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“I’M CRAVING PIE—” ASI always did when I came often “— what’s Charlie’s favorite?” I asked Sterling, trying to keep the topics G-rated for the time being, but that didn’t stop me from bending over to shift through the fruit. “We have apples.”
“Pecan pie is his favorite, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d settle,” he said, and I didn’t miss the same undercurrent of lust he’d spoken with earlier. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure we were talking about pies or even Charlie at all.
I searched for some pecans and came up short, but I was mindlessly searching because I couldn’t focus on any stupid nuts but his. “I-I’ll put those on the list for next time. Do you like pie?” Am I still talking about pies?
“Mm. I do. Tend to get mine from a very specific bakery, though. Think yours can compare?”
I narrowed my gaze and stepped a little closer. “I don’t bake pies for just anyone. In fact, it’s been about four years since I baked anything for anyone, and I know my pie is better than any bakery’s, Sir.”
“Pie?” Charlie’s voice cut in as he entered the kitchen, the tension between his son and I still hanging thick in the air. “I’d love some pie.”
The brief, nearly-hidden grimace on Sterling’s face removed any doubt I had — we were never talking about pie. He forced a smile and nodded to me. “I told her you prefer pecan pie, but she says you have to settle for apple this time.”
“Oh. Well, you could give her a-a lift into town to get some,” he suggested. “Be good for you two to spend some time together.”
My eyes widened slightly, and I knew I had to play that off. “That sounds lovely. I’d love to get to know more about the guy that rescued Carl and attempted to save his brother from a tree. That guy deserves pie.”
The muscles in Sterling’s jaw flexed as he fixed an icy gaze on me. “Then it sounds like you should stay here. Seems like my father is telling you more about me than you’d ever get on a grocery trip. Not to mention, I hired you for a damned reason. We’re not leaving him alone.” He stood, not taking his eyes off me for a second. “Make me a list, Miss Bryce. I’ll get you whatever you need.”
I knew I had fucked up, but I refused to show I cared. I needed to stop letting him get to me and he didn’t get to decide when our playfully banter ended and began — screw him. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, if he wanted to be angry because I wanted to know more about him, then he could just be fucking angry. I grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote a list: pecans, light corn syrup, oranges, and last but not least, condoms.
If he didn’t want my pie, someone else would.
