How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (8 page)

My eyes work their way up to his hair—dark blond and perfectly trimmed. He probably has a weekly appointment with a reminder on his phone. An appointment he never misses. This guy screams on time and consistent.

He’s certainly been consistent about his interest in me. He hardly looks my way. And when he does, it’s definitely not in the “checking me out” type of way that I normally encounter.

This doesn’t give a gal any validation in her appearance. Oh, that’s right. I don’t exactly reflect an image of desire, other than a before picture for a full-blown makeover.

My outfit is still wet and clinging to my body. My hair is matted down in a wet frizz while my make-up… Well, it’s probably fine. Always buy waterproof—that’s my motto. It doesn’t matter what the product is, if there’s a waterproof option, waterproof is what I get.

I give Mr. Business a once-over. I semi-frown, bothered he’s acting so uninterested in me. How superficial to decide that he isn’t interested in me because of my appearance. Of course, he could be married or dating someone. Why do I care? I’m not interested in him. He’s too vague and doesn’t share. I can imagine if we were on a date, and he ordered a slice of delicious chocolate cake, and I asked for a bite, he would most likely say no. What am I doing? This guy isn’t date material. Besides, my pursuit is for pecans not a guy.

“So, Mr. Georgetown-at-the-moment, what do you do to pass the time between your pecan hoarding and storm rescues?” My lips form into a smirk because I’m amused at myself.

“Though I do enjoy your description of me, please call me Jack,” he says and unravels my smirk with his eyes. “I own an architecture firm in Dallas.”

“Jack. Jack. Hmmm, nice. Very fitting.” I nod. I’m being overly dramatic on purpose. Judging from his stoic appearance, I have to assume he isn’t into it.

“Fitting? What keeps you busy in Maryland?” He raises an eyebrow at me and a sparkle forms over his eyes. Hmm, if I wasn’t mistaken they have a tiny hint of playfulness to them.

“I work in finance.” I wiggle in my seat.

Now it’s me whose eyes are on the road. I don’t want to have the credit card company argument. On my better days, this isn’t a debate I’d want to take on and definitely not today—a day where I have been bludgeoned by ice and suffered from a bad case of road rash. No, this is not my finest and besides, I wouldn’t even want to entertain the idea of a very personal discussion with Jack, the pecan scalper.

“Finance?” He peers in my direction. “Are you a pecan financier?”

I laugh. I’m not going to be specific about my job. No one can force a conversation.

I gaze out the window, letting the question sit. There is no need to discuss my 9 to 5, I work hard for my money, Donna Summer definitely sings it better, but it has always been my mantra. I try and smooth down my hair, which is not possible. I dig into my purse and find my red bandana. I wish I would have thought to use it earlier. Brianna has a convertible and loves to drive with the top down. I wrap the red bandana on my head.

“Credit. You could earn some with only two small ounces of pecans.”

“Let’s say I was interested in offering two small ounces of pecans, what type of credit would I get in return?” Jack leers in my direction.

I hope he is not speaking in sexual innuendos. “You would earn a good Samaritan credit.” I raise my eyebrow and turn to face him.

“Hmm…but I’ve already got one of those.” Jack eyes me with a sheepish grin. “For picking up a stranded woman in a hail storm.”

Shiat.
He has a point. I’ll have to try another route. “Have you lived in Texas your whole life?” I tap my fingers against my knees.

There, this ought to temper the heat in the car. I reach forward and turn down the red arrow. I’m plenty warm at this point. It’s time for him to do some sharing. I answered his question, one I didn’t want to answer honestly. Now, my question to him is bigger and requires a thoughtful response. Maybe he will even share a holiday memory from his youth. I bet he was a cute child. He has a playfulness in those baby blues.

“So is your offer of credit in exchange for pecans off the table?” He glances my way with those eyes—eyes that you would want to sit by the fire with and watch the flames reflecting in them, maybe even get close enough—
Uh, Lauren, snap out of it.

Aargh, what is wrong with this man? Why can’t he hit the balls I serve him? Why does he keep letting them fall to the ground and then reroute the discussion? This isn’t how the game is played. Or not the game I’m used to for that matter.

I laugh. “No, it’s not. If you want some credit, I could write you a really nice review for Uber and then you could make this a full time thing.” I wave my hands around the car.

Jack smirks. “You’re a funny gal.”

I grin. “So, where’d you grow up?” I fidget with my skirt. It’s still a bunched-up mess. Though it’s getting a little drier thanks to the heated seats and warm air flowing at me. My face is dry. I can’t wait to get home and peel myself out of this sticky outfit and climb into the shower. Well, this time I might opt for a long, hot bath when I get home versus another round of hot/cold, dribble/splat. Who needs that?

Jack hasn’t answered my question. I’m hoping and pleading for the love of all things holy that he isn’t going to ask me anything further about my job. I wouldn’t have such an aversion to career discussions if it weren’t for my brain being sent through the inferno one too many times in previous conversations with other people about it. I take a deep breath.

He has a few “wisdom highlights”, mostly blond, and a strong jawline. His profile makes his full lips appear to be in an almost permanent pout. I want to bite them.
Get a grip on yourself.
This is the pecan scalper.

“I grew up in a small town outside of Dallas.”

He doesn’t even take a peek in my direction. Surely he can feel my eyes wandering all over him. Am I not appealing at all? Before the ice situation, my outfit was cute. My shirt hasn’t dried and I have goose bumps on my legs and arms. Other things are protruding as well. I’m still wavering on the borderline of almost-not-cold and maybe-not-going-to-die-of-frostbite. There’s a mixture of pellets and raindrops tinging against the car as we crawl on the icy asphalt. Jack is driving around twenty miles per hour. We’re driving at a school zone speed.

“Are you driving slowly because of the rain?”

“Not really the rain, more because of the ice.”

He gives nothing away. Is he always this reserved? It’s not like he’s so much older than me that we can’t have a decent conversation. I’ll make him enjoy my company. By the time I get out of his car, he’ll be kicking himself for not capitalizing on the small amount of time he could have made enjoyable instead of stuffy.

“The ice, or is it because you just want to make the time with me last?” I’m batting my eyelashes coyly. The perfect flirty ball has been wrapped up in ribbons and tossed his way. This is such a soft ball, he can easily knock it out of the park, or at least get us to first base in this conversation.

“Icy roads are dangerous, miss.”

Strike. Maybe he isn’t a ball player. Not your average guy, this is for sure.

“Miss? Jack, I’m going to walk out on the ice and ask that you call me Lauren.”

“I thought you wanted to keep this ride professional.” Jack smiles at me.
Ouch
. That smile makes me weak. His irises are flickering between light shades of blue with only a hint of green. They’re sparkling at me. Calling my name. I break the trance and stare out the window. The charmer in this car has already been determined. We aren’t switching roles midway through because of those forever blues. In fact, I’m going to charm those pecans from him.

Self-assured, I focus my attention on him. “So, what did you plan on making with your multiple bags of pecans?”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Pie.”

“Pecan pie. Do you have a recipe?”

“Yes.”

“I have a recipe, too. A family recipe that has been passed down to me from my grandmother. This is my first year making the pie.”

Why am I becoming such an oversharer? It must be his monosyllabic answers.

The lime numbers on his dashboard show it’s 4:58 p.m. This is not good. I still need to pick up the other ingredients for my pie and Aurora’s list, too. At this rate of travel, I won’t make it home until after six, and who knows if any stores will still be open?

The car slides across the road. Jack slows down even more. Another set of light green numbers claim that it’s thirty degrees. Great
,
the temperature is below freezing. Central Texas weather can change by forty degrees in only a few hours. Predictably unpredictable pretty much sums it up. I shake my head thinking about those silly bumper stickers that read “If you don’t like the weather in Texas, stick around, it’ll change.”

“Do you know what time the stores might be closing today?” I ask, hoping he’ll say something late like nine or ten.

“Normally things close around six on the day before Thanksgiving,” Jack glances my way with that pensive stare, as if he’s trying to read through me and figure me out.

We’re still many miles from home on this empty, ice-covered road. Happy Thanksgiving Eve!

“This is not my day.” I lean my head back in aggravation. “I still need to pick up some ingredients for my pie at a grocery store. Do you think you could drop me off at one, and then I can call my family to get me?”

“Sure,” he says with his eyes back on the road.

It’s 5:30 p.m. At this pace, I can’t imagine how much longer it will take before we see civilization, let alone an actual grocery store.

“Do you have a cell phone I could use?” I ask. Why didn’t I think to ask this earlier?

“Of course.” Jack digs a phone out of his pocket and gives it to me.

His fingers graze my palm. They’re a mixture of rough and soft bristles, like a well-used paintbrush. Little tingles pulse up my arm. The lightest touch from him and my body is heated like a furnace. Jack pulls his hand back. I try to compose myself and pretend I didn’t feel that surge of electricity.

I take his Blackberry. I type in my parents’ ten digits and wait for a ringing sound. Nothing happens. The display shows there’s no signal.

“Here you go.” I sigh.

“No signal. How convenient.” He tosses it in the car’s cup holder. It jiggles back and forth in the circle until it decides on a location. The phone in the holder is kind of like me and this day—wobbling around all over. I’m so disconnected and out of my comfort zone.

“Seriously, this follows suit for my
day
. It’s been anything but convenient.” I make circles with my fingers and pop them open as I lean my head back in angst. Locks that would normally flow softly instead crunch as the messy frizz nest catches on the headrest. I slump my shoulders and sigh.

“Really? I would think being rescued from that ice storm was…
convenient
,” Jack says and turns my way. I can’t quite place the look on his face; is it annoyance or is it pride?

My eyebrows wrinkle. “Yes, the pecan hoarder who ‘rescued me’.” I air quote for dramatic purposes even though technically he did rescue me. But do we really have to say it?

Jack’s eyes are wide, and a vein throbs on his neck. I can’t read these signals. I don’t know him that well,
yet
. Regardless of how he might be feeling, I shouldn’t have said that.

“I’m sorry.” I brush his arm. Warmth conducts from his skin to mine. I focus on what I’m trying to say and not the electric synapses pulsing from my fingertips. “I do appreciate you picking me up.”

His eyes are on the road, and that big vein continues to flex along his neck. It looks like a ball of anger that is trying to escape. I stroke my fingers over his biceps. He drops his focus to where my hand remains on his arm.

He raises his eyes to mine. “Pecan hoarder?”

I laugh. “Well, you did take all of the pecans.”

He cocks his head to the right. “No, I left a bag.”

“Right, there was one bag left in the entire store. But I need two bags, two measly bags, to make the pie, and…” I shake my head, stopping myself from oversharing at this point. “Are we really going over this again?”

“Yes, we are, because there seems to be a disconnect somewhere.” Jack twirls his finger in the air.

I crinkle my eyebrows at him. What is he insinuating?

“Lauren, let’s clear this up. What you need and what I need are two different things. Two different things that are mutually exclusive, yet in no way equate to my being a pecan hoarder.” He points at his chest, and then sighs. “Perhaps you’re a poor planner.”

My jaw is in my lap. Is this guy serious? Me? A poor planner? How can a stranger insult me like this? And on Thanksgiving Eve? First Megan and now Jack, I seriously cannot take any more claims of my being a poor planner. I am a good planner. I’ve maxed out my 401k plan at work and I own my own townhome. At twenty-six I think this is a sign of a great planner. Just because I didn’t get to the pecan farm prior to it being sold out of pecans is not my fault.

I’m ready to sign out of this day. I don’t care about the pecan pie anymore. I want to be in my bed. I’ll even gladly crawl into the one at my parents’ house. I don’t want to be around Jack anymore. Not at all. No, I want to be alone.

Tears build in my eyes. Being called a poor planner isn’t that big of deal. I’ve definitely been called worse. But today hasn’t been great. Sure, maybe one day I’ll reminisce about this and laugh. But right now, my knee is scraped, I’m still cold, and this guy—this guy who warms me with the slightest caress—has insulted me when I’m already down. Surely, he can tell that I’ve been put through the wringer of life today. I glare out the window, straining my eyes to find a store or
anything
that will end this journey.

“Lauren, if the circumstances were different, I would have offered you one of my bags,” Jack says. I know his eyes are on me. He’s trying to make eye contact. But I don’t want to. “I have an important customer who has very specific demands. As a business owner, I want to ensure that my customers are happy. Which means I need all of the pecans that I purchased.” He squeezes my shoulder. It feels like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry for calling you a poor planner. I have no idea if you are a poor planner or not.” Jack massages my arm. His skill is inviting, but I probably should decline. I don’t know him, and yet his hands are working over my arm as if he has a blueprint for it, maybe even my entire body.
Do I want to find out?