Page 90 of Parrish

“You don’t have to,” I reply, waving my hand. “The food isn’t that bad here.”

“Bullshit,” he calls.

“Well, the dessert is decent. Yesterday they served cherry pie, and it wasn’t that bad.”

The second the words leave my lips, Jack’s eyes glass over.

“Cherry pie, huh?”

Suddenly a vision flashes before my eyes and I recall walking into a smoke-filled room carrying a freshly baked cherry pie.

“Do you like cherry pie?” I ask, meeting his dark gaze.

“I don’t like it, I fucking love it.”

Lesson twelve, Jack loves cherry pie.

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