There Better Be Pie Read online

  A little concealer and mascara would have gone a long way to making me look less like a swamp creature.

  Though why I was worried about how I looked around someone I disliked so entirely was beyond me.

  I guess it went back to that dread we all hold in our hearts about running into that Mean Girl from high school on the one day when we left the house in sweats with our hair in a messy bun and a completely naked face.

  We always wanted to look our best around the people we liked the least. It was a self-preservation thing.

  It was too late now, though, to whip out my emergency touch-up bag and make myself feel a bit better.

  Of course, the situation was only exacerbated by the fact that guys like Trip Martin simply looked stupidly flawless at all times with absolutely no effort. And I meant none. He seemed to only bother to shave once every week or two. His dirty blond was always at an economical length; he never seemed to actually need to style it to make it look charmingly disheveled. Then he went ahead and had a jaw that could cut glass, eyes the most striking shade of sky blue framed in medium brown lashes that made me wonder why in the world men always ended up with the lashes we had to glue on.

  No one would ever accuse Trip of being particularly fashionable. While he no longer worked on the production line, getting his hands dirty, instead overseeing the entire process and reporting directly back to my father, he decided to still dress for his former position. To any who looked at him wondering what he might do for a living, everything about his typical blue jeans and white tees screamed mechanic loud and clear.

  Today, though, he had chosen a short-sleeved white tee seeing as it was all of thirty-three degrees out.

  Manly men like him, apparently, did not require long sleeves.

  When it came to Trip, I was inclined to believe he was kept warm by the hellfire lapping at his feet.

  I had been hoping that, maybe, he would turn around, go back inside to tell my parents I was here finally. I had no such luck.

  As soon as I cut the engine, he was jogging down the steps, making his way toward me.

  "You're late." The words were out of his mouth as my feet hit the ground.

  And so it begins.

  "Why, hello Trip. So glad to see you arrived safely," I added, tone dripping with sarcasm. "I am well aware I am late since I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic because no one knows how to drive in the rain. I was absolutely thrilled to be on the road two hours longer than I planned."

  "Your parents had to run out to grab potatoes."

  "I stopped to pick them up!" I insisted, waving toward my back seat where the two five-pound bags were nestled.

  "Yes, well, with no update from you, they had no choice but to assume you weren't going to make it. They weren't going to hold dinner forever."

  Deep breaths. Do not murder the man with the tire iron so conveniently located under your front seat.

  "It's illegal to text and drive," I reminded him.

  "You could make a call."

  "You've seen these roads around here, right? White-knuckle curves everywhere. I didn't think it was a good idea to get distracted and wind up wrapped around a tree. If you were so concerned about my parents having to run out to the store, you could have offered to go yourself," I reminded him, maybe taking a little too much pleasure in ramming my shoulder into his as I moved past, making my way toward my trunk.

  "I offered. Your mother is far too good of a host to allow a guest to run to the store."

  "Thank you, Trip. I did need a reminder of what kind of person my own mother is."

  I maybe missed his face by all of two inches when I yanked the door of the trunk upward. And the bastard didn't so much as flinch.

  "What? Are you moving in?" he asked, faced with my luggage carefully arranged to fit in the small space. I had every intention of completely ignoring that comment. But then he had to keep talking. "It's just the four of us, Princess. You didn't need to pack cocktail dresses and high heels."

  "You're not family Trip, so you can't possibly know this, but we actually dress up for Thanksgiving. Even though it is—usually—just the three of us."

  "Gee, you worried I can't keep up with your sense of style?"

  "I do have a good sense of style," I told him, choosing to take the higher road on this one. "Thanks for noticing," I added. "No, I don't need your help," I insisted when he reached into the trunk.

  "Sure you do. You might catch one of those skyscrapers on your feet in a hole in the ground while trying to drag these out and bust your face."

  With that, and nothing else, he grabbed the two biggest suitcases, dragged them out as if they weighed nothing, and took off back toward the house like he owned the place.

  Thankful for a moment alone, I took a deep breath, turning to look at the house.

  When it comes to houses, the Maine house was my second favorite to the Pennsylvania Victorian where I had spent all my formative years.

  Building-wise, it was a two-and-a-half story chalet-style house with sprawling porches on each of the first and second levels. There was just something about the steep pitch in the front and the floor-to-ceiling windows that made me think of snow and cups of hot cocoa, of the warmth of a fire and the comfort of loved ones close by.

  The second-level deck off of the back overlooked the seemingly endless tree-lined lake, something we presumably shared with others somewhere along the lines, but somehow felt entirely our own at the same time.

  There was a spot about half a mile through the woods where the shoreline jutted out a bit closer to the water. The previous owners must have thought it was as magical as I did because they had dragged giant smooth rocks from the waterline up to the spot, placing them in a circle around a stone fire pit.

  I liked to take hikes through the woods in the very early morning before anyone else stirred, ending up in that space where I would uncover the fire pit—full of dry wood from the last time I visited—starting a cozy fire, and watching the sun move across the sky until the fire died down, bringing on the chill that would inevitably send me back toward the house for a shower and another coffee.

  Going into my backseat for the couple extra bags I had there, I made my way up the uneven path—something my mother insisted added to its rural charm instead of evening them out—wobbling a bit on my toothpick heels. I couldn't help but wonder if Trip was standing there in the window, looking down on me with smug satisfaction that he was right about my choice of footwear.

  Shaking off that thought, not wanting my mood to turn any more sour than it already was, I let myself in the front door, feeling like all my stress melted at my feet.

  It would be difficult to hold onto my anger in a place that only had happy memories of laughter and delicious food and the occasional snow storm-watching from the living room directly inside the door.

  It was a giant open floor plan with impossibly high ceilings with wooden beams criss-crossing the whole area.

  The living room, in my opinion, had two major focal points. The giant stone and wood fireplace. And the floor-to-ceiling windows. The medium-brown sectional that I was pretty sure could comfortably seat an entire football team was positioned to mostly face the fireplace. But anyone who liked nature even in the least chose to sit on the side that also let you look out to take in the view. There was an ancient, enormous braided rug in reds, browns, grays, and beige on the floor under the large coffee table.

  The entire space felt airy and never-ending.

  To the other side of the living room was the kitchen in the same warm wood tones with a giant eight-burner stove, oversize fridge, and warm white countertops.

  As if anticipating I would bring the flowers despite her always telling me not to go out of my way, a beautiful crystal vase was already situated in the center of the island that was large enough for five people to prepare separate meals without getting in one another's way.

  God, I loved this place.

  From my position, I could see the overlook from
the second story where Trip was bashing my luggage off of the railing as he moved down and out of sight.

  I wasn't overly protective of possessions. My car had a few dings from accidentally opening the doors up into the cart return or ramming it with my cart itself. I wasn't exactly showy about my things. Yet my luggage set was a gift from my mother on my eighteenth birthday. Along with a plane ticket to Italy so I could get 'some culture' before I started college. It ended up being an important trip for me, a pivotal part of my maturity, a turning point in my life. So the luggage had sentimental value. And, well, it came from my mother which meant it had actual financial value as well.

  Rushing up the stairs, careful not to trip, something I always secretly feared because the only thing in the house that I didn't like were the back stairs. Which, for God-knew-what reason, had no backs on them. I could always see myself accidentally slipping my foot through the back, getting trapped, falling backward, whacking my head, and dying right then and there.

  Improbable? Yes.

  But not entirely impossible either.

  Whenever possible, I took the long way around to go back to the front staircase to avoid them entirely. But I wanted to catch Trip before he thumped my suitcases against the third set of stairs that led up to the final level of the house.

  Which consisted entirely of my bedroom and bathroom.

  It was meant to be the master suite, but my father said his knees didn't appreciate the extra set of stairs, so they had happily handed it off to me and taken one of the smaller rooms on the second floor.

  "Just leave them there," I demanded just as he got to the staircase. "I have them from here."

  "Can't have you carting them up the stairs all by yourself, can I, Princess?"

  With that, he started up, leaving me following behind, trying my best not to imagine him being the one catching his foot, and whacking his head. "Stop grinding your teeth."

  I didn't mind that order coming from my mother. Or even my father though he was usually not paying attention enough to notice I was doing it. It wasn't meant in a nasty way. In fact, it would likely save me on future dental bills.

  But coming from Trip?

  It seemed grumbly and demanding.

  "It's annoying," he added. Which, well, in my mind, made it so I could officially think of him as an ass for saying it instead of wondering if he was just trying to give me a gentle reminder, and I was so intent on disliking him that I was going to take anything he said to me the wrong way.

  "For someone who seems to find me so intolerable, you sure do find excuses to be around me more," I informed him as I made it to the landing, annoyed that I was a little out of breath and he was not. As if anyone would doubt that he would be the victor in a cardio competition—this man who looked like the Greeks used him as a model to create their statues. Whereas, it took a lot of time and effort in the gym and serious meal planning to keep my jeans fitting. And, let's face it, those jeans got super tight anytime I had more than a salad for dinner.

  I wasn't the seventy-five pound heavier insecure wreck I once was, but I was no fitness model either.

  Stairs got to me.

  "I'm doing you a favor," he told me, gaze bored, indifferent.

  "I didn't ask you for a favor," I reminded him. "In fact, I asked you twice to leave my luggage alone."

  "You're in a mood," he observed. And it wasn't entirely untrue. Even if he was what had brought about said mood.

  I was normally pleasant, damnit.

  My friends—and even my boss—sometimes called me Sunshine because I was usually beaming and happy and warm.

  I felt it said something about him that he was the only person on the planet who made me feel like I turned into an ice queen around him.

  I hated this version of myself.

  "Thank you for pointing that out," I told him, sucking my cheek between my teeth to keep from grinding again.

  "No problem. Maybe go ahead and take a few minutes to put yourself together before your parents get back."

  A million words rushed to the tip of my tongue then got tangled up together in one incomprehensible ball, leaving me sputtering as he turned to walk away.

  Just as his feet were on the stairs, he called back, "And maybe take that stick out of your ass while you're at it."

  Forget the tragic foot-catching accident.

  I wanted to throw him down the stairs.

  He was right about one thing, though, I did want to get myself together. I wanted a hot shower and a dry change of clothes.

  That and a couple minutes alone, I hoped, would make it possible to deal with him until my parents returned.

  On that, I opened up the door to my room, feeling another sigh of relief washed through me from my toes and up through the top of my head.

  I had a view in the city, sure. Many people would kill to be able to wake up to a view in New York City.

  But this?

  This was what I thought of when I heard the phrase 'a view.'

  It overlooked the woods, the lake, the hills beyond them.

  I always wanted to make a trip up here in the prime of autumn when all the trees were a blanket of reds and yellows and oranges.

  Thanksgiving was always just two weeks too late, all the trees bare and stark against the landscape. Still breathtaking in their own way. And I was thankful for a reminder of the lovely things this house still had to offer. Even if I was sharing them with Trip Martin.

  Much like the main room two floors below, my room had a vaulted ceiling with exposed woodwork, floor-to-ceiling windows, an earth-toned braided rug, and wooden floors. The queen bed butted up against the same wall as the door, facing the view, allowing me to wake up with the slivers of the sun in the early morning, giving me something beautiful to see as soon as my eyes opened. The bedding was pure whites mixed with brown and creme blankets and comforters.

  The wall to the left of the door held the fireplace that would just barely keep me warm on the colder mornings. To the right was the door that led into the bathroom, one that featured a full-glass shower enclosure as well as the most luscious soaking tub I had ever seen in my life. If I knew the staff—and I did at this point—they would have gone over-the-top with fluffy towels, fancy hand soap, bath salts and bombs and bubbles in autumnal scents. It was unnecessary, but something I super appreciated too. I worked a lot in the city and didn't even have a bath. It was nice to be able to really indulge.

  In my personal life, I didn't have anyone who worked for me. I often felt too guilty even to allow someone else to do my grocery shopping, and just pick it up when it was ready.

  I still struggled not to feel guilty about the staff that my family employed, even though I had no control over that, and knew that my father had always been incredibly fair with salaries and benefits.

  I had gone to private schools my entire childhood and adolescence, surrounded by kids just like myself. Born with silver spoons, given all the advantages in life. It never occurred to me to feel weird about our wealth.

  It wasn't until I went off to college that I started to really see the wealth divide, started to grapple with some embarrassment about all the advantages I had in my life while others struggled.

  My first year there, I asked my parents if I could sell the Kensley they had given me on my sixteenth birthday, taking that money to get myself a used sedan —the car I still drove around to this day—and sticking the rest in a savings account for my future plans.

  I no longer bought designer clothes when things off the rack at Marshall's worked just as well. The stock I had in the family business was funneled into savings, never touched, forcing me to live off of the yearly salary just like everyone else.

  My only indulgence, of course, was my shoes. Which I saved up for and indulged in with my spring bonus.

  None of these things changed the fact that, no matter what happened with my life, I would never actually have to stress about money. But it allowed me to feel a little bit more average, more like my own
person rather than my parent's daughter—just someone who lucked out.

  Which was why I had a special little package tucked away with my clothes—a simple silver and gold wrapped box with a special little present to leave for Marta—the woman who took care of the inside of the house when we were not around—in gratitude for going that extra mile for me even though she really didn't have to.

  Wiggling my shoulders to ease the ache there from so long in the car and, let's face it, interacting with Trip, I lifted my suitcases up on the bed.

  There were two types of people.

  Ones who lived out of their suitcases on vacation. Then there were the freaks like me who had to unpack everything. Even though they knew they would need to re-pack everything in a few days.

  What can I say, I had a vendetta against wrinkles.

  As soon as everything was in the drawers and hanging in the closet, I grabbed a fresh outfit—yet again thankful that I always packed more than was necessary—and made my way into the bathroom, deciding to go with a shower, knowing that my parents should be back any minute, and not wanting to be rude by lounging in the tub.

  Even if I was sure a bath would be a much better way to purge the interactions with Trip out of my system.

  Twenty minutes later, my hair was dry, falling to my shoulders in a mix of brown and some carefully placed honey highlights around my slightly too round face. I went ahead and took the extra five minutes to apply the concealer and mascara I had longed for earlier, dragged on the cream sweater I had pulled out along with skinny jeans and beige heels.

  A small spritz of perfume, and I felt ready to face Trip again.

  I descended the stairs with a death grip on the railing, hearing the honey-sweet voice of my mother and the deep timbre of my father in the kitchen. I ignored Trip's somewhat annoyingly interesting gravel-sounding voice.

  "Oh, honey! We're so glad you made it!" my mother cheered as soon as she saw me move into the room, hands releasing the flowers she had been separating to rearrange in her vase to move around the island and embrace me.