Page 84 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“How’s the pie situation?” he asks, sliding his arms around Hazel’s waist and pressing a kiss to her temple.
“Perfect,” Hazel says, leaning back against him. “Amber and Tally have officially restored my faith in holiday desserts.”
“Good, because I may have promised the kids they could have pie for breakfast tomorrow if they actually went to bed tonight without negotiating.”
“Pie for breakfast?” I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s Christmas week,” Jack says with the logic of a man who’s clearly been outnumbered by small people. “Normal rules don’t apply.”
And he’s right. Normal rules don’t apply. Not to Christmas morning, not to kids who want to wear princess dresses while building Legofortresses, not to seventeen-year-olds who might just have found their calling over a bowl of whipped cream.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I glance down to see Brett’s name on the screen.
Brett: How’s Christmas at the Hensley House?
I snap a quick photo of our pie setup, complete with Tally’s perfect whipped cream quenelles and Ellen photobombing in the background with her princess dress and chocolate-smeared face.
Me: Grandma’s recipe lives on. Tally might be a pastry prodigy.
Brett: Save me a slice? I’m bringing coffee by later, if that’s okay.
My heart does this little skip thing that I’m trying very hard to pretend is just holiday excitement and not the fact that Brett wants to spend part of his Christmas with us.
Me: Always room for one more. Fair warning: chaos levels are high.
Brett: My favorite kind.
I tuck my phone away and catch Hazel watching me with that knowing smile that means she definitely saw me grinning like a teenager at my text messages.
“Brett coming by?” she asks innocently.
“Just dropping off coffee.”
“Uh-huh. On Christmas day. To drop off coffee. Very casual.”
“Hazel.”
“I’m just saying, the man knows good timing. Pie and coffee and Christmas afternoon? That’s practically a date.”
“It’s not a date. It’s...” I pause, trying to figure out what it actually is. “It’s complicated.”
“Honey, the best things usually are.”
Before I can overthink that statement, Ellen comes spinning into the kitchen like a sparkly tornado, Scout following behind her with his bow slightly askew and the patient expression of a dog who’s accepted his festive fate.
“Mom! Mom! Can we give Scout some pie? He’s been very good today, and he helped me open presents by sitting on the wrapping paper so it wouldn’t blow away.”
“Sweetie, dogs can’t eat pie. It’s not good for them.”
“But it’s Christmas pie! Christmas pie is different!”
“Christmas pie is still pie, baby.”
Ellen considers this with the seriousness of a girl negotiating international treaties. “What if we give him a tiny piece? Like, mouse-sized?”
“How about we give him one of his special Christmas dog treats instead?”
“Fine,” she sighs dramatically. “But, Scout, you’re missing out. This pie is magical.”
