by M. J. Pullen
The pimiento balls for Kieran had been a last-minute decision, just as she was ready to head home. No matter how many new things she created, Marlowe always liked to end on something she did well. Walk away on a win, her dad used to say. Give yourself a reason to go back.
So, she stood over the fryer, watching the uneven little balls dance in the hot oil, turning golden, comforted by their familiar sputter and sizzle. She hardly knew they were for Kieran until she found herself pulling up outside the Tipsy Trucker.
Marlowe hesitated at the door, icy reluctance washing over her as she remembered her disastrous reception last time. But she was here, greasy balls in hand—no point turning back now. The pub was sparsely populated, with no local sporting events drawing in a Sunday afternoon crowd. There were a couple of older men playing checkers at one table, a foursome of bleary-eyed yuppies in golf visors at another, and a man in a button-up sitting across from a six-year-old in Mary Janes and a poufy dress.
Kieran came out from the office behind the bar as Marlowe’s eyes were adjusting to the dimmer light. He paused when he saw her, hazel eyes flicking to the box in her hand, then continued as though he hadn’t seen her, racking dishes and fiddling with papers in the till.
“As promised,” Marlowe said cheerfully, sliding the box across the bar. “My specialty.”
Kieran raised a dark brow. “You brought outside food into my pub. Where I make food. To sell.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she snarked back. “You did notice that you have a whole fleet of trucks in your parking lot selling outside food twice a month?”
He stared at the box, though, which Marlowe took to be a good sign. She opened the lid and slid it across to him, speaking in a soft singsong. “They’re freeeesh.”
Kieran gave her a dark look but reached for one of the hush-puppy-sized fritters, examining it the way a toddler looks at his first bite of broccoli. Marlowe bet Kieran was a damn cute baby—and where the hell did that thought come from?
She leaned forward as he bit into it, a tiny blob of sunshine-colored cheese escaping to the corner of his mouth. Her need for his approval was shameless at this point, at least when it came to food. “It’s not bad, princess, I’ll give you that,” he said, his nonchalant voice belying the enthusiastic look she glimpsed just before turning away. “Between that and your salesman boyfriend, I’d say you’ve a bright future.”
“He’s not—” Marlowe stopped. Why bother defending herself when no one was listening? “What is it about Steven that you hate so much? You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t hate anyone,” Kieran said, keeping his back to her. “But I know his type.”
“And what type is that?”
Now he turned, a strand of black hair falling across his forehead. “The style-over-substance type. The kind who will slap trendy paint on a house, toss up a bit of drywall, maybe splice together some wiring…and sell it for twice what it’s worth in an ‘up-and-coming’ neighborhood…” He made air quotes with his fingers—a gesture Marlowe detested—and even in this, he was sexy as hell. Damn it.
“Next thing you’ll be asking me if I have a case of the Mondays,” she said, and the furrow in his brow only deepened as he continued his rant.
“…Or selling a flipped house to an unsuspecting Irishman who’s too damn trusting for his own good and has only seen pictures online.”
“You bought a house without seeing it? Did you even have an inspection?” Being with Steven had been a waste of time in many ways, but at least a real estate agent boyfriend had taught her something.
Kieran’s glare told her both the answer to her question and that she’d hit a sore spot. “I was in the airport on my way to Galway when it came on the market,” he said through his teeth. “I’d been shopping for weeks, my lease was almost up, and this area was going like bloody pancakes at the time.”
“Hotcakes,” she corrected automatically, then regretted it as his glare intensified. “Never mind. You were in the middle of a house hunt, on your way back to Ireland…”
“My mother was sick, if you must know, and I couldn’t postpone the trip. My slick arse real estate agent told me we had to move quickly because there were multiple buyers, so we did. When I got back to see the house, we had just a couple days before closing and I was working like mad catching up here, too.” He shrugged. “The house looked solid, so we just went for it. It was months later I found out my agent was in dire straits financially—he was living in his parents’ basement and was months behind on child support. He would have sold me oceanfront property in Oklahoma.”
“Arizona.”
“What? Oklahoma’s the one in the middle, right? No oceans there.”
“Well, yes, but the expression comes from a song… The point is, I get it. I would’ve done the same thing. Real estate agents are supposed to be trustworthy.” Until you find them in the supply closet with Katie. “And this was one of Steven’s properties?”
Kieran nodded. “I’d never met him until today, but from what I gathered later, that’s what his firm was known for: cheap renovations to raise the price, quick closing to minimize negotiations.”
“That sounds right.” Marlowe had heard bits and pieces of this when she and Steven were together. But he never sounded concerned about HomeSource’s philosophy and Marlowe hadn’t been particularly interested to pay close attention anyway. Maybe she should have.
Now she touched Kieran’s arm, the dark hairs there surprisingly soft over the taut sinew of his forearm. It was nice to have someone confide in her, even if she had no idea what consolation she could offer. “Is your mom okay?”
“Better now, thanks. She had breast cancer but she’s in remission.” He laughed. “Do you know, you’re the first person to hear that story who’s asked me about her? Everyone else starts spouting off real estate ethics rules and asking if I reported my asshole agent or passing me the business cards for their lawyer friends.”
Marlowe smiled. “I’ve learned the best thing to do in the face of betrayal is to focus on what really matters.” Tara had taught her that, after Steven. Focus on cooking, on building your own dreams. You don’t need some guy. We got this.
Except Tara had needed some guy, apparently, badly enough to follow him to New York and leave Marlowe to hold up their dreams by herself. Which meant she had to stay focused. Which meant she couldn’t get caught up in the searing green-brown eyes of the closest available Irishman.
“Anyway, I was going to use these to bribe my way back in your good graces.” She put a hand on the takeout box, where there were still four cheese balls left. “But if you’re not interested…” She slid the box back toward her, and Kieran’s hand shot out to snatch it.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. Jesus, woman.” His accent made it sound like “Jayzus,” and a gratifying thrill ran up Marlowe’s spine as he popped another cheese ball into his mouth. There was nothing better than someone loving her food. And when that someone not only knew food as a professional, but was pretty damn delicious himself…even better.
“So…?” Marlowe said, more coquettish than she’d intended.
“So,” Kieran repeated, propping elbows on the bar.
A hundred inappropriate thoughts ran through her head. Do you like me now? Is there a Mrs. Hot Irish Bartender? Want to go upstairs and make out? She pinched her own arm to remind her to focus and landed on the lame, “Can we be friends again?”
The smile in his eyes faded as a man with a computer backpack took the stool next to her and Kieran pushed off the bar. He put her box beneath the bar and extracted an order pad. “Yeah, princess,” he said as he threw the man an officious smile. “Friends.”
11
The problems with Life of Pie’s debut at the Atlanta Dogwood Festival started days before the festival itself.
Marlowe sneaked into the prep kitchen early Monday morning, knowing the cameras were scheduled to arrive at ten. The guys (and one woman) on the production crew were all
nice enough, and they did their best to stay out of her way while she worked. But Marlowe needed a little time to herself before the eyes of the world were on her. She’d been restless all evening after leaving the Tipsy Trucker last night, and even baking four batches of oatmeal cookies and forty minutes on the treadmill at her apartment complex hadn’t cured it.
When she’d been unable to sleep at four thirty this morning, she’d given up, made coffee, and driven to the prep kitchen. Now she was making batch after batch of pie crust to freeze for later, pounding the crumbling balls into submission on the steel table until her arms ached. It wasn’t like Marlowe to be this nervous, even for a huge opening like the Dogwood Festival. She’d made it through all those weeks on a reality show, for one thing. And she’d run equally huge festival events for Murray’s in her time—including the Dogwood—barely breaking a sweat in the Georgia heat.
But it had been Murray’s ass on the line back then, not Marlowe’s nascent reputation. And she’d had Tara by her side to share the burden and laugh with her. And there hadn’t been cameras. Or the inexplicable drive to impress a certain bartender…
“Jeez, what did that ball of dough ever do to you?” The voice in the doorway of the quiet kitchen startled her so badly that she almost threw the pie crust at him in panic. “Were you this buff when we were together? Because those hardworking biceps are H.O.T.”
“For fuck’s sake, Steven. Don’t you knock?” Heart slamming in her chest, she recovered her composure enough to roll the dough into plastic wrap for the freezer, immediately scooping out another handful to keep from having to look him in the eye. “What are you doing here? We don’t start until ten.”
“As the primary investor in this venture, I felt it was my duty to get here early and make sure everything was ready for shooting.”
“Joint investor, not primary. And that’s a load of crap. You’ve never been anywhere early in your life.”
He laughed. “Fine. It’s also because you’re still in my Find My Friends app from when we dated. I just happened to notice you were here early, so I thought we could powwow before the crew arrives.”
Marlowe stared at him, horrified. “You’re tracking my location? That crosses a line, even for you.”
“I don’t track your location.” He rolled his eyes, with that easy smile that meant you’re making too much of this, as usual. “I haven’t used that app since we set it up for Bonnaroo three years ago. You gave me permission to find you in the crowd, remember?”
“Permission I’ll be revoking right this second…” She looked on the nearby counter where her keys rested, next to the stack of plastic tubs full of oatmeal cookies. “Where is my phone?”
“Probably in your car.” Steven smirked. “Which is why you didn’t answer my texts this morning about the menu changes, which is why I wondered where you were, which is why I checked the app…”
Marlowe patted herself down and fished her phone out of her apron pocket. It had turned itself on silent mode again. “That’s still stalker-esque, no matter why you did it…” She paused in the process of turning the phone settings back to vibrate. “Wait. What menu changes?”
“This is why you should check your phone. I was looking over the menu and I think we need something with a little more pizzazz, you know? Something with an exotic flair, like—I don’t know. Middle Eastern or Indian or something.”
“For the last time, I am not doing Baba ganoush at the Dogwood Festival. I’ll make you a giant batch to take home when we get through this, if you’ll just help me—”
“I am not pushing the Baba ganoush again. Though I will take you up on that offer…” He picked up one of the cookie containers and examined it. “Are these your stress-relief oatmeal cookies? Are they for everyone?”
“They’re for the crew. Put it down.”
“The crew is like, four dudes. There are enough cookies here for ten times that many.”
“They work hard,” Marlowe said. “And they have families they can share with. And Jo is a woman, not a dude.”
Steven gave her a blank look.
“Jo? Joanna?” Marlowe tried to jog his memory. “Camera Two? Always wears a Red Sox hat? She’s…um. Sturdy-looking?”
“That dude is a woman?” Steven’s eyes lit up in fake astonishment.
He was enjoying Marlowe’s reaction before she even knew she was giving it to him. Of course he’d known Jo was a woman; Marlowe had seen them talking between takes, palling around like Steven did with everyone. But he could still spin a line of obnoxious bullshit designed to get under Marlowe’s skin, and it still worked. She hated him for it.
“You’re a pig.” She slammed a fist into the dough, thinking if Steven was going to be hanging around today, she might have to mix up more crust to beat the crap out of.
“I know. I’m awful.” But the Cheshire Cat grin was still in place. There was nothing he loved more than ruffling her feathers. “And seriously, can we talk about these biceps?” He squeezed her upper arm lightly.
“We can talk about you getting your hands off me. Like, now.”
He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. You know I’m just playing. I was just thinking about Bonnaroo, I guess. Remember when we snuck into the T-shirt tent during Eminem?”
Marlowe did remember. They’d been a little drunk from beer and heat, and hours of dancing pressed together by the crowd. Tara and Calvin had wanted to move closer to the stage, but instead of letting Marlowe follow, Steven grabbed her hand and led her in the other direction. “Let’s get lost,” he’d said, voice husky in her ear. And at that moment, she’d felt she could never be lost with her hand in his.
The T-shirt tent was done for the day, empty except for stacks of broken-down boxes ready to be hauled away. In the middle, a perfect nook of clean, cool grass between two of the stacks, protected from prying eyes and festival grime by the abandoned boxes. She’d never done anything daring like that, never had sex in a public place with anyone. But she’d been feeling young and cute in her flirty festival skirt and braids—enthralled by Steven’s mouth on hers and the sweat of their bodies and the thrilling but distant possibility of getting caught. Back then, Steven’s fingers on her skin made her feel desirable, and his nudges against her comfort zone felt like growth opportunities. Wasn’t that what love was about? Someone who challenged you to be a better version of yourself?
And she had to admit, it had been pretty damn great. To this day, she thought of that night whenever she saw a pile of corrugated cardboard or heard Eminem on the radio. She still sometimes longed for the freedom and excitement that moment in the dark grass had given her, which had lasted right up until she realized that Steven cared far more about freedom and excitement than he did about who he found them with. Exhibit A: supply closet.
“Yeah,” she said finally, willing her voice not to crack. “I remember regretting that I missed seeing Eminem in concert.”
“Touché,” Steven said. If she’d hurt his feelings, he sure didn’t show it. “So anyway, Jerry and I were talking about the menu for the festival, and we both think something with a little international flare…”
“You were talking to Jerry? When?”
“Last night. We had a beer. Oh, don’t look at me like that. We were both out for a jog and just happened to bump into each other.”
“You grabbed a beer with the producer of my show, behind my back, and discussed my menu without me. I have to say, Steven, you’re not doing so hot with the ‘silent’ part of silent partner.”
“Don’t hate the player, babe. I told you I want to get my own house-flipping show going when we’re done with this, and it makes sense for me to build a relationship with Jerry. I can’t help it if the guy likes me.”
Anger formed a tight, hard bubble at the base of Marlowe’s throat. She should have known he would pull something like this. Just like she’d known—deep down—that Steven wasn’t capable of staying true to one person. Her fingers curled into the
pie crust, and she might have thrown it at his head, if the door hadn’t opened behind them. The crew shuffled in with their bags of equipment to set up for the day.
Suddenly amiable, and with no sign whatsoever that he’d recently joked about her being a man, Steven hustled over to take one of the lighting bags from Jo. “Let me help you guys set up. Marlowe and I were just about to have a discussion and I know you’ll want to get this on camera. Conflict is great for the ratings, right?”
Fury threatened to take over her body just as Jo hoisted Camera Two onto her shoulder. Marlowe could feel herself shaking with anger and she was sure the camera had to be picking it up. But she wouldn’t lose her shit on television. The Wisconsin twins hadn’t managed to rattle her and she sure as hell wouldn’t give Steven the satisfaction, ratings be damned.
“I’ll be right back, guys,” she called in her cheeriest voice, before barricading herself in the walk-in cooler, to literally cool down for a while.
Leaning against a crate of lettuce, Marlowe retrieved her phone from her apron. She needed a voice of reason, a buffer of sanity between herself and her ex. Normally she’d call Tara, but… Her fingers hovered over Kieran’s personal cell number in her phone, “for any emergencies.” She wasn’t even on Tipsy Trucker property today. This definitely wouldn’t qualify as an emergency. Unless you counted her murdering her ex-boyfriend in front of a camera crew, which would end both her career and all the financial gain Kieran hoped to achieve by it. They had said they were friends, hadn’t they?
She had just decided it was too much to ask—and even wondered whether she should try to locate a number for Barbara Payne instead—when Steven pounded on the door of the walk-in. “Babe! You in there? Did you get lost?”
