Only Love (One and Only #3) Page 6

  I smiled at her. “I’d like that.”

  “Stella, dear, I’ve got an idea.” Grams took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go home and bake a pie.”

  “What?” I nearly stumbled as Grams pulled me along. Where on earth did she get her strength?

  “I’m in the mood for an apple crumble. We can stop by the market and get some local apples. And some shortening. I think I’m nearly out.”

  “Shortening?”

  “Yes, dear. For the crust.” She looked over at me and sighed. “It’s time for you to learn how to bake. I don’t understand how your mother failed to teach you.”

  “Mom worked, Grams. She didn’t have a lot of extra time.”

  “Don’t get me started on that, dear.”

  “And I don’t really eat a lot of—”

  Grams stopped moving, turning to look at me with an expression that said don’t try my patience. “Stella Devine, I am going to spend this afternoon teaching you how to make the perfect crust and an apple pie so delicious it could make a grown man cry. I don’t give a hoot in hades whether or not you ever eat one, but a woman should know how to make a homemade pie! Oh, I know you’re a modern girl with your blue jeans and your jazzy little phones and your Snap Face chatting, but I’m old-fashioned, I’m your grandmother, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, so what I say goes.”

  I was laughing by the time her diatribe ended, and she sniffed, tossing her wrinkled pug nose in the air. “You watch. You’ll be thankful someday.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I said, linking arms with her as we walked down the sidewalk together. “And I’m lucky you want to teach me. I promise to be a good student.”

  She patted my hand. “That’s my girl.”

  Eight

  Grams

  I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.

  If ever I had a magic spell for making a man fall in love, it was baked into my apple crumble pie.

  No less than three of my friends had made it for fellows who were dragging their feet, and next thing you know, they were down on one knee. We used to call it Cupid Pie! I felt confident that if anything could get Mr. Woods to open up to Stella, that was it. So we were going to make him one, and she was going to bring it to him.

  But I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  I’d tell her I always baked two pies, and then I’d tell her I didn’t have any room in my freezer for the second one, so why didn’t she just take it next door?

  Clever, wasn’t I?

  I was a bit concerned that she was just going to take it over there without giving any thought to what she was wearing or how she styled her hair or what she’d say to him. Oh, I know it’s the inside that counts and all that, but it doesn’t hurt to wrap the nicest gift in the world in some pretty paper, does it? Truly, I am a feminist, but I do think some of the lessons my generation has to pass down are still helpful.

  Last night, she was only gone for five minutes. Five minutes! Perhaps he’d taken one look at her comfortable shoes and thought her bread was buttered on the other side.

  I’d have to see what I could do.

  Nine

  Stella

  It took us all day just to bake two pies. All day.

  No wonder people bought their baked goods at the store these days! Who had this kind of time?

  But there was something really nice about listening to Grams talk about memories of baking with her mother and grandmother, or with my mom when she was little. I realized she was passing down more than just a recipe—she was sharing a family tradition, and I made up my mind to pay attention so I could teach my own daughter someday, if I was lucky enough to have one.

  I had a lot to learn. Even though she’d been forewarned, Grams was astonished at my ignorance when it came to baking. My questions befuddled her.

  “Why do the butter and shortening have to be cold?”

  “You put vodka in the dough?”

  “What’s a pastry cutter look like?”

  And my technique wasn’t too good at first, either.

  “For heaven’s, Stella, I said roll it out gently! Don’t get mad at the dough!”

  “I said flute the edges, not destroy them!”

  “You have to slice the apples the same size or else some will be solid and some will be mushy!”

  But by late afternoon, we had two beautiful homemade apple crumble pies cooling on the counter. The smell was absolutely heavenly. Grams told me she was proud of me.

  “Thank you,” I said, giving her a hug. “I’m so glad we did this.”

  “Me too. And when you go home, you pass it on to your sisters. They’re going to need it—this is a pie that keeps a man from straying, if you know what I mean.”

  I rolled my eyes but promised to teach Emme and Maren what I’d learned. “I wrote it all down, so don’t worry.”

  Grams said she needed a little rest before five o’clocktails, so I told her to go take a nap and I’d get dinner put together for us. I could at least manage that.

  While I was making a marinade for the pork tenderloin, I heard some noise on the front porch and figured Ryan was back to work on it. My stomach whooshed. Should I go say hello?

  I removed the apron Grams had given me and washed my hands before timidly venturing into the front room and peeking out the window. He was on his knees using an electric sander. The sight of him made me bite my lip. It was strange how the dream I’d had felt more like a memory—I vividly recalled his mouth on mine, the weight of him above me, his hips between my thighs.

  Fanning myself, I backed away from the window, deciding my face was too flushed to go out there.

  Instead I went back to the kitchen and finished meal preparations, then sat at the table with my phone, checking email and answering text messages from my mom and sisters. Eventually, Grams wandered out from her bedroom and started mixing up drinks, humming a tune as she did.

  “Would you put a record on, dear?” she asked. “I’m in the mood for some Nat King Cole.”

  “Sure.” I went into the living room and perused her collection, distracted by the sound of a power tool on the porch. I was dying to look out the window again but didn’t want to get caught.

  Stop acting so juvenile, for God’s sake. Just go out there and say hi.

  I chose the first Nat King Cole record I came across and put it on. The scratch of the needle was followed by the sound of a piano as I made my way to the front door. I took a deep breath and was about to open it when I heard a knock.

  I pulled it open, and my heart started to pound. “Hello again,” I said.

  He nodded. “Hi.”

  “Come on in.” I stepped back, opening the door a little wider.

  He glanced toward his house and I thought he was going to refuse, but then he pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. “Just wanted to let your grandmother know I’m done for today. I can paint the new boards tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure if she wanted the entire porch repainted, or …” He trailed off, and we both stood there in silence for a moment, eyes locked. I felt warm and dizzy standing so close to him.

  “Uh, I can ask her,” I said, trying to recover my senses. I glanced over my shoulder toward the dining room and kitchen. “Would you like to stay for dinner tonight? We have plenty. And there’s homemade apple crumble pie for dessert.”

  “Homemade pie, huh?” For a moment I thought he was on the verge of accepting.

  “Yes. Two of them, actually. They’re cooling on the kitchen counter. And they look delicious.” I gave him my flirtiest smile and even tried the hair toss. “You should definitely stay.”

  One side of his mouth tipped up in a little shadow of a smile, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. “I can’t. But thanks. And thanks again for the food last night.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you sure you can’t stay tonight? It’s not an imposition or anything. Pork tenderloin, wilted arugula, roasted sweet potatoes …”

  He
swallowed. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” Disappointed, I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to stare at his mouth. All I could think of was the way he’d kissed me in my dream. “Well, give me a minute to go find Grams. She can tell you about the paint.”

  He nodded and I left him by the door while I went back to the kitchen. Grams stood there with a drink in her hand, looking smug as a well-fed cat. “Was that Mr. Woods at the door?”

  “Yes. He has a question for you about the porch.”

  “Did you ask him to stay for dinner?”

  “Yes, but he said he can’t.”

  Her face fell, and then she looked suspicious, as if I might not have asked him nicely enough. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, Grams. I didn’t press for details.” I picked up the apron from the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it over my head. “But he’s waiting for you at the front door.”

  I thought I heard her hmph as she left the kitchen.

  While the tenderloin was in the oven, I sat with Grams on the couch and drank a martini. We looked through more old photos, but my mind kept wandering to Ryan. What did I have to do to get him to talk to me? He’d been a little more friendly than the day before, but not much. Was I really that unappealing?

  I drank a second martini during dinner, hoping to numb the feelings of disappointment and insecurity. By the time we finished eating dessert, I had a solid buzz going, so I blame the gin for what happened next.

  “Stella, dear,” Grams said as she studied the second pie on the counter. “I just realized I don’t have room in the freezer for this. Why don’t you take it over to Mr. Woods?”

  “Because he doesn’t like me,” I blurted, frowning into my empty glass.

  Grams looked taken aback. “Nonsense.”

  “It’s the truth, Grams,” I said, although I had a little trouble saying the truth. My lips and tongue were tingling.

  “Of course he likes you.” Grams came over to the table and collected our empty pie plates. “He just can’t tell that you like him.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. I’ve tried to talk to him three times, and he barely says a word.”

  “That’s because he’s looking for a sign that you’re interested. Men aren’t geniuses when it comes to women, Stella.”

  “What kind of sign?” I asked, following her to the sink.

  “Well, for one thing, you have to pay close attention to everything he says. Never take your eyes off his face. And then occasionally, make some remark that makes him feel appreciated. Something like, ‘Oh, how marvelous! I never thought about it that way before! You’re so fun to talk to!” She batted her lashes at me.

  I groaned at her outdated advice. “No, Grams. I’m not saying that.”

  “You could also try…dolling yourself up a bit before you go over to see him.” She made fluffing motions with her hands in front of me.

  “Dolling myself up?” I stared at her in disbelief.

  “Why, sure. You know—curl your hair, put on some makeup, wear a dress, maybe some high heels.”

  “What is this, 1955? I didn’t bring a dress, Grams. Or high heels.”

  “That’s okay, dear, I’m sure you brought something nice. Do you have any other shoes?” She looked down at my loafers.

  “Running shoes. And flats.” The flats had been a birthday gift from Emme, and I’d thrown them in my bag at the last minute. They were ballet pink and much more her style than mine, but they were pretty, and definitely more girly than what I had on.

  “Hm.” Grams pursed her wrinkled lips and tapped a finger on them. “Let’s try the flats. Now for your wardrobe. My dresses aren’t going to fit you, but”—she clapped her hands together, her face brightening—“I just remembered, I have the most darling little sweater set you can wear! I never wore it much because cashmere gives me a rash, but it’s just beautiful. And the color will be perfect with your skin.”

  “Sweater set?” I pictured June Cleaver from Leave It To Beaver.

  “Yes. And my pearls. You can never go wrong with cashmere and pearls.”

  “Please don’t make me do this.”

  “I’ll just plug in my hot rollers and find that set,” she said, scurrying away from me. “You go put on the nicest slacks you brought and meet me in my bedroom.”

  I was already wearing the nicest “slacks” I’d brought, which were my dark blue jeans, and this whole makeover thing was absurd. I did not need my ninety-two-year-old grandmother to help me get a man’s attention!

  Oh no? challenged a voice in my head. And why’s that, because you’re so good with men on your own? You just got dumped by Walter! Boring, bee-keeping Walter! Maybe he wasn’t what you wanted anyway, but you’re no expert on desirability.

  And that, my friends, is how I ended up walking over to Ryan’s house in my grandmother’s cashmere and pearls, my Veronica Lake hair curled and swinging loose around my shoulders, carrying an apple crumble pie and muttering to myself.

  “This sweater set smells like a cedar closet and it’s too tight. I can’t even button the cardigan. My hair looks ridiculous. What was I thinking letting her convince me to wear red lipstick? It is so not my thing. He’s going to take one look at me and burst out laughing.” At least I’d managed to escape the house before Grams drenched me in Chanel No. 5.

  “Just be yourself, dear,” she’d said as I walked out the back door.

  Myself. Right.

  When I reached the bottom of his porch steps, I nearly turned around and went home. But then I remembered that redhead at the bar and how happy she’d looked coming out of the restaurant.

  You know what? I am just going to be myself. I might not feel a hundred percent like myself in this getup, but if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s talk to somebody one on one. He’s only human.

  I knocked on his door before I could chicken out.

  When I heard his footsteps approaching, my heart began to race. The hall light clicked on inside.

  The door swung open and I put on a smile.

  Here goes nothing.

  Ten

  Ryan

  I’d been thinking about that pie for hours.

  It had smelled so fucking good. I hadn’t had homemade apple pie since my mother died sixteen years ago.

  After I’d finished the work on the porch, I’d gone home, changed, and taken a long run. When I got back, I lifted for a while, then I was so hungry I decided to eat before taking a shower. So I was still wearing my sweaty running clothes, standing at the kitchen counter eating shitty microwaved Swedish meatballs from the plastic container they came in and nursing a beer when I heard the knock. I set down the plastic tray and went to the door, half hoping it would be Stella again with another plate full of leftovers and maybe a slice of that pie for dessert.

  I’d wanted to say yes so badly to her dinner invitation, but I’d forced myself to decline. How could I sit across a table from her when all I’d be thinking of was fucking her brains out on my bike in the woods? It made me uncomfortable, wanting her that way. It was wrong.

  But now here she was, standing on the other side of the screen, with an entire pie. My stomach muscles tightened at the sight of her. Or maybe it was the pie.

  “Hi,” she said, giving me a red-lipped smile. She looked a little different tonight. Was it her hair?

  “Hi.”

  She looked down at the pie. “Brought you something.”

  “I see that.” But it was her I couldn’t take my eyes off. Her hair was different, softer somehow. I had a powerful urge to touch it. Bury my face in it. I liked her tight pink sweater too—it showed off her voluptuous chest and small waist. And those red lips were giving me all kinds of bad ideas. My dick perked up. Fuck.

  Was there a way to get her to go but leave the pie?

  An awkward moment passed while she waited for me to do the obvious thing and invite her inside, but I couldn’t.

  “Can I come in?” she finally asked.

&nbs
p; “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, staring longingly at the pie’s crumbled topping. This was fucking torture.

  “Why not?”

  “I just got back from a run.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I probably smell terrible.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  I exhaled slowly, forced myself to look her in the eye. “I’m just not much for company.”

  “My company in particular?”

  “No. Any company. I suck at conversation.”

  “Oh.” She saw me looking at that pie. “Well, that’s okay, I’ll just take my pie and go home. Night.” She turned around and stepped off the porch.

  I couldn’t bear it. “Wait, wait, wait a second,” I said, opening the screen door. “Let’s not be too hasty.”

  She looked at me over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I guess I could try conversation. And some pie.”

  She grinned. “Great. And don’t worry, Grams gave me all kinds of advice on how to talk to a man before I came over here.”

  She moved past me into the house, and I inhaled the scent of her, apples, and cinnamon. My mouth watered. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. Although it all sounded like something from an etiquette manual written while Roosevelt was in the White House.”

  I had to smile. “Kitchen’s at the back.”

  She followed me to the kitchen, where the sad remains of drab, tasteless meatballs and rubbery noodles were still on the counter next to my beer bottle. “Is that your dinner?” she asked.

  Embarrassed, I swept it into the trash.

  “You should have stayed over for supper with us.” She set the pie on the counter and looked around. “Got a knife?”

  I pulled one from a drawer and watched as she sliced the pie, my insides rumbling. Manners, fuckhead. “Would you like a beer?”

  “Sounds good, but I’d better not. I’ve already had two of Grams’s martinis and they can pack a punch. Next time.”