Chapter 4
“The only thing worse than a reporter? A billionaire.” ~ Parker
Parker
I hold my breath as I turn the corner in the van loaded with pies. When the turn is complete and none of the pies has flipped over or fallen to the floor, I blow out a breath.
Thank goodness. No disaster. And thank goodness I could borrow this van from the brewery. I don’t think anyone expects Thanksgiving pies to be delivered in a Five Fathoms Brewing van, but this is Smuggler’s Hideaway. Nothing is truly out of the ordinary here.
I slow to a stop in front of Jack and Lily Milton’s house.
I’ve known Jack and Lily since first grade.
Their daughter, Sophia, was a year younger than me in school.
We used to congregate in Lily’s kitchen at the end of school.
She made the best chocolate chip cookies.
They were always hot out of the oven when we arrived.
I grab Lily’s order – one Siren’s Song Pumpkin Pie and one Blackbeard’s Bourbon Chocolate Pie – before making my way to the front door.
“Lily! Jack!” I shout as I knock.
When no one answers the door, I check the time. I told them I’d arrive around eleven and it’s five to the hour. They should be here.
I knock again. “Lily! Your pies are here!”
I’m contemplating leaving the pies on the porch when the door flies open.
“Hi, Parker.” Lily’s hair is a mess, and her blouse is buttoned wrong. Jack appears behind her. He’s grinning. One guess what these two have been up to. I shouldn’t be surprised. Lily and Jack never could keep their hands off each other.
My stomach sours. I want what they have. They met when Jack was working on the island and fell instantly in love – if the tales are to be believed.
But who wants a baker who has more curves than money and works more hours than there are in a day? No one, that’s who.
I hand her the bag. “Here are your pies. Enjoy.”
Lily’s eyes light up. “We will. Your Blackbeard’s Bourbon Chocolate Pie is downright sinful with its rich chocolate and whipped cream, and shaved dark chocolate topping.”
I smile. I’m pretty proud of my pies. “Thank you.”
I wave goodbye as I make my way back to the van to make my next delivery. I zigzag my way through Smuggler’s Rest for the next hour. It’s nearly noon when I realize I only have two deliveries to go – Eli and Mrs. Simpson.
I park in Mrs. Simpson’s driveway and frown. The exterior needs a new coat of paint, but ever since Mr. Simpson died ten years ago, Mrs. Simpson hasn’t been able to manage the work herself.
I carry Mrs. Simpson’s pie to her front door. It opens before I reach it.
“Parker! How lovely to see you. Come in. Come in.” She ushers me inside.
“I don’t have much time. I have more pies to deliver,” I tell her as I set the pie on her kitchen table, which is already set with plates and cups.
“Nonsense. You have time for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.”
This is the reason I saved her house for the second to last. She’d be the last, but Eli’s house is out in the country.
“No coffee for me. I’ve had about ten cups already today.”
“I’ll put the kettle on for tea.” She motions to the pie. “Go ahead and slice up two pieces.”
I open the box and pick up the knife from the table. I take a moment to appreciate how pretty this Pearl Diver Pie is before I cut into it. It’s vanilla bean cream pie with a white chocolate seashell on top and edible glitter pearls.
“Oh my, Parker. You’ve outdone yourself this time.” She pats my hand. “Smuggler’s Hideaway is lucky some fancy bakery in New York City didn’t snap you up.”
I could take or leave New York City. But, Paris, on the other hand? I’ve always dreamed of working there. And I nearly managed to. Unfortunately, nearly doesn’t mean anything.
I slice two pieces and place them on plates while Mrs. Simpson prepares the tea.
“Sit. Sit.” She indicates the chair and I settle in. There’s no sense trying to rush her. She doesn’t get much company and looks forward to Thanksgiving and my visit all year long. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t stay a while?
“Tell me everything happening on Smuggler’s Rest. And don’t forget to tell me all about your young man.”
“I don’t have a man,” I begin.
We chat for twenty minutes before I decide I need to go.
“It was lovely to see you, Mrs. Simpson. I’m off to deliver the last of my pies now.”
“And then you can enjoy your Thanksgiving celebration as well.”
I don’t bother to tell her I won’t be enjoying a celebration. Unless you consider sleeping after being awake for nearly two days a celebration. I guess it kind of is.
I blare music in the van as I drive toward Eli’s. I will not fall asleep. I will not crash this van I do not own and dig myself deeper into debt.
I keep my eye out for Sammy the seal as I drive, but he’s probably hiding somewhere warm since the weather has gotten colder. Not cold. It’s never truly cold on Smuggler’s Hideaway. Except for last year when we had the surprise snowstorm.
I shiver. I love snow, but I hope we don’t have a surprise snowstorm this year. I can’t afford for the electricity to go out and ruin all of my ingredients again.
I arrive at Eli’s house – more mansion than house, really. This delivery bag is heavy since his fiancée, Paisley, ordered six pies.
I carefully make my way to their porch and knock on the door. It opens moments later, but it’s not Eli or Paisley standing in the doorway. It’s the man who stopped by the bakery looking for directions to this very house last night.
“What are you doing here?”
I was wondering the same about him, but instead of asking, I lift the bag of pies. “Special Thanksgiving day delivery.”
His stomach growls, loud enough to make me smirk. My pies have a way of humbling even the most arrogant of men. Unfortunately, this particular rude one is also – now that I can see him clearly in the daylight – ridiculously attractive.
His dirty blond hair is an artful mess, the kind that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to touch it. His eyes – light brown and sharply focused – hold an intensity that hits me low in the belly. I wonder what they look like when he’s lost in something… or someone.
He’s all sharp lines and masculine angles: high cheekbones, a square jaw, and a chin marked with just the faintest dimple. Like the universe added a single flaw for balance. Except it doesn’t work. The dimple only makes him more devastating.
Something stirs in my stomach – not hunger, not exactly. Butterflies, maybe. Or warning bells. Probably both. I remind myself he’s a reporter. Trouble. Off-limits. No matter how good he looks.
“Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you going to take the pies?”
“What are you doing here?” he asks instead. “I thought you didn’t know where Eli lived.”
“I never said I didn’t know where he lived.”
“You gave me directions to Mermaid Mystical Gardens.”
I giggle. “Gets them every time.”
Paisley rushes out of the kitchen. “Oh, good. You’re here.”
I lift the bag with pies again. This delivery is starting to feel like an upper-body workout. I am not kidding about how heavy these pies are.
“At your service. Holiday bliss in a bag.”
She moans. “They smell delicious. Do you mind setting them out on the side table in the dining room?”
“Of course not.” Good thing this is my last delivery.
I ignore the reporter and make my way to the dining room. Unfortunately, he doesn’t ignore me. He follows me instead.
I set the bag on the table and lift out the first pie. I remove it from the box before setting it on the table.
“It’s beautiful. What flavor is it?”
I don’t hesitate to answer. Maybe he’ll include Pirate’s Pastries in his article about Eli. “It’s Seafoam Meringue. A sea salt-caramel base with a torched blue-tinted meringue swirl.”
“It looks like ocean waves.”
I smirk. “And tastes like heaven.”
He peeks into the bag. “What other pies do you have?”
“I didn’t realize reporters were pie addicts.”
He rears back. “Reporters? I’m not a reporter.”
I snort. “Dude, you’re literally in Eli’s house to write a story about him. Of course, you’re a reporter.”
He sputters, but Eli strolls into the room before he can answer. “Hey, Parker.”
“Is this baby Stephanie?” I squeal. “Can I hold her? Please.”
The doorbell rings and he chuckles before handing the baby to me. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” I mutter as I run a finger down Stephanie’s nose. “Aren’t you adorable? You’re going to break all the smugglers’ hearts when you get older.”
The reporter snorts. “Typical woman. Give her a baby and she loses her mind.”
“I hope you’re a better reporter than you are human being.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
I roll my eyes. “Not with those observation skills you aren’t.”
His brow wrinkles. “Observation skills?”
“You said I’m losing my mind over a baby. Yes, baby Stephanie is adorable. But she’s not the reason I’m happy. I’m happy because Eli and Paisley finally got over their decade-long feud and found their way to love. I’m happy Paisley finally has a family who deserves her.”
Paisley rushes into the room. “Thank goodness. I thought I lost you.” She steals Stephanie and rushes away but pauses before she exits. Her gaze bounces back and forth between me and the reporter.
“Have you two met before?”
“Yep. We met last night when he knocked on the bakery’s door and asked for directions.”
“Which you didn’t give him.”
“I know better than to give a reporter directions to your house.”
She smirks. “Jeremy isn’t a reporter. He’s the co-founder of Apparoo.”
“Apparoo?” As in the multi-billion-dollar tech empire? And he’s the co-founder? Those butterflies in my stomach fall to their death. Billionaire is worse than reporter. Way worse.
Jeremy smirks as he extends his hand. “Told you I wasn’t a reporter.”
“You didn’t tell me your name either.”
I cross my arms over my chest and he drops his hand.
“I don’t tell people my name.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly fall over backwards. “Because you’re a big shot billionaire. Get over yourself.”
“As if dollar signs didn’t appear in your eyes the second you realized who I am.”
“Wow. We can add asshole to big shot.”
If he thinks I care about his money, he is highly mistaken. Having money is a dealbreaker. Too bad. I wouldn’t have minded a tumble in the sheets with this man. But I know better than to get involved with someone with money.