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)
“Hello, darling! How are you?”
“I’m okay, Grams,” she’d said, sounding tired. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Are you girls getting excited for the wedding?”
“Yes. Maren flew in yesterday, and we had a nice dinner together last night.”
“How nice. And is Maren’s fiancé coming in?”
“He is, but not until Thursday, and he’s flying straight into Traverse City since we’ll be up at Abelard already.”
“I’ve never been to Abelard, but I hear it’s so lovely. That’s the vineyard your cousin owns, right? The one on your father’s side who married the French fellow?”
“Mia, yes. And her husband is Lucas. You’ve met them before, I think.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you coming in Friday for the rehearsal?” she asked.
“Of course, dear. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Are you driving yourself?”
“I was planning to.” My wheels started spinning. “Unless you’d like to come pick me up? It’s probably only about forty minutes away.”
“I’d be glad to send someone to get you, Grams. But it won’t be me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you.”
I clucked my tongue. “Stella Devine, don’t you trust me?”
“No.” But she did manage a laugh. “Sorry, Grams. I love you, but you’re a sneaky little thing.”
“Fine,” I said. “Never mind about the ride. I’ll drive myself.”
“Okay. Be careful.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Have you seen Ryan much?”
Bingo, I thought. “Not too much. Here and there. He seems awfully down.”
“Hm. Well, I should get going. Thanks for calling.”
“Of course, dear. See you soon.”
I hung up and tapped a fingertip against my lips. That settles it. I’m going to pull that bourbon pecan pie out of the freezer and stick it in the oven for twenty minutes. Then I’m just going to mosey over there and deliver it, test the waters a bit.
Sneaky little thing indeed.
And damn proud of it.
Thirty-Five
Ryan
Sunday evening, I was in the kitchen pulling up the old linoleum and trying to think of a way to ask for a second chance with Stella when I heard a knock on my door.
Frowning at the interruption, I went to answer it.
“Hello, Mr. Woods,” chirped Mrs. Gardner when I opened the storm door. “How are you, dear?”
“Fine.” I eyeballed the pie in her hands. “You?”
“Splendid. I won’t keep you because I’m sure you’re busy with dinner, but I wanted to bring you this bourbon pecan pie.”
“Bourbon pecan?” My mouth watered.
“Yes. Stella and Emme baked two of them when they were here last month. Emme took one home, and the other one has just been sitting in my freezer. I forgot all about it until I was cleaning the freezer out yesterday and realized I’d never brought it to you!” She offered it up.
I didn’t deserve it, but I’d serve extra time in purgatory for pecan pie. “Thanks,” I said, taking it from her.
Stella’s hands have been on this.
“How is Stella?” I blurted.
“Wonderful, just wonderful. I spoke with her this afternoon. So busy and cheerful and having such a good time.” She sighed. “Oh, to be young and beautiful.”
The words cut deep.
She doesn’t need me to be happy.
“Well, I should get going. Bye now. Enjoy the pie.”
I managed a smile. I think. “Thanks.”
She left, and I went back into the kitchen, setting the warm, fragrant pie on the counter. I tried to go back to work, but that pie was taunting me with its golden crust and its fat pecans and its promise of gooey sweetness—made by Stella.
Stella, who was busy and cheerful and having such a good time. Stella, who was young and beautiful. Stella, who had my heart in her hands and didn’t even know it.
I needed pie.
Ditching the flooring for now, I grabbed a plastic knife and carved a slice, carefully lifting it onto a paper plate. The dishwasher had finally conked out, so I’d taken to paper and plastic. Pulling a plastic fork from the box, I dug in standing at the counter, moaning as I polished off every last morsel before slicing myself another piece.
It reminded me of the night Stella had brought the apple crumble pie over, how we’d sat and talked at the kitchen table before I’d been rude enough that she’d left. Yet two nights later, she’d sat on my lap, feeding me the last delicious bite. Laughing with me. Listening to me. Agreeing to stay the night.
Showing me how to make her come while I was inside her.
I groaned again, but this time it wasn’t the pie.
Later that night, I gave in and slept in my bed. I’d changed the sheets, but it didn’t matter. She was still here. I closed my eyes and took my cock in my hand, imagining her straddling my body in the moonlit room, her palms on my chest, her hips rocking back and forth. When I came, I heard her whispering my name, felt her contracting around me, saw stars beyond her silvery blond hair.