Page 87 of Love on the Waiver Wire

It’s always some random, dramatic excuse.

But God, I really hate making pies.

So every single year, the day before the stupid fucking holiday party, I amble around my apartment preparing myself mentally to bake a handful of pies.

I never know how many specifically until the afternoon, when Leo gets an official headcount of who’s still around.

But Isla, can’t you ask your friends to help?

That’s a great question. Yes, I can. And they’ve come to help before, sure. But all three of them usually travel somewhere else for thanksgiving, which means they’re usually not home.

It’s just me and my demons… and the pies.

But this year I have something else.

Owen.

The text comes at exactly six P.M.

I open my door quickly, worried about Leo ambling into the hallway, and pull Owen and the bags of groceries into my place. Leo has been great at not barging into my apartment lately, and I’m praying on my life and Owen’s that he doesn’t start.

I’m hoping him knowing I’m still pissed does helps me out.

“We have to make nine pies,” I tell him.

Owen’s eyes open wide as saucers, looking around the kitchen. “Nine?”

“Yeah. Nine. Nine pies, Owen.”

“You do this every year?”

I roll my eyes, nodding.

He starts taking ingredients out of bags as he watches me smash pie dough together. “I have two questions,” he asks, and the glimmer in his eye makes me stop what I’m doing, concerned. “First, what the hell are you wearing?”

I look down at myself, not seeing anything wrong with it. The ovens are going to be on all night, and it gets hot in here every year. I simply pulled on a pair of shorts I don’t mind getting coated in flour and sports bra, and on top of that, I have a simple black apron.

Turning to face him, I turn right and left, letting him check my apron out. “It’s a basic piece of cloth you use while cooking. Super great invention if you ask me,” I tell him with a smile.

“You know what I mean,” he says, throwing a stick of butter.

“Just you wait, you’re going to be begging to strip off those jeans later, Crosby,” I warn, throwing the butter back.

“We’ll see,” he says simply as he catches the butter with one hand without even looking, setting it on the counter with the other sticks.

Heat swirls in my belly, and I mentally scold myself.

No! Not right now! Nope! This isn’t’ happening. We are baking! Baking isn’t a sexy activity!

We could challenge that though, couldn’t we?

I shake my head. I’d rather not.

Baking is serious.

“Okay second question,” Owen starts, interrupting my inner monologue. “is why you have to make homemade dough? Why not get a bunch of pre-made stuff?”

My lips tighten into a straight line as I look at him coolly. “Have you met my brother?” I ask.

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