Page 29 of Last Slice of Pie

“Perfect.”

Pizza Sauce

WHILE EATING DINNER, my friend Danny, who’s second-in-command at his father’s chimney repair company, stops by to check out the fireplace. Danny and I have known each other for years, and as we walk into the kitchen, his eyes widen at the sight of Bryan in my home, whereas Bryan’s sharpen and slightly narrow.

“Wow, you’re Bryan Brennen,” he says, a little awestruck. “It’s nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand, and Bryan slowly stands from his seat at the island to return the greeting. He towers over him with his long, lean, athletic body, and I can’t help but appreciate him from the top of his messy blond hair down to his bare feet. It clearly looks like he’s been here for a while and doesn’t plan on leaving any time soon.

“You too,” he says. Shifting to stand closer to me, he crosses his arms over his chest, never breaking his stare on Danny. His biceps bulge, and I want to drool. “We appreciate you coming out on such short notice.”

We.

Be still, my heart.

Danny’s gaze flips back and forth between the two of us, and a tiny knowing grin crawls onto his face.

“No problem. Schedule’s open with the holiday tomorrow, and my mother would skin me alive if I didn’t come out to see what’s going on.” His eyes stop on me and he smiles kindly. “She thanks you for the birthday pie, by the way.”

“Of course. You know I love her.” And I do. She and GiGi were friends since childhood.

“Well, let me climb up there and take a look before it gets dark.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder and points it back toward the door. “I’ll let you know here in a little bit.”

“Sounds good. Thank you,” Bryan says before I get the chance.

With that, Danny nods, looks at both of us one more time, and heads outside.

Turning to face Bryan, I ask, “Why are you glaring at him?”

“I’m not.” All emotions on his face loosen and fade as his arms fall by his sides.

I call him out. “You were.”

His blue eyes drift over my face, and he reaches up to push a stray piece of hair behind my ear. Saying nothing, he shrugs one shoulder and then sits back down to finish eating. Excitement blooms in my chest, not just at the simple touch, but because Bryan was jealous. He was jealous over me, and it takes everything in me not to grin like a lunatic.

Of course, that is short-lived as Danny gives me the worst news possible. Yes, the chimney is clogged with what looked like a bird’s nest, the flue is cracked in several places, and due to the age of the fireplace, the outside is in the process of deteriorating and breaking down. Chunks of brick are missing, there are cracks in the mortar, and all in all it looks like I’m going to have to replace/rebuild the whole thing.

As the estimate is dropped on the counter, my heart sinks. I can never ever get ahead. Two steps forward, one step back.

After Danny leaves, Bryan heads outside to give me some space. I don’t know what he saw on my face, but I’m glad he did. I clean up our dishes—there are no leftovers because I forgot how much grown men eat—and I let my mind wander. I can’t get off the fact that things would be so different for me if just one of these repairs happened. The roof, the water leak, the well pump, the fireplace—and those are just the recent ones. It’s so disappointing. Thank goodness for the Food Network article. Without the extra income coming in, I don’t know what I would do. As it is, the money I had in savings is almost gone. It’s so hard to save money, yet it so easily disappears.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask Bryan as I slip out the sliding glass door off the living room. I’ve found him standing on the back porch staring out, lost in thought.

“I can’t believe the tree house is still there,” he says, gazing past the garden on the back lawn to the old oak tree. His shoulders are squared and his hands are shoved into his pockets to stay warm.

“I love that tree house. I could never take it down,” I scoff like he’s offended me.

He turns to look at me and chuckles. “I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen down.”

“What? Never. These days, it’s been more reliable than this house.” There’s a bitterness to my tone, and I can’t help it; it’s how I feel.

“What do you mean?” he asks, turning to face me.

“Nothing.” I shake my head. I’m not unloading my sorrows on him. It isn’t any of his business, and I certainly wouldn’t accept any help from him, which he would offer because he’s a nice guy. I need to do this on my own. “Just normal problems for the homeowner of a very old home.” They are normal problems, but they’re ones that normally happen individually once a year or so, not all at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” He frowns, but I ignore the look of pity on his face and shift the conversation.

“The new property manager checks it out every now and then. He has a daughter, and she sometimes comes with him when school is out. I find her playing up there.”

“That’s good. I’m glad it’s still getting used,” he says quietly, looking back out.