Page 19 of The Charm of You

“It’s quite all right, sweetheart, but I do need a favor from you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Anything.” I follow her through the hall, and the fall scent grows stronger as we near the kitchen. My attention drops to the counter, where a homemade apple pie is nestled inside a ceramic dish, its crust golden and its smell divine.

Instantly, my stomach gurgles to life. In the city, we have all kinds of bakeries and small shops full of pastries and baked goods, but nothing compares to the love and care my mama puts into an apple pie.

“Can you please take this over to Suzanne? She just lives a couple of streets over.”

“What’s this for?” I ask. Knowing this town, it’s probably a “get well soon” or a “congratulations” pie, so I’m curious as to what event this is commemorating.

“I owe her after—” Mama’s phone buzzes on the counter between us with an incoming call. “Sorry, honey. I need to take this.”

While she answers, she jots down an address onto a napkin and hands it me, mouthing, “Thank you.”

I secure the white-and-red checkered covering over the dish, careful not to cause any cracks in the crust, and I wave to Mama before she disappears into the living room. She drifts into conversation with whoever’s on the other end of the call, and her faint voice follows me out the door.

A few minutes later, I pull into a driveway behind a pickup truck and revel in the lack of traffic around here. I’ve been living in the city for so long that I nearly forgot what a pain in the ass it truly is, no matter how accustomed I become to it.

Zero traffic is a game changer.

Fabulous pink azaleas line the cobblestoned path leading up to a sturdy porch. I saunter down the path, admiring the sweet and expert details.

This house looks nearly new, much different in comparison to my mother’s. Her porch creaks like its arthritis is flaring up, and the weathered steps leading up to it have seen better days. I don’t think they’ve been touched up since I was a junior in high school.

This house, though, is immaculate. The landscaping, the freshly painted chairs, and the healthy potted plants decorating the front door are very impressive, yet cozy. It could be on the cover of Southern Living.

I’m still marveling at the setup when the door swings open, revealing a not-so-friendly face. The brute throws the door open like it possesses the weight of a leaf. It’s enough to jolt me backward, and the ceramic dish with the pie rattles in my trembling grasp.

“What’re you… doing here?” I sputter as my body works overtime to restore its normal temperature and heart rate.

Instead of inviting me in, Austin steps onto the porch and shuts the door behind him, nudging me even farther back, until my hip leans against the railing.

“I live here,” he bites out, then nods to the side toward what appears to be an apartment over the garage. A dark curtain obscures most of the window, so I’m not privy to what’s inside, but there are stairs trailing up to a door with a mat on its threshold.

“That’s lovely,” I chirp, but it sounds more like a squeal. “Everything is lovely. The flowers, the truck. Everything,” I say, trying again not to stumble over my words, but I’m failing.

My hesitation isn’t at all because the compliments aren’t genuine; it’s because of Austin. The wrinkle between his angry brows is deeper than it was this morning.

He’s tall and intimidating, especially when he folds his impressive arms over his chest. Gone is the flannel he donned at the bakery earlier, thanks to the rise in afternoon temperatures, and I’m finally able to prove he is fabulously built, indeed. His biceps are flawlessly curved, with a large vein running through them on either side. Before now, I thought such a phenomenon only existed on rugged male models or guys on the covers of romance novels.

It’s positively sexy, and heat flares in my cheeks, as if I’m partaking in something naughty out in the open—which I guess I am, considering how hard I’m ogling the man.

“I’m sorry… to intrude.” I force a swallow to wet my dry throat. “I think I have the wrong house. My mom asked me to deliver this apple pie to Suzanne, but this?—”

“I’ll take it.” He juts a large hand out toward me, his frown unwavering like it’s forged in cement.

I hoist it out of his reach. “I’m not running a free pie service here. My mother baked this for her friend, and that’s who I’m going to give it to. She must’ve just jotted down the wrong address.”

A faint tic jumps in Austin’s clenched jaw, and he squints to study me through dark, cloudy eyes. I didn’t notice all the different shades of blue in them this morning, but out here in the sunshine, even with the obvious distaste swirling in his irises, I’m mesmerized. They boast such a unique blend of oceanic colors.

Neither of us speaks while we stare each other down like we’re in a stand-off, although I don’t know why.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize I should take the apple pie back to my car and call Mama for the right address. But my feet are planted in place with determination to make amends with this sulky man. He’s clearly enraged over my snafu this morning, and it doesn’t sit well with me.

He’s the first to break, clearing his throat. “Suzanne is my mother.”

I blink.

“Your mom owes her the pie because she lost to my mom at the dumb game of Wess they made up.”

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