Page 9 of Book of Love


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She caught the flash of a smile—beautiful, white teeth and eyes that creased at the corners—before he started toward the cash register. She stared at the pie, which had a golden-brown lattice crust and a mouth-wateringly juicy, ruby-red filling.

Grace looked at the man again. He stopped at the counter and dug into his pocket for his wallet.

“Wait.” Her voice came out thick and tear-choked. “Sir?”

He turned back. Though Grace usually avoided talking to men she didn’t know, she found herself gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Uh, this is a huge piece, so we can split it.” She wiped her damp cheeks with her sweater sleeve. “I really wouldn’t feel right taking your pie.”

Before he could respond, Nancy darted around the counter, waving another plate like a victory banner.

“Here’s a second plate for you!” She hurried to the booth and set the plate down along with a butter knife and an extra fork. “Let me get you both some fresh coffee. Complimentary, of course. I love seeing people do nice things for each other.”

Beaming, she bustled back to the counter.

The man didn’t move. Grace’s stomach suddenly clenched. Lord, if he walked away after all this and she was stuck here with the pie he’d gifted to her because she’d dissolved into a blubbering mess—

He slid into the seat opposite her. Grace breathed a sigh of relief and firmly told herself to get a grip on her wayward emotions. She wiped her eyes one last time and tossed the napkin into her book bag.

“I don’t usually cry over pie.” She tried to smile ruefully. “Like I said, it’s just been a rough day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged. “The one good thing about a rough day is that you know it’ll end at some point. Even if it seems to take forever.”

“Here you go!” Nancy sailed over and set a mug in front of the man, then filled both their cups with fresh coffee. “Anything else for either of you?”

After they both declined, she returned to her station. Grace sliced the pie into even halves and slid one onto the second plate. She pushed it toward him, and they picked up their forks simultaneously. The flaky pie crust made a deeply satisfying crunch when she sank her fork through it.

She glanced up to find her new companion lifting a bite to his mouth. Though her eyes were still burning a little, she had no trouble seeing that the termhandsome devilwas accurate, indeed.

His rumpled, black hair was threaded with both gold and silver strands that shone in the overhead lights. He had strong, classic features—straight nose, well-shaped mouth, and a square jaw mitigated by dark eyebrows and ridiculously thick eyelashes.

But his eyes were the most arresting part of his face. A deep, golden-brown like buckwheat honey, his eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence and a sense of mystery.

I have seen a face with a thousand countenances.

The phrase of Kahlil Gibran poetry popped into her mind.

He caught her gaze. A flush rose to her face.

“To better days ahead.” He lifted his forkful of pie in a toast.

Grace smiled and held up her fork. “To better days.”

She slipped the bite into her mouth and was unable to prevent a sigh of appreciation as the tangy, perfectly sweet flavor melted over her tongue. “Oh my god.”

“So it appears rhubarb is your favorite kind of pie.” Amusement twinkled in his eyes. “What’s the story behind that?”

“How do you know there’s a story?”

One of his dark eyebrows rose. “There’s always a story.”

“Okay.” Figuring she owed him for his kind gesture, she took a sip of milk. “My grandmother lived with us when I was growing up. She was a terrible cook—like, theworst, and she was the first to admit it—but she made this amazing rhubarb pie. In fact, I think it was the only thing she knew how to make, and it was her own made-up recipe. She didn’t have it written down anywhere, so I don’t have any record of it. And she only made it a couple of times a year because, while she avoided the kitchen as much as possible, she would only use fresh rhubarb in season.”

She paused and took another bite of the tart, sweet pie. “So when she got her hands on a batch of spring rhubarb…I swear, I could smell that pie baking from clear out in the pasture. Even my father would stop his work, and he wasalwaysdoing one chore or another, and we’d go hover in the kitchen doorway before the pie was even done.

“My grandma would snap at us to go away and complain about what torture it was for her to spend so much time baking agodforsaken pie, but then she’d ring the dinner bell to let us know it was ready. She’d put a plaid tablecloth on the kitchen table—she never used a tablecloth for anything else—and have two big glasses of milk waiting for us. Dad and I would linger over that pie for a good hour, if not longer.”

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