Chapter Nine
EMERGENCY PIE PROTOCOL
Andi
Tourist season means two things: more work, more bodies, and more idiots who don’t know how to stay alive.
I’m fine.
No, really. I am.
It’s just been one of those days where everything feels like sandpaper—rough, scratchy, and grating until there’s nothing left but raw, frayed nerve endings.
First, there was the car accident victim who should’ve made it, but didn’t. Too young. Too fast. And yeah, I know they’re not my responsibility anymore by the time they get to me, but still. It stung.
Bad.
I had to take a few minutes to compose myself—which doesn’t often happen.
Then Mikey decided to crank up the auction talk again, like I haven’t already threatened to set fire to every flyer in this building.
And now, I’ve got paperwork coming out of my ears and a headache that won’t quit.
But I’m fine.
Because that’s what I do. I show up, do the job, go home. No complaints. No breaks. No nonsense.
The morgue is cooler than usual today, which should help, but it doesn’t. I’m already tense, chewing on the end of my pen while I stare at a report I’ve read three times but still haven’t processed.
Mikey’s gone somewhere on his break, thank God. Left me in peace for once.
I don’t even notice it at first—the small white container sitting on the corner of my desk. Styrofoam, the type that usually holds something greasy and bad for you. I swear it wasn’t there ten minutes ago. I frown and reach for it.
There’s a sticky note on top, scrawled in handwriting that’s too neat to be Mikey’s.
In case of emergency. Pie usually helps.
I freeze and read it again.
There’s no name. No clue where it came from.
Did the universe know I needed pie to keep from having a complete and total panic attack?
I peel back the lid slowly, like it might be a trap. Inside? A perfect slice of cherry pie. Still warm, somehow. Flaky crust, red filling, a little messy like it’s been cut in a hurry.
My stomach growls, loud and obnoxious.
Of course it does.
I glance around, half-expecting someone to jump out and claim it, but there’s no one.
Just me, the pie, and a note that feels... weirdly personal.
I haven’t told anyone that cherry’s my favorite.
I pick up the fork tucked beneath the container, still wary, still braced for some kind of prank. But the smell alone is enough to make me cave.
One bite.
Just one.
The sweetness hits, and my eyes close for half a second because it’s good. Too good.
It shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does. A little like being seen. A little like being cared about.
Which is ridiculous.
I’m halfway through when Mikey walks in, pausing mid-step when he sees me.
“Is that... is that a smile?”
I freeze.
“Shut up.”
“No way. Callahan’s smiling. Someone call the press.”
“It’s pie,” I mutter. “It’s basic biology.”
He cackles, moving closer like he’s discovered a new species. “Nah, this is monumental. Hold still, I’m gonna document this.”
“Touch your phone and I’ll kill you.”
He leans over, peeking at the container. “Where’d that come from?”
“No idea.”
He raises an eyebrow, but before he can say more, the door creaks open again.
It’s Cole.
I don’t know how he does it, but he strolls in like he owns the place—casual and confident, and—heaven help me—looking way too good for someone I plan to keep rejecting.
His eyes land on me, then the pie, then the note still sitting beside it.
And he grins.
“Level one. Complete.”
I blink, the fork pausing mid-air. “What?”
He taps the desk like it’s obvious. “You smiled. That’s level one.”
My jaw drops. “This was you?”
“Guilty.”
I stare at him, then back at the pie. “You... how did you even know?”
He shrugs, leaning against the wall like he’s not the most irritating man alive. “I notice things.”
Mikey whistles low. “Damn, he’s good.”
“Don’t encourage him,” I snap, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me.
Cole’s still watching me, like he’s waiting for me to throw something—or kiss him. I’m not sure which.
“Just pie,” he says, holding up his hands. “No strings. Unless you count the bracket.”
I groan. “I’m going to burn that thing.”
He approaches and grabs it from the corner of my desk. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
I glare. “Get out of here, EMT.”
He pushes off the wall, heading for the door, but not before throwing me one last look over his shoulder.
“You’re welcome, Callahan.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
Mikey’s grinning like a kid on Christmas. “I’m telling everyone.”
“Do it and die.”
He laughs. “You hate everyone today or just the cute EMT?”
I glance down at the pie, then the note, then the door.
It’s just pie.
But it’s the best damn pie I’ve had in a long time. On a day when I especially needed comfort.
“Not sure yet,” I admit. “But the day’s still young.”
The last bite of pie is halfway to my mouth when Mikey strolls in from the hallway, smug like he just won something.
“Still smiling?” he asks, dropping into the chair across from me.
I scowl, wiping my mouth. “It’s gone.”
“Too late. I saw it.” He leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Level one achieved. Should we pop champagne or wait till he gets your number?”
“You’re insufferable.”
He grins. “You love it.”
“No, I tolerate it.”
I’m about to kick him out when he pulls something from behind his back—folded, glossy, and already pissing me off.
“Speaking of things you love,” he says, sliding it across the desk. “Ta-da.”
I unfold it.
It’s worse than I thought.
The auction flyer.
Front and center—my face, scowling like I’ve just been asked to babysit a pack of toddlers. The photo’s from my ID badge because apparently HR has zero standards when it comes to public humiliation.
Andrea Callahan. Morgue Technician. Single. Fierce.
“What the hell is this?” My voice is sharp, rising with every word.
Mikey’s practically vibrating with excitement. “They’re going up today. Gala’s three weeks out. You’re officially famous.”
I slam the flyer down. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“It doesn’t matter. Voluntold, remember?”
“No.” I push back from the desk, standing. “No, no, no. This is not happening.”
Mikey laughs, holding up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
I pace, blood boiling. “I’m not doing it.”
“It’s for charity.”
“Screw charity.”
Mikey whistles. “The kids would be so disappointed.”
I glare. “Not even pie can save this shitshow.”
He chuckles, already backing toward the door. “Better pick out something hot to wear. I hear scrubs don’t sell well.”
“Out.”
“I’m going, I’m going. But hey—if Cole bids on you, just take the win.”
The door shuts before I can throw something at him.
I sit back down, breathing hard, staring at the flyer like it’s personally out to ruin my life.
This is not how today was supposed to go.
Not even close.