Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“I said flute the edges, not destroy them!”
“You have to slice the apples the same size or else some will be solid and some will be mushy!”
But by late afternoon, we had two beautiful homemade apple crumble pies cooling on the counter. The smell was absolutely heavenly. Grams told me she was proud of me.
“Thank you,” I said, giving her a hug. “I’m so glad we did this.”
“Me too. And when you go home, you pass it on to your sisters. They’re going to need it—this is a pie that keeps a man from straying, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes but promised to teach Emme and Maren what I’d learned. “I wrote it all down, so don’t worry.”
Grams said she needed a little rest before five o’clocktails, so I told her to go take a nap and I’d get dinner put together for us. I could at least manage that.
While I was making a marinade for the pork tenderloin, I heard some noise on the front porch and figured Ryan was back to work on it. My stomach whooshed. Should I go say hello?
I removed the apron Grams had given me and washed my hands before timidly venturing into the front room and peeking out the window. He was on his knees using an electric sander. The sight of him made me bite my lip. It was strange how the dream I’d had felt more like a memory—I vividly recalled his mouth on mine, the weight of him above me, his hips between my thighs.
Fanning myself, I backed away from the window, deciding my face was too flushed to go out there.
Instead I went back to the kitchen and finished meal preparations, then sat at the table with my phone, checking email and answering text messages from my mom and sisters. Eventually, Grams wandered out from her bedroom and started mixing up drinks, humming a tune as she did.
“Would you put a record on, dear?” she asked. “I’m in the mood for some Nat King Cole.”
“Sure.” I went into the living room and perused her collection, distracted by the sound of a power tool on the porch. I was dying to look out the window again but didn’t want to get caught.
Stop acting so juvenile, for God’s sake. Just go out there and say hi.
I chose the first Nat King Cole record I came across and put it on. The scratch of the needle was followed by the sound of a piano as I made my way to the front door. I took a deep breath and was about to open it when I heard a knock.
I pulled it open, and my heart started to pound. “Hello again,” I said.
He nodded. “Hi.”
“Come on in.” I stepped back, opening the door a little wider.
He glanced toward his house and I thought he was going to refuse, but then he pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. “Just wanted to let your grandmother know I’m done for today. I can paint the new boards tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure if she wanted the entire porch repainted, or …” He trailed off, and we both stood there in silence for a moment, eyes locked. I felt warm and dizzy standing so close to him.
“Uh, I can ask her,” I said, trying to recover my senses. I glanced over my shoulder toward the dining room and kitchen. “Would you like to stay for dinner tonight? We have plenty. And there’s homemade apple crumble pie for dessert.”
“Homemade pie, huh?” For a moment I thought he was on the verge of accepting.
“Yes. Two of them, actually. They’re cooling on the kitchen counter. And they look delicious.” I gave him my flirtiest smile and even tried the hair toss. “You should definitely stay.”
One side of his mouth tipped up in a little shadow of a smile, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. “I can’t. But thanks. And thanks again for the food last night.”
“You’re welcome. Are you sure you can’t stay tonight? It’s not an imposition or anything. Pork tenderloin, wilted arugula, roasted sweet potatoes …”
He swallowed. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Disappointed, I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to stare at his mouth. All I could think of was the way he’d kissed me in my dream. “Well, give me a minute to go find Grams. She can tell you about the paint.”
He nodded and I left him by the door while I went back to the kitchen. Grams stood there with a drink in her hand, looking smug as a well-fed cat. “Was that Mr. Woods at the door?”
“Yes. He has a question for you about the porch.”
“Did you ask him to stay for dinner?”
“Yes, but he said he can’t.”
Her face fell, and then she looked suspicious, as if I might not have asked him nicely enough. “Why not?”