Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Hale

" Y ou're doing it again," I say, watching Tessa hover over the bowl of dry ingredients.

She doesn't look up from her intense scrutiny of the flour mixture. "Doing what?"

"Overthinking." I move to stand behind her, close enough to catch the vanilla scent that seems to follow her everywhere. "It's flour, not a graphic design project. You don't have to stare at it for artistic inspiration."

"Maybe I'm just admiring how the cinnamon creates a lovely counterpoint to the?—"

"If you added extra cinnamon again..."

She turns to face me, all wide-eyed innocence. "Would I do that?"

"Yes."

Her laugh fills my mother's kitchen, where we've been meeting for the past week because the lighting is better than at her cabin. At least, that's what I told myself when I suggested it.

"You're such a grump." She bumps her hip against mine as she reaches for the pastry cutter. "Even when you're trying not to be."

"I'm not trying not to be anything." But even I can hear the lie in my voice. These early morning sessions have become I look forward to more than I should.

She starts cutting the butter into the flour, her technique much improved from our first lesson. "You know what I think?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I think you secretly enjoy our lessons." She glances up at me through her lashes. "I think you like teaching me, even when I mess up. Even when I add extra cinnamon."

I make a noncommittal sound, moving to check the oven temperature. But she's right, darn her. I do enjoy this. The quiet mornings, the way she hums off-key while she works, even her ridiculous arguments in favor of excessive spice use.

"Your butter pieces are too big," I say instead of acknowledging any of that.

"Fix it for me?"

I look over, ready to remind her that she needs to learn this herself, but something in her expression stops me. She's not being lazy or flirtatious. She's giving me an opening. Like she knows I need the distraction of something to do with my hands.

I take the bowl, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "Watch," I say, demonstrating the proper technique. The familiar motions are soothing, grounding. "See how the butter breaks down evenly? My mom used to say good pie crust is like good music. It's all about rhythm."

The words slip out before I can catch them. I freeze, the pastry cutter suspended mid-motion.

Tessa is very still beside me. "She taught you to bake?"

I could brush it off. Change the subject. But something about the gentleness in her voice makes me want to answer.

"Yes." I focus on the bowl, not looking at her. "She said I had good hands for it. Patient hands." A memory surfaces of Mom guiding my fingers through the motions of crimping edges, laughing when I made them too deep. "She used to do all the baking for the store. People would come from three towns over for her pies."

"Like they do for yours now?"

I shake my head. "I don't bake for the store. Haven't since..." Since the hospital calls at midnight. Since the recipes she never wrote down because we always baked them together. Since the first holiday season without her, when the sight of her rolling pin nearly brought me to my knees.

A warm hand touches my arm, and I realize I've stopped moving. "Hale?"

"It's not the same without her." The words come out rough. "I tried, after. It never felt right. The store needed to stay open, so I focused on that. Let the baking go."

"Except you didn't," she says softly. "Not really. You remembered everything she taught you. You're teaching me."

Something tightens in my chest. "Tessa..."

"When I bake with you," she continues, her hand still on my arm, "I feel closer to my aunt. Like I'm getting to know her in a new way, through something she loved." She pauses, then adds quietly, "Maybe it could be like that for you too. Not replacing the memories, but adding to them?"

I look down at her then, this woman who sees too much and feels too deeply and somehow makes me want to do the same. She's got flour on her nose and understanding in her eyes, and suddenly it's hard to remember all the reasons I've been keeping my distance.

"Your aunt," I say, my voice hoarse, "used to bring my mother flowers every Sunday. Said a kitchen needed growing things to balance all the baking." I swallow hard. "Mom saved petals from every bouquet between cookbook pages. I still find them sometimes, pressed and perfect, like they're waiting to remind me..."

I trail off as Tessa's hand slides down my arm to cover mine where it grips the pastry cutter. Her fingers are warm, steady. Real.

"Thank you for telling me that," she whispers.

We stand there for a long moment, her hand on mine, the morning sun painting everything gold. It would be so easy to turn my hand over, to lace our fingers together, to let myself feel something other than the careful distance I've maintained for so long.

Too easy.

I step back, gently disentangling our hands. "Your crust is warming up," I say gruffly. "Need to get it in the fridge."

She lets me retreat, but I feel her eyes on me as I move around the kitchen, straightening things that don't need straightening. The silence should be awkward, but somehow it's not. She gives me space to pull myself together, humming softly as she wraps the dough for chilling.

"Hale?" she says finally.

"Mm?"

"I think your mom would be proud of you. Not just for the baking, but for..." She gestures between us. "This. For sharing it."

The words hit like a physical touch. I have to turn away, bracing my hands on the counter as more memories wash over me. Mom's laugh, her hands guiding mine, her voice saying "Baking is love made visible, sweetheart. Don't ever forget that."

"We should check on those apples," I say when I can trust my voice again. But before I move to the stove, I add quietly, "Thank you."

She doesn't ask what for. Just smiles that sunrise smile of hers and says, "Anything for my favorite grumpy teacher."

And that's what terrifies me most of all is the realization that I'd do anything to keep that smile coming.

Steam rises from our latest creation, the tantalizing scent making my stomach growl. The pie looks perfect, golden brown with just the right amount of bubbling around the edges. Even the lattice work is even, though Tessa's strips are still a little thicker than they should be.

"Well?" she asks, practically vibrating with anticipation. "What's the verdict?"

I take my time examining the pie, partly because it needs to cool and partly because I enjoy the way she squirms with impatience. "The crust looks good. Even color, no soggy bottom."

"And?"

"And the filling set properly."

"Hale Fletcher, if you don't tell me what you really think right now..."

I hide my smile as I cut into the pie, the knife meeting just the right amount of resistance. The aroma of apples, cranberries and warm spices fills the air, and the slice holds its shape perfectly as I plate it.

"You did it," I say quietly. "This is contest-worthy."

Her eyes go wide. "Really? You're not just saying that?"

"When have I ever 'just said' anything?"

She launches herself at me with a squeal, throwing her arms around my neck. I catch her automatically, my hands settling at her waist. She's warm and solid and real against me, smelling of vanilla and cinnamon and something uniquely Tessa.

"Thank you," she breathes against my neck, and I suppress a shiver. "I couldn't have done this without you."

I should let go. Should step back. Instead, I find myself holding her closer. "You did all the work."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands sliding to my shoulders. "We both know that's not true."

The setting sun paints her skin gold, catches the flour in her hair like stardust. There's a smudge of filling on her cheek, and without thinking, I reach up to brush it away. My thumb lingers on her skin, and her breath catches.

"Hale?" she whispers.

We're standing too close. The air between us feels charged, heavy with possibility. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I find myself leaning in, drawn by something stronger than gravity.

The timer on the oven clicks off with a loud ping.

Reality crashes back in. I step away so quickly I nearly knock over a chair, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"The entry meeting is tomorrow," I say, my voice rough. "At the community center. Ten a.m." I grab my jacket, needing to get out of this kitchen that suddenly feels too small, too intimate. "Don't forget the registration fee."

"Wait, what?" She looks dazed, confused by my abrupt shift. "You're leaving?"

"Store inventory." The lie tastes bitter. "I should have started an hour ago."

"But we haven't even tried the pie?—"

"It's good. You're ready." I'm already at the door, barely remembering to grab my keys. "Lock up when you leave."

I don't run. But it's close.

The evening air is sharp with approaching winter, but it does nothing to cool the memory of her in my arms, the way she looked at me, the moment when everything I've been fighting almost won.

Instead of walking to my truck, I find myself moving into the shadows of the old maple tree. Watching. Waiting.

Five minutes pass before light spills from the kitchen doorway. Tessa steps out, hugging herself against the chill. Even from here, I can see the confusion on her face, the hurt in the set of her shoulders.

"Real smooth, Fletcher," I mutter to myself.

She gathers her things slowly, like she's hoping I'll come back. The pie goes into a carrier with careful movements. She double-checks the lock. When she finally heads toward her car, she pauses, looking around the darkening yard.

For a moment, I think she sees me. But she just sighs, her breath visible in the cooling air, and gets into her car.

I stay in the shadows until her taillights disappear around the bend. Every instinct screams at me to follow her, to make sure she gets home safely, to explain what? That I'm a coward? That the thought of feeling this much terrifies me?

That she makes me want things I swore I'd never want again?

The maple leaves rustle overhead, letting the last rays of sunlight flicker across the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a whippoorwill calls out, lonely in the gathering dark.