But instead of just wounding my heart, he could have hurt my business. I’m pretty sure I made it crystal clear to him that my business is my top priority. So much so that I put work responsibilities ahead of epic sex-fests and magical tongues with pie identification superpowers.
“Please, Gigi.” He motions toward the shop behind him. “Is it because of this? If so, I can explain.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can.” I shoot death rays at him with my eyes, fueled by ravaging hurt and disappointment. “After all, how perfect is that?” I pour on a thick English accent, imitating him when he learned I ran Sweetie Pies. “You could have said something then. But nope. You were like let me show her my perfect cock and my perfect body and my perfect accent and give her fifty million orgasms and, mwahahaha, how perfect is that?”
An old woman wrapped in a flowered shawl on her way to the trash bin by the bus stop shoots a judgmental look my way.
“He’s awful. And British,” I tell her.
Her gaze cuts to him then back to me, and then she nods in solidarity.
See? She gets it!
But I should also probably stop screaming about cocks on the street corner.
Releasing my ire for a nanosecond, I say more gently, “You didn’t say a word when I told you the name of my business. The name, West.”
“Like I said, Gigi, I can explain,” he says, sounding sincere.
But I won’t be fooled.
No way. I don’t have room in my life for this kind of treachery. This is why dating is a minefield. And West Territory is just as deadly as Parrot Man Land and all the rest.
I need to bolt. It hurts to listen to him. My chest aches, and I feel stupid.
So stupid.
I liked him. Dammit. One night, and I already liked the man.
I gird myself with my best tough-as-nails attitude.
Chin all the way up.
“I don’t want your explanations,” I call back. “And I no longer wish to spend my morning with you. I’m going to see my grandmother, a woman who appreciates pie and has never lied to anyone. Ever. In her entire life.”
“I wasn’t lying, love.” He has the nerve to grin, like he can flirt his way out of this as easily as he flirted his way into my bed. But I am much more protective of my pie shop than I am my pussy. Hurt my pussy, and only I suffer. Hurt my shop, and you endanger my entire family legacy.
“Let’s go back to your place,” he says. “Talk this out.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Please be gone by then,” I say. “And don’t bother texting. I won’t read them.”
And with that, I spin on my heel and head for the subway entrance on the other side of the traffic circle. He calls after me, something about “not being ridiculous” that only stiffens my resolve.
I am not ridiculous! I’m in charge of my family’s business. I’m in control of the entire kit and caboodle. Everything is riding on me, and I can’t afford to make mistakes right now. I can’t sleep with the enemy, even if he is the very best at both spanking and pulling hair.
Sob. Thank God I got extra pieces of pie so West could try a variety of flavors. A morning like this calls for Gram girl-talk and serious pie therapy.
Gram used to say pie may not cure heartbreak, but it certainly makes it easier to swallow.
Everything goes down better with a slice of Chocolate Dream.
And she’s right.
I stab my fork into a slice, chew, then chase it with coffee.
Strong, black coffee that fuels me.
“Trying to poke a hole through Gram’s good china?” my brother, Harrison, asks, arching a perfectly plucked brow at my pie plate.
I got a two-fer, since my brother is at Gram’s house for their Sunday morning poker game. Gram already cleaned up—she was scooping fifty bucks in chips into her hot little hands when I swept into her Brooklyn townhouse in a cloud of righteous fury.
I wrap my arm lovingly around the dessert plate with the kitschy dancing chipmunk illustration. As Gram says—why eat on plates with vines when you can eat with dancing chipmunks?
“I would never wound such a beautiful thing. I love beautiful things. I love this plate and this sweet little fork. And I love you,” I say to my brother, who accepts my love with an affectionate roll of his ice-blue eyes.
I turn to Gram, my growing-old-gracefully idol with her starburst smile lines and Helen Mirren grace, “And I love you.” I inhale deeply, then gesture to the feline in her lap. “I love Joan too, even though she detests me.”
“She detests everyone, sweetie pie. She’s a cat.”
“But I do not even like that man,” I continue, “I mean, really. Who chooses to peddle tea when there’s coffee to be had?”