AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Baking beans. Yes I’m wearing an apron, and I have let you watch me make pie. Why does that sound like a euphemism?”
She giggled. “No idea, but it totally does. And no, you haven’t.”
I opened my mouth to argue, because surely she’d watched me make pie before, only I couldn’t think of when. I could remember plenty of times that I had delivered and eaten pie with her, but I guess the making had always been a quiet, solitary affair.
Initially it was probably because I was embarrassed, or unsure of myself at the very least. I wasn’t a bad cook, but then, when one of your best friends is one of the country’s best young chefs, you’ve got a different benchmark. There was something about pie though. And, naturally, pie went with ice cream, which had become my newest obsession.
“Until this very moment, I thought my favorite pie was store-bought pastry and canned filling.”
I gasped, actually, genuinely, gasped, flattening a flour covered hand against my chest. “You did not.”
“No.” She winced and shook her head. “Maybe. Yes, okay, I totally did. Or it was at least an option. You don’t really talk all that much about this, Mack. But look at you, you’re a pie chef. Is that a thing? Pie chef? Maybe not. Oh! You’re the pie guy!”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. I do have something for you to test though.” Ordinarily, there was usually an undercurrent of nerves whenever I had her taste things. Today, though, I felt pretty confident.
“My tastebuds are at your disposal.”
“So generous.”
“I do have exceedingly generous tastebuds.”
I pulled the pint of ice cream from the freezer and slid it over to her, followed by a spoon. “Taste.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a slightly glazed look, like maybe she enjoyed being ordered around. I tucked that snippet of information away for another time.
“It’s buttermilk and maple, thinking it could go well with the apple cheddar.” Which I’d be making again for Christmas after its rousing success at Thanksgiving. “What do you think?” I busied myself with rolling out the dough so I wouldn’t become entranced by the way the spoon disappeared between her lips. Too late. She pulled it out clean, her face a mask of concentration as she moved the ice cream around her mouth. My jeans started to feel uncomfortably tight as I imagined her cold, ice cream covered tongue sinking into my mouth.
“What’s the other flavor in there…?” she asked, licking her lips.
I blinked, clearing the fantasy out of my head. “Nutmeg.”
“Yes, that’s it!” She beamed. “Mack, this is in–fucking–credible. I thought that one from Thanksgiving was good but this is even better.” She dug in for another spoonful, and a warm satisfaction spread through my chest. It had always been this way, wanting her seal of approval.
“You’re really good at this, you know.”
I ignored the prickling sensation at the base of my skull. “Is that a hint of surprise?”
“Not in the slightest,” she assured me. “Would you consider … doing more with them? Selling them?”
“The pies?”
She nodded and licked the spoon clean. “Yeah, and the ice cream, too. Seriously, Mack, they’re so good. You’re sitting on a money maker here.”
I appreciated her confidence in me, but it didn’t change the fact that actually pursuing it scared the ever living shit out of me.
“One of Hunter’s guys is selling a food truck.” I wasn’t sure why I said it, but since he mentioned it, the truck had been circling my head more than I cared to admit. I still had no idea how I’d do it, or even if I wanted to, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it all the same.
“Oh really? I do remember getting stuck talking to Dean about hot dogs for like an hour once, I’m sure he mentioned a food truck at some point during his monologue. Wait! Are you saying—you mean for you? You want to start a pie truck!? That would be amazing! I volunteer as your official taste tester, obviously. You could cook them at Rudi, seeing as we have a kick-ass kitchen now that is sadly underutilized, and then you load up for all the markets and—”
“Whoa there. Just—just hold up. No, I’m not—I wasn’t—How would I even do that? No. Besides, I have a job already.” It came out sharper than I intended, but her enthusiasm was like a spotlight for my panic. Even if I did buy the truck and bake the pies and schlep them out to every market in Brooklyn, there was no guarantee that anyone would actually want them. Pies were a hobby, not a career.
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But you should see yourself right now. You’re glowing.”
“Like a pregnant woman?”
She nodded. “Yup, exactly like a pregnant woman, only with washboard abs instead of the belly. But you are all dewy complexion and twinkly eyes.”
“Thank you, I think.” It didn’t change my thoughts on the subject, though.
