Page 88 of Pucked Up Plans
“Thanks. We did. Hope you as well.”
There’s some shuffling of something over the line, but soon Walsh’s “hey” accosts my ear.
“Let your father have the last cookie. I have more for you tomorrow.”
“No way. He ate like half a dozen. Is crack one ingredient? It might sound like I’m joking, but I’m dead serious. They’re so fucking delicious and highly addictive.”
My smile widens. “Thanks. I’m glad the new recipe was a hit with everyone.”
“What are you doing now?”
His abrupt change of subject has me shifting gears. “Working up the energy to clean the kitchen. I ate too much stuffing and like three pieces of my great-grandmother’s pecan pie.”
“Yeah, I always overeat on Thanksgiving, more so this year…wait, did you say pecan pie?”
“Yep.”
“That’s my favorite pie. Did you know that about me?” I love how serious his tone is. How youthful and eager his voice sounds about something simple as pie. I fall further under his charm.
“I didn’t. But now I do.”
“What are the odds there will be pie at your house tomorrow when I get there?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Any other requests?”
“Hmm, what other foods were served?”
I rattle off a list of our leftovers. I can’t imagine they’re different from his meal, but he’s adamant about saving some stuffing and mashed potatoes for him.
“What time did you decide you want me to pick you up?”
I knew this was coming, but a bout of nerves hit me square in the gut. I already worked out the plan with Aunt Marsha.She’ll pick Aubrey up around three and bring her to some fair or something—I stopped listening as soon as she mentioned three o’clock.
I hinted to Walsh the other day about him coming over before the fundraiser, but now having to admit it’s an option, I’m being shy.
He reads into my silence. “I’m going to rephrase my question. Don’t get mad.”
I’m set at ease by this, feeling let off the hook even if it is my hook I’m on. “Why would I get mad?”
“What time is Aubrey leaving?”
“Three.”
“I’ll be over shortly thereafter. I’ll be skipping lunch, so if you could have the food hot and ready for when I get there, that would be most appreciated.”
The words don’t compute in my head, hearing nothing after “shortly thereafter.” The rest of his comment is lost on me. Until it finally sinks in.
“Did you just tell me to have your food hot and ready for you? Are those the words that came out of your mouth, Walsh Keeley?”
I hope he’s joking. While I probably would have made sure it was had he asked nicely, I don’t appreciate the fact he’s instructing me what to do. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and my pulse quickens.
“Down girl. It was only a joke. But one I’m filing away because hearing you all hot and bothered? Damn. Tomorrow is going to be so damn fun.”
As much as I hate playing “games,” he deserves this one. “No pie for you.”
“No. Don’t take away my pie. I swear it was a joke, and I won’t say it ever again. But please, don’t take away my pie.”
“It could suck for all you know.”
