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Or this guy.
Dark, compelling eyes set into a chiseled face. Short, cropped hair that somehow still manages to look carelessly tousled by the wind. Strong jawline with a dark, five o’clock shadow that serves as a foundation for a smile that dazzles.
My wildly talented sister would turn a face like that into a symphony.
But me? I’ll just take an extra moment to memorize it instead.
There. I’m done. And now back to my regularly scheduled programming.
“Table for one? Or would you like to sit at the counter?” I ask, hoping I sound casual rather than breathless as I grab a menu for him.
“Counter’s fine. I’m easy.”
Ha. Nothing about this guy is easy, I correct him in my head, spotting a tattoo on his arm. Between the short hair and the tat, he’s probably military, and from that cocky air of confidence that seems to roll off of him in waves, he’s probably an Army Ranger stationed not too far from here at Hunter Army Airfield. I’d bet my last paycheck on it (which apparently is coming at the end of summer).
And, as the sister of a former SEAL, I know first-hand that there’s nothingeasyabout these guys.
“Counter it is, then.” I hand him the menu. “Can I get you something to drink while you decide what you’d like?”
“Actually, I already know what I want. I’ve been told you have the best apple pie in the state.”
I grin proudly. “In the nation, actually,” I can’t resist countering, because the blend of my grandma’s pie crust and Bo’s twist on her apple filling really is mind-blowing.
“Great. I’ll have a slice. And my friends tell me that if I ask for Millie, she’ll give me extra whipped cream.”
I chuckle since it’s a mistake people often make. Apparently, the world thinks I need at least five more decades of life in my rear-view mirror to have a name like Millie.
“Don’t worry. I’ll hook you up,” I promise him.
When I bring him back the slice, topped heavily with Bo’s homemade whipped cream, I can’t help asking, “So your friends told you about the place?”
“Yeah. Said the pie Millie makes is incredible.” He takes a bite.
I can’t resist waiting to see his reaction, and satisfaction spreads on my face when I do. His eyes flutter shut, and he lets out a low, sexy moan that would seem more appropriate in bed than at the counter of a diner.
My Grandma Millie’s secret recipe pie crust is nothing short of spectacular. Flaky and decadent. Melts in your mouth. Buttery goodness with a subtle sweetness that makes it good enough to eat with no filling at all.
I finally convinced Harriet to switch to Grandma’s recipe about a year ago, and it’s become our bestseller.
“And they weren’t kidding,” he says, his words slightly muffled as he shoves another bite into his mouth.
“Glad you like it.”
I dare to stare at him as he wraps those glorious lips around his fork again, taking another bite. I should step away right now from this guy, break free from the hold he seems to have on me.
But I can’t seem to.
“Likeit?” he replies after swallowing. “Hell, I want tomarryMillie,” he jokes, looking around the place, probably searching for a grandmotherly face framed by silver hair—someone who looks more like my namesake than me.
I smile. “Thanks, but I’d prefer to get to know a guy first.”
His eyes swing back to me. “You’reMillie?”
“Yep. Glad you like the pie.”
His mouth gapes. “I—I was picturing someone…”
“Older? Yeah. I get that a lot. I was named after my grandma. Which, I guess is appropriate since you’re eating pie crust from her recipe.”
