There Better Be Pie Read online

  Contents

  TITLE

  RIGHTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER!

  There Better Be Pie

  ____

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2019 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/Oksana Mizina

  CHAPTER ONE

  Juliette

  Who would have thought one simple sentence could ruin my absolute favorite holiday?

  Trip is coming to spend the weekend with us.

  Just like that, all my hopes of a relaxing time with my parents up at their house in Maine, spending time cuddled up watching movies, drinking spiked cider and hot toddies, and eating until we had to change into more forgiving pants, were dashed.

  I mean, if there was a single person I was least likely to cuddle up next to watching movies, or stuff my face in front of, it was Trip Martin.

  Though, with his presence there, I would definitely still be drinking spiked cider and hot toddies. Likely in much larger quantities.

  "Stop grinding your teeth," my mother demanded over the phone, as she had needed to do countless times over the years.

  Everyone had their nervous habits. My father paced. My mother cleaned. And I ground my teeth. Much to the chagrin of my dentist. And my mother since the sound 'went right through' her skull.

  "You can't just drop a bomb like that on me and expect me to take it with a smile," I reminded her.

  "Oh, honey. Trip is a nice man. I don't know why the two of you have decided to hate each other so much."

  There was a long, long list of reasons why I personally hated Trip Martin.

  The list for why he hated me seemed to consist of two things, though.

  One—I was born wealthy.

  Two—I didn't work at the family business.

  That was it.

  At least that was all I could tell from all our interactions over the years.

  Trip was a blue-collar guy through-and-through. And he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to work anywhere but at my family's three generations old luxury car business.

  Yes, as in those custom cars you saw billionaires and celebrities driving around that cost more than the average middle-class family would see in their lifetime.

  My great grandfather had come into some money from his father, which he had used to start production on the first Kensley car—the epitome of luxury in every way. He had lucked out in that the car came out around the time when the country was starting to see its first real boom in millionaires.

  As a family, we were all incredibly fortunate in that the world just kept creating more millionaires and billionaires as time went on—the kind of people who wanted exclusivity and an anal attention to every small detail like our Kensley Automobiles provided.

  It was a thriving business that turned an insane profit for my family. The kind of profit that allowed my parents to own an estate in Maine that we only went to for Thanksgiving. Yet kept staffed year-round.

  So Trip was right about that. I was born wealthy. But that was also not my fault nor my choosing. It was just how things were. I really couldn't imagine why he would use it as a reason to have a personal grudge against me.

  As for not working at the family business. Well, he was right about that as well. The only thing was, he didn't understand why; he didn't know the history behind that decision. Since he was a pompous ass, I didn't ever feel the need to explain myself to him either.

  I just avoided him.

  Whenever possible.

  Of course, there were always times when it was unavoidable. My father had a thriving business, but he also had a very tight-knit community of workers. He wanted everyone to feel like they were part of a big family. As such, there were holiday parties and summer retreats that he arranged and paid for. Things he expected my mother and I to attend as well. Since we were part of his big family and he didn't want it to seem like he was drawing a line between his real family and his work family.

  So Trip and I - unfortunately—bumped into each other at least three times a year. Every year since he started working at Kensley years before.

  Luckily, there was enough of a buffer of time in between each meeting that I cooled down enough from whatever heated argument we had gotten into that I didn't want to immediately rip out his vocal cords the next time we ran into each other.

  Time had the ability to blur the edges of memories, soften the hard feelings.

  The problem was, I had just seen him at the masked gala my parents had hosted at their home for Kensley employees and their families.

  Twenty-something days was not nearly enough time to forget how much pleasure I might derive in seeing the man with the runaway mouth suddenly being struck mute.

  "He's a tool. And he thinks I'm a spoiled brat."

  "He does not think that."

  My mother was a saint. An actual living saint who never thought a bad thing about anyone. I was sure the woman could find something nice to say about every murderer currently locked behind bars, no matter how heinous their crimes may be.

  Why I didn't seem to inherit that ability to think and say only pleasant things about others was beyond me. I guess I got a little more of my father's temper, the passionate way he always defended his beliefs and actions.

  "He calls me Princess, Mom."

  "Oh, but that is sweet! What girl doesn't want to be called a princess?"

  He didn't call me a princess because he thought I was rare and beautiful and spectacular.

  He spat it at me like an insult.

  Spoiled little princess was the inflection.

  "Is he just coming for Thanksgiving dinner?" I asked, knowing it was pointless to try to convince her that we genuinely just didn't like each other.

  "He is coming up Wednesday afternoon with your father. And leaving with him Tuesday morning."

  Oh, good God.

  Was there no mercy in the universe?

  Granted, it was a large house with plenty of room so that we wouldn't literally be rubbing shoulders when we tried to move past each other. Still, it wasn't so big that I could avoid him entirely. At least not without offending my mother who worked her butt off to make Thanksgiving something to be remembered.

  She was already up at the Maine house, taking charge of the decorating, making sure the rooms were cleaned up to par, creating grocery lists, helping the staff with the shopping.

  The staff would all be heading out on Wednesday morning, not to show up again until we were all on our way home.

  My mom and I would be in charge of all the cooking and baking and cleaning up after the actual meals.


  It was something she loved.

  It was usually something I enjoyed as well. There was nothing that brought the memories of my childhood back quite like being at her side, using special cutters and stamps to make shapes to use as pie crust tops. There was no simple latticework on her pies, oh no. Each and every one was a masterpiece, almost too pretty to eat. Though eat them we did. I, especially, did.

  It was the one time of year where I allowed myself to pig out entirely. Without shame. Without worrying about my waistline.

  And now I would have to do that in front of someone I loathed entirely?

  Ugh.

  "I think you two will learn to understand each other a lot more by spending some time around each other," my mom insisted.

  "Maybe you're right." And maybe I would want to see him driven through with a spike, ala Vlad-The-Impaler style.

  "You'll see, darling. It is all going to work out."

  "You always put on the best Thanksgiving," I told her, wanting to get away from the topic of Trip, feeling like my blood pressure was rising just from a simple phone conversation about the man.

  "Remember to pack warm, Jett. It is colder than New York."

  The house was lovely, but old, drafty, warmed mostly by fireplaces because it would be too expensive to try to keep the heat in if you used the actual heating system.

  That meant that you left smelling the smoke in your hair and clothes, something that always made me a little sad as I drove all the way back down to my New York City apartment, wanting to turn right around and go back.

  It was pointless, though.

  My family would be already on their way back to their place in Pennsylvania. They didn't need to live so close to the plant. My father didn't need to go into work every day. But he loved it. And my mother adored their ancient Victorian. They'd bought when it had been nothing but rotting wood, wiring problems, and leaks coming through the roof in every room, then painstakingly went about restoring it to its previous glory. It was the most beautiful place in the world, and I totally understood my mother's love of it.

  I hoped, one day, to be able to get a fixer-upper of my own, something that I saw the potential in even if nobody else did, then show the world how wrong they were about it.

  That house would likely be somewhere close to theirs as well.

  I lived in the 'big city'—as my mother put it—but I was a small-town girl at heart. I liked knowing my neighbors and catching up while bumping into one another in the local bakery or convenience store.

  The city had its perks. Namely, job opportunities. And, let's face it, not enough could be said for takeaway that would be delivered to your door at three a.m. when you had a craving.

  It was my temporary home.

  I hadn't even bothered to unpack the antique China set I'd inherited from my grandmother, choosing to keep it tucked away in the back of my closet. It took up precious shoe real estate, sure, but it somehow felt wrong to put that set in the cupboards of a home that didn't really feel like home to me.

  But, for now, it would have to do.

  I figured I had another five years at my job. After that, the plan was my forever place, my forever town, the life I had been working toward since I moved to the city.

  Until then, I made do with that 'home' feeling whenever I spent the holidays with my parents.

  Which was why I was so frustrated by the presence of an interloper.

  Especially the Devil himself.

  "Will do. Do you need me to bring anything up?"

  "You always find the best beer for your father. Oh, but buy double this time. I believe Trip is a beer drinker too."

  Oh, I would get him beer alright.

  Because my mother asked it of me.

  But that wouldn't stop me from secretly hoping he might choke on it.

  "Sounds like a plan. If you think of anything else, let me know. I have a couple stops on the way up, so I can get any last-minute things you forgot."

  "I will keep that in mind. See you in a few days, honey. Love you."

  "Love you too."

  I did, too. Which was why I was going to try really, really hard not to get riled by Trip. Even if he provoked it. Which he almost always did. I would just need to work harder to keep my cool.

  For my father's sake. Since Trip was the son he'd never had.

  And for my mother's sake because I knew she would wring her hands and worry herself sick about it.

  She hated conflict of any sort. She'd never once even grounded me because she didn't like the look of anger or disappointment she'd anticipated I would have.

  Soft hearts like hers were precious and rare. I did everything in my power not to make her worry too much, to get upset.

  This, though; this would be the hardest thing I had ever done, since there had yet to be a situation in which Trip and I didn't end up nearly screaming at each other. I swear I nearly hauled off and hit him once for snarking at me at our annual Easter egg event.

  If there hadn't been so many kids around, I might have actually done it. And I had never hit someone before in my life.

  That was just the effect Trip Martin had on me.

  It was going to be a long, long holiday.

  After a long, long drive.

  Eight and a half hours if I didn't hit traffic. But, let's face it, I was going to hit traffic. I would be lucky if I made it in ten.

  This meant that if I wanted to make it there before my father and Trip did, I would need to leave sometime around four in the morning.

  Sighing, I climbed off the off-white tufted couch that looked as beautiful in person as it had in the catalog—with absolutely no comfort whatsoever—and made my way to my shoebox of a bedroom, hauling my luggage out from under my bed. All four of them.

  I was not, by any stretch of the word, a light packer. I had this almost compulsive need to be prepared for any possible situation.

  There was a hot tub on the deck. Despite never having gone in it in the ten years since they'd bought the Maine estate, I needed to pack a bathing suit just in case. Getting hot tub drunk suddenly sounded like a very viable way to spend some time when Trip and I couldn't seem to play nice.

  Then, of course, there were the usual outfits. Bedtime, normal, with some extras in case of rain or snow, then something fancy for Thanksgiving dinner itself since we liked to keep that tradition even though it—usually—was just family for the holiday. Then, since it was cold, there needed to be a sweater or two, a hat, scarf, gloves, slippers, and a heavy robe.

  And then, well, then there were shoes.

  I had a whole suitcase just for the shoes.

  It was overkill, I knew, but the whole point of buying nice shoes was to be able to wear them whenever possible. I could sometimes be found walking around in my apartment on a Sunday morning in a pair of panties, a plain white tee, and a pair of Louboutins my mother had gotten me for my last birthday.

  Shoes had been one of those things for me. That comfort item. The thing that always made me feel great even if I felt bad about myself in every other way. It was an obsession I had developed in high school when I was cripplingly insecure about clothes, about trying to hide this or that. I hadn't been a thin girl. In fact, my mother had always lovingly referred to me as her Little Pudge Muffin up until I finally lost a bit of the weight in college. Not all of it. I still was a tad curvier than was ever in vogue, but I no longer got lectured by doctors or felt weird buying a bathing suit. But all through those insecure years, shoes had been there for me, had been a focal point that I felt drew people's attention away from my body and onto my feet.

  As a much more secure adult, though, they never lost their appeal. They still were the impulse buy when I'd had a bad day. They were still what I planned entire outfits around.

  I indulged myself because it was my one real vice. And as far as vices go, this one was tame. A little taxing on my pocketbook, sure, but relatively healthy otherwise.

  So I went ahead and threw in knee-high snow boo
ts with faux fur trim, booties, boots, and three pairs of stilettos.

  Practical? Nope.

  But also somehow completely necessary in my mind.

  Finished, I zipped everything up, placing it all beside my door to taunt me for the next few days as I went about my daily life.

  Eventually, the pile got a couple bottles of wine, six-packs of craft beers, and—lastly—a gorgeous bouquet of lilies my mother would insist was unnecessary, but would fawn over the entire long weekend.

  The morning of, I got up at three a.m., put the bare minimum of effort into my appearance, grabbed two coffees—one for each cup holder—loaded down my trunk, and hit the road hours before sun up.

  I'd like to say I did this with an upbeat attitude, that I had talked myself into being cheerful, that I was only expecting positive things.

  But the fact of the matter was, I was crabby and tired and ready for a fight.

  The world around me seemed to be in agreement with my mood, the sky pouring down rain in angry bursts through several states, deadlocking traffic, leaving me soaked through to my underwear after having to get out to get gas and refills on my coffee.

  I was wet, shivering, and in desperate need of my mother's warm welcome when I finally pulled up to the house.

  But it wasn't my mother who was there to greet me.

  Oh, no.

  That was freaking Trip Martin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Juliette

  Of course it was him.

  Standing there on the front porch with that stern brow that always seemed to be directed at me, annoyed and disappointed.

  As if he had any right to have expectations of me in general.

  "Keep it together," I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath, chugging the last dregs of cold coffee, then slinging some still-wet dark hair out of my face.

  I suddenly wished I had pulled off on a side street, taken a minute to try to get myself back together. One glance in the rearview let me know that my eyelids were puffy from eye strain, the purple smudges underneath making the honey-colored eyes that I generally considered my best feature look drab and lifeless.