all go to charity, I’m surprised too. There you are. You know the rules, right? Hold your sign up if you want to place a bid and the auctioneer will handle the rest.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m familiar with the process. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Oh, anytime I can help out a strapping young stud such as yourself, the pleasure is all mine.” She clasped a hand to her heart and I chuckled.
“Thank you.”
“Good luck on your bidding,” she said.
The chairs were starting to fill up and I grabbed a seat toward the back. I saw Miranda and Ryan near the front, close to the stage, but saw that there weren’t any extra seats nearby. Grace sat in her designated seat up there, her blonde hair had been pulled up into a pony tail and she was wearing a tank top with an American flag splashed on the front. She was chatting with the two women next to her, one on either side of her.
There were two tables for the ten entrants to sit at and each person had their pie sitting directly in front of them with a small number designation for the bidders to know which was which. Grace was number seven. Grace was by far the youngest – who held the record of being the youngest winner?
“Welcome, Bidders. I’m Melissa Eva and I am the coordinator for the Pie Auction. Please take your seats, as we are going to start the bids right away. All the pies are numbered and we will begin with pie number one and work our way down to ten. I hope you’ve come prepared as all the money raised from the auction will go toward a not-for-profit organization. As per Lone Star’s custom, the person with the highest winning bid out of the ten pies, gets to choose what charity they would like to see the money go to.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Grace. She had a mega-watt smile plastered on her face and I felt my mouth doing the same. Her eyes locked on mine and she raised her hand in a small wave. I smiled and tilted my head back in greeting.
“I have twenty. Do I hear twenty-five? Looking for twenty-five. I have twenty-five. Do I hear thirty for the strawberry pie? I have thirty. Do I hear thirty-five? Fifty, folks! I have fifty. Do I hear fifty-five? Fifty-five, folks. I have fifty. Anyone? Let’s keep going. I have fifty. Do I hear fifty-five? This bid is going to close at fifty. Going once, going twice and it’s sold for fifty dollars to bidder number 471.”
The bidding went on in this fashion. Pie number four had the lead so far with one-hundred and eighty dollars for a peach pie. Finally, Grace’s pie was up next and a strange sense of pride flowed through me as I watched her sit up straighter and fold her hands in her lap.
“Bidding is open for an apple pie. You sir, in the third row back. Yes, you. He’s got forty. Way to start the bidding. I have forty. Do I have fifty? I have fifty? I’m just going to throw this out there, folks, what about eighty? Do I hear eighty? Eighty it is!”
I watched around the small crowd as a few people bid on her pie. It was up to one-sixty and didn’t show signs of slowing down. In the background, the auctioneer asked for two-hundred and on its own accord, my bid sign went up.
“Two-fifty,” I said. I spared a glance in Grace’s direction and I couldn’t tell if she was excited or annoyed. She wasn’t flashing me her mega-watt smile, that was for sure.
“You in the back, do you want to bid again? It’s at three-ten. Sure seems like we have a lot of apple pie lovers in the crowd today. I have three hundred and ten dollars; do I hear three-twenty-five?”
“Three-fifty,” I heard myself saying.
Chapter Nine
Grace
I couldn’t look away as Maverick warred with another bidder for my apple pie. Some invisible force squeezed my heart, making it difficult for me to breathe.
“I have three-fifty. Do I have three-seventy-five?” the auctioneer chanted.
“Four hundred,” said the other bidder.
Maverick sat so calmly as if half the crowd wasn’t staring at him, waiting to find out if he was going to bid again. He took his time and my stomach did this funny flip thing as I considered that he might bow out. At least he had gotten it to four hundred dollars—that was an awful lot. My lip began to hurt from where I kept worrying it with my teeth and it felt like eternity before he spoke.
“Five-hundred dollars,” Maverick said in his calm, tender voice.
Collective gasps spread through the crowd and I fought the urge to jump from my seat and launch myself into his lap. I broke the recor
d! He broke the record for me!
“I’ve been the auctioneer for this event for three years and I am happy to inform you ladies and gentlemen that Grace Patterson just stole the record from Irna Reynolds for bringing in the highest bid on a pie. I have five hundred. Do I hear five-twenty?”
The auctioneer waited for the second bidder to make a decision. When he nodded his head, the auctioneer went back to Maverick.
“Do you want to do five-forty, son?”
“I’ll go six,” he vowed.
My heart burst and I couldn’t help the smile I gave him, the happy watering of my eyes. This was incredible.
“Last chance, anyone? Anyone want to bid over six? Alright. Going once, going twice, sold to bidder number 356. Folks, congratulate Ms. Patterson as she now holds Lone Star’s highest bid. Let’s finish these last few pies and see if we can set another record. Who’s ready to beat that last bid for a choke-cherry pie? I’ll start at twenty. Do I have twenty?”
The auctioneer went on and I tuned him out as I watched Maverick. I couldn’t believe he bid that much money for an apple pie that I would have happily made him any time. He did this for me, not because he wanted to taste the pie. He did it out of kindness and the gesture cemented my feelings about him, all over again.
The rest of the bidding couldn’t have gone by any slower. Once it was finally over and it was safe to announce that I had officially beat Mrs. Reynolds record, I was in a race to find Maverick but everyone stopped me, offering me congratulations as I weaved my way through the crowd.
The ladies covered up the pies and took them to the check-out table. That was where I found him handing over six, one-hundred dollar bills to Mrs. Reynolds. Even from where I stood, I could tell she was fawning all over him. The big smile plastered on his face told me he was enjoying it too.
“You have to fill in here, where you want the proceeds to go.”
“I’d like to donate it all to Toys for Tots,” Maverick said. He said it so surely, I questioned if he was intimately familiar with the organization already. He had to be somewhat for even suggesting the charity.
Standing behind him, unsure if he was aware of my presence, I gripped his forearm, gaining his attention.
“Thank you for bidding,” I said excitedly.
He gave a genuine, heart-stopping smile. “You are welcome. The money is going to a good organization.”
“You could have bid on anyone’s pies, but you chose mine, setting me way past Mrs. Reynolds. Thank you for doing that.”
“It meant so much to you, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to help out. Besides, it wouldn’t have been possible if I didn’t have another bidder.”
“Has anyone ever taught you how to take a compliment? You just smile and say thank you.”
He gave me a cheeky grin, “Thank you.”
“Have you always donated to Toys for Tots?” I asked curiously. We made our way through the crowd as we talked and found ourselves at the food station. He paid for two before answering.
“Not always. I started when I realized I had the extra money. A paying back of sorts.”
“From when you were younger?” I asked.
“Yeah. There were plenty of times I got Christmas presents from Toys for Tots.”
I knew he wasn’t telling me this to gain my sympathy, but I felt terrible nonetheless. As much as I thought my parents were messed up, there was never a Christmas that Thatcher and I didn’t want for nothing.
There were a few children in my class that I knew would benefit from donations like Maverick’s and other people’s all over the country. As much as he wanted to resist it, I was finding him to have more feelings than he wanted anyone to believe.
“Thank you for buying my lunch,” I said.
“Anytime,” he said. Our gazes locked on one another’s above the potato salad and held, amid the noise of Luther’s American Band playing “The Liberty Song.”
His eyes brimmed with tenderness and passion and I got the feeling that this was a monumental moment for us as we hashed out how we were going to proceed with one another.
Chapter Ten
Maverick
The day after the Founder’s Day Picnic, she walked up my drive with the mutt following behind her. She was wearing some floaty orange and blue top that once again, hid way too much cleavage. All her cleavage. It was on the tip of my tongue as to why she always wanted to cover her assets.
“Did you like the lemon bars?”
“Sure did,” I lied.
“How was the pie?” she asked.
“Best apple pie I’ve ever had,” I said truthfully—I didn’t throw this in the trash.
“How much longer before you’re done with that?”
“She needs painted still. And bags”
“Do you know how to do that?”
I scoffed, “Is a pig’s pussy pork? Of course, I do. No one else is touching this baby but me.”
“What color are you going to paint it? Black?”
“No. There.” I tilted my head to the torn magazine page tacked to the wall.
“Cream and mint,” she asked.
“No. Willow green. Not mint.”
“Where’d you find the motorcycle?” she asked
“It was my dad’s. He wrecked it. I’m fixing it.”
“For him?”
I stopped and glanced at her, “No. By the time he gets out of prison this’ll be ancient.”
“Then for who?”
“You,” I teased.
“I could never get on one of those things, let alone drive one.”
“Sure you can. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“The driving?” she looked puzzled.
“No, the riding. Both,” I shrugged. “You could do it. It’s not hard.”
The corners of her mouth turned up and she laughed. The image of her standing there with her dog, hand on her hip was filed into my brain for later.
“Who would teach me? It’s been a week and aside from the picnic, this is the most you’ve spoken to me all week.”
I hadn’t considered she might take my suggestion seriously since she always seemed so averse to anything having to do with my bike. Which irritated me slightly because I should know by now she wasn’t exactly as she seemed. Who would teach her? There was only one man for the fucking job as far as I was concerned. There was no way in hell I was letting another man teach her how to drive a motorcycle. And there sure as fuck was no way I was letting her ride on the back of anyone’s bike but mine.
I grunted, “Me.”
“Yeah right,” she challenged.
“What do you mean, ‘yeah right’?”
“I would have to touch you and I don’t think you would be able to handle that.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. She shrugged her shoulder in a breezy manner.
“I don’t think you could. I don’t think you would know what to do with me.”
I got up off the ground in a leisurely pace ready to prove her wrong even though I knew I was becoming a walking contradiction to my own rules of trying to ignore her. I half-assed wiped my greasy hands on my jeans, hoping she wouldn’t be too upset when I ruined her awful shirt. She stood rooted to the spot, her chin held high and the fuck if all of that, ugly shirt and attitude, didn’t do wonders for me. I reached out and grabbed her around the waist. My hand snaked along her lower back as I gathered up the fabric in a tight fist, no doubt whatsoever that I was marring the fabric. My other hand did the same with her straight blonde hair and hell, I was probably getting those lustrous golden strands dirty, too.
I didn’t give a flying shit.
“I’ve told you before, Gracie, don’t bait me. Don’t push me into something you and I will both regret later. Into something that will piss your brother off something fierce.”
“You mean like giving his sister an orgasm?” she sassed.
“That was a one-time thing.” That I wanted to repeat a hundred times.
Her only answer
was a smirk and the way she held her chin up. I was struck in wonder at how tall she was. Almost as tall as me. My mouth was dangerously close to hers and I wanted to close the inch between us and do more of what we’d both been wanting since day one. Her tongue came out and swiped her lower lip, where she then bit it. When I heard a car door slam shut, I came to my senses and backed off just as Thatcher yelled at us from across the street.
“What the fuck are y’all doing? It better not be what it looks like. Gracie, what the hell are you doing here? With him?”
“Hey man, what do you mean? With me? You make it sound like I’m the scum of the Earth.”
“Not scum, Cap. I just know you’ve been around the block. What the hell? Are you guys fucking behind my back?”
“No, Thatcher. God, back off. Stop treating me like a child,” Grace demanded.
“What the hell was that then?” he demanded. Mostly looking at Gracie for an answer.
“Nothing. I was just…I was just messing around. You know Maverick isn’t my type.”
Liar, I wanted to scream. I watched the interaction between them. Her cheeks were sunburnt red and her voice was five octaves higher than normal. Give me a break. Thatcher was going to see right between her lies. How could he not? He knew her better than I did and he was going to read the truth all over her face.
“I know he’s not. Which is why I’m confused at what I just saw.”
“It was nothing, man. Forget it. What’d you need?”
He glanced between Grace and I trying to confirm there wasn’t anything going on between us and I refused to look away from him. This shit was for the birds. How fucking old was I? I wasn’t young enough to shy away so why wasn’t I coming clean? I was attracted to his sister. So. Fucking. What. What was he going to do about it?
“Actually, Thatch-”
Wicked: A Small Town Romance (Love in Lone Star Book 3) Page 10
