Page 63 of Lace 'em Up

“Is this for the famous apple pie that everyone has been raving about?” I ask, moving toward the stack of apples, both peeled and unpeeled.

She nods. “It sure is.”

I should probably leave her be, should get to work, let her make this for her son.

But my feet won’t let me make the move.

And then my mouth opens, tongue and throat forming the words.

“Will you teach me how to make it?”

“Cheese?” I ask incredulously thirty minutes later as I watch Stella layer a thin layer of white cheddar over the pie crust—store-bought because, quote, “No one who’s actually busy in real life has time to make homemade pie crust.”

“Just pies?” I’d teased.

She’d given me a good-natured wink. “Pie filling.”

“From scratch,” I’d pointed out.

That had earned me a light swat…and another apple to peel.

Then she’d asked me about work and we’d talked about nothing and everything.

Until it came to…

Cheese.

She smiles up at me, hands still layering. “Yes,” she says as though imparting state secrets—and I suppose she is considering how much I heard about the deliciousness that is Stella’s apple pie over the short time I’ve known her son. “It melts beneath the apples and makes everything creamy.” A sigh, clearly appreciative of all the healing properties of cheese.

(I approve).

“And it adds a contrast to all of the sweetness in the filling. You can make it without it,” she says, nodding at me to pick up the bowl of apples we’ve peeled and sliced and coated with sugar and cinnamon, “but it’s not nearly as good.”

“I’m excited to try it,” I tell her honestly after I’ve dumped the apples into the cheese-filled crust. I set the bowl in the sink and start to wash up.

“We’ll give you the first slice,” she says as she slides the pie into the oven. “With ice cream.”

“That sounds delicious.”

She blows on her knuckles, buffs them on her shoulder. “Oh, it will be. Maybe we’ll eat the whole thing and not leave a crumb for King and his buddies.” Her grin is so mischievous, so much like King’s when he’s pushing my buttons that I can’t help but grin back, my belly filling with butterflies. “It would be the least that little stinker deserves after all the gray hairs he gave me.”

I open my mouth, intending to ask her for her best story—purely for fake fiancée research purposes (and not for blackmail), but her phone starts ringing.

“Excuse me,” she says, hitting the button to silence the call. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, that’s okay.” I snag the sponge, start scrubbing the sides of the bowl. “I’ll clean up here. You can go ahead and?—”

She swipes the sponge from my hands. “Nice try, honey. You cooked and did the dishes last night. The least I can do is clean up after myself today.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I hedge. “Plus, you’d traveled all day. I’m sure you were tired.”

Stella dries her hands on a towel then reaches over and touches my cheek. “You’re a sweet girl.”

I suck in a breath.

“I was tired, but I could have managed. It was nice of you to be understanding of me barging in though, and to go a step further and cook and clean.” Her touch turns into her cupping my cheek. “I see it, and I appreciate it.”

“Stella,” I whisper.

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