I groaned at her outdated advice.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.
“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.”
Two minutes later we sat down across from each other at my kitchen table, which I’d found at a barn sale and refinished along with two mismatched chairs. I dug into that slice of pie like my life depended on it and scarfed the entire thing down without saying a word. It tasted even better than I’d imagined.
“How was it?” Stella asked.
“Amazing,” I mumbled with my mouth full.
She laughed and got up, returning to the table with the whole pie in her hands. She swapped it with my empty plate. “Here. Have as much as you want.”
“This is dangerous. I could probably eat this entire thing.”
“Go ahead. It’s your pie.”
I went over to a drawer and took out another fork. “You eat some too. That way if it’s gone tomorrow morning, I can share the blame.”