And I always keep my promises.
We’re up until nearly four a.m., and by the time I wake in the morning, Gigi’s gone.
But there’s a note on her pink flamingo sheets.
Delivery was going to take 45 minutes, so I ran down the street to get coffee and pie myself. Be back in a jiff. Feel free to leave your clothes off. My coconut cream is delicious licked off all the places I want to lick you. Xo -Gigi
Grinning, I swing my legs out of bed and hurry to throw on my clothes, determined to dash across the street to my shop to grab some tea and be back in this bed naked before Gigi returns.
I adore that woman and can’t wait to taste her pie, but I won’t drink coffee for anyone—no matter how tight and sweet her pussy or delightful her company.
On a hook in the front hall, I find a key hanging from a Rosie the Riveter keychain. I make sure it works for the front door then take the stairs to the ground floor two at a time.
I’m already across the street—thank you light Sunday morning traffic—and unlocking the shop when the texts start coming in—
*shocked emoji face*
*angry emoji face*
*head exploding emoji face*
*GIF of cat hissing at the camera*
*GIF of woman screaming “betrayed” as she rolls down a hill covered in snow*
*GIF of a stick-figure man approaching a stick-figure woman with knife, man says “here hold this,” stabs knife in girl’s stomach, turns and walks away*
“What the…” Scowling, I scroll up to the number. The one I entered last night.
My stomach drops.
I look up to see Gigi standing across the street, looking adorable in a pair of red overalls and a white T-shirt with her hair tied up in a red and white polka dot scarf. She has a paper bag, which I assume holds pie, looped over her arm and a cardboard tray with two coffees in one hand. With the other, she’s texting a mile a minute.
Texting and glaring at me with murder in her eyes.
7
Gigi
West looks baffled.
Beautiful and baffled, but I’m not buying the innocent act for a second.
No wonder he wanted to steal me away for a sex marathon. To overdose me on orgasms so I wouldn’t realize he’s the villain who bought the shop across the street.
“What’s wrong?” he calls, lifting his phone, his expression confused. “Why are you virtually rolling down a hill covered in snow?"
Ha! As if he doesn’t know.
He could have picked any moment between arriving at my place last night and when I promised him pie early this morning to reveal that he’s the owner of the evil tea shop across the street.
Instead, he kept that information to himself.
Probably so he could spy on me, eat my delicious pie, and steal the recipe. Because if his tongue is half as fluent in pie ingredients as it is in orgasms, reverse engineering by taste would be a snap for him.
I can see it now, his plan to sus out the competition. And I was so clueless and trusting and drunk on orgasms and unicorn peen that I missed the opportunity to take similar advantage of him.
I mean, for research, I could choke down his horrible hard English scones or meat pies or whatever gross thing he’s going to sell over there. But I won’t have a chance now, will I? Because he lied to me and deceived me, just like every other guy I’ve seriously dated.
But instead of just wounding my heart, he could have hurt my business. I’m pretty sure I made it crystal clear to him that my business is my top priority. So much so that I put work responsibilities ahead of epic sex-fests and magical tongues with pie identification superpowers.
“Please, Gigi.” He motions toward the shop behind him. “Is it because of this? If so, I can explain.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can.” I shoot death rays at him with my eyes, fueled by ravaging hurt and disappointment. “After all, how perfect is that?” I pour on a thick English accent, imitating him when he learned I ran Sweetie Pies. “You could have said something then. But nope. You were like let me show her my perfect cock and my perfect body and my perfect accent and give her fifty million orgasms and, mwahahaha, how perfect is that?”
An old woman wrapped in a flowered shawl on her way to the trash bin by the bus stop shoots a judgmental look my way.
“He’s awful. And British,” I tell her.
Her gaze cuts to him then back to me, and then she nods in solidarity.
See? She gets it!
But I should also probably stop screaming about cocks on the street corner.
Releasing my ire for a nanosecond, I say more gently, “You didn’t say a word when I told you the name of my business. The name, West.”
“Like I said, Gigi, I can explain,” he says, sounding sincere.
But I won’t be fooled.
No way. I don’t have room in my life for this kind of treachery. This is why dating is a minefield. And West Territory is just as deadly as Parrot Man Land and all the rest.
I need to bolt. It hurts to listen to him. My chest aches, and I feel stupid.
So stupid.
I liked him. Dammit. One night, and I already liked the man.
I gird myself with my best tough-as-nails attitude.
Chin all the way up.
“I don’t want your explanations,” I call back. “And I no longer wish to spend my morning with you. I’m going to see my grandmother, a woman who appreciates pie and has never lied to anyone. Ever. In her entire life.”
“I wasn’t lying, love.” He has the nerve to grin, like he can flirt his way out of this as easily as he flirted his way into my bed. But I am much more protective of my pie shop than I am my pussy. Hurt my pussy, and only I suffer. Hurt my shop, and you endanger my entire family legacy.
“Let’s go back to your place,” he says. “Talk this out.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Please be gone by then,” I say. “And don’t bother texting. I won’t read them.”
And with that, I spin on my heel and head for the subway entrance on the other side of the traffic circle. He calls after me, something about “not being ridiculous” that only stiffens my resolve.
I am not ridiculous! I’m in charge of my family’s business. I’m in control of the entire kit and caboodle. Everything is riding on me, and I can’t afford to make mistakes right now. I can’t sleep with the enemy, even if he is the very best at both spanking and pulling hair.
Sob. Thank God I got extra pieces of pie so West could try a variety of flavors. A morning like this calls for Gram girl-talk and serious pie therapy.
Gram used to say pie may not cure heartbreak, but it certainly makes it easier to swallow.
Everything goes down better with a slice of Chocolate Dream.
And she’s right.
I stab my fork into a slice, chew, then chase it with coffee.
Strong, black coffee that fuels me.
“Trying to poke a hole through Gram’s good china?” my brother, Harrison, asks, arching a perfectly plucked brow at my pie plate.
I got a two-fer, since my brother is at Gram’s house for their Sunday morning poker game. Gram already cleaned up—she was scooping fifty bucks in chips into her hot little hands when I swept into her Brooklyn townhouse in a cloud of righteous fury.