Page 42 of Olivia's Only Pretending
“Hey, we haven’t done the pie walk!” I said, sounding like I was straight out of a holiday movie.
“Oh yeah.” Victor nodded. “Lead the way.”
We made it over to the pie walk area. They were folding up the chairs and knocking down the table. I felt my heart sink.
“Oh, we missed it,” Victor said, pulling me to his side in a consolatory hug. “Want to go find pie somewhere else?”
“You guys want some pie?” a woman with tight gray curls, who’d eyed us as we walked up, said from her spot, wrapping up a tablecloth. “We have two slices of pecan pie left.”
Victor tilted his head in question.
“We’ll take ’em!” I said.
We walked over to my favorite tree, nestled under the shade, and dug our forks into our slices of pie.
“I feel like pecan pie is so underrated. It tastes so autumnal,” I said around a mouthful of gooey, nutty goodness.
Victor nodded, with a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Mom used to always have us go outside and pick up a bag of pecans and then shell them every fall so she could make a pecan pie for Thanksgiving.” His tone was warm, nostalgic.
The golden hour glow made everything feel softer around the edges. The evening stretched before us.
I shifted slightly, turning my head toward him. “Hey, I wanted to ask—” But before I could finish my sentence, my paper plate wobbled where it rested on my knee before flipping over.
We both stared at it lying dramatically face down on the grass.
My mouth hung open. Victor’s eyes were wide.
“My pie,” I gasped.
“Your pie!” he shouted in shock, slapping a palm over his mouth. “Liv, I’m so sorry.”
I shook my head, a laugh deep in my chest bubbling up. “My poor pie.”
He held out his plate. “Take mine.”
“I’m not stealing your slice,” I said with an arched brow. But then, with a grin, I grabbed his fork, scooping a big bite. “But I will share it.”
We passed the fork back and forth, sitting shoulder to shoulder under the shade of the tree. This closeness felt so easy. The sun was almost completely set, leaving the sky purple and pink and the October air crisp.
“What were you saying before you lost your pie?” Victor asked as I chewed a bite.
“Oh …” I handed him the fork. “I was going to ask you how your business plans are going. You were supposed to show them to me. You know, the arch at the wedding and the shelves at Coffees and Commas would be great in your portfolio.” The oak shelves at Coffees and Commas, with their intricate ivy detailing along the edges, were stunning. Almost every time I waited in line for coffee, someone pointed them out and commented on how beautiful and unique they were.
Victor swallowed his bite. “I know. I’ve been planning to show them to you, but then I keep putting it off. I mean, you’re the only person I can imagine showing right now, but also … I really don’t want you to look them over and then laugh at me.”
“Victor Hernandez, do you really think I would ever laugh at you?” I leaned across him, my arm brushing across his denimed knee, and grabbed the fork. I peered up at him through my auburn hair, dangling in my eyes.
He narrowed his eyes. “You laugh at me daily.”
“Maybe. But I’d never laugh at someone making the brave choice, taking a chance on themselves. There’s nothing funny about that.” I kept my arm against his leg, and my body leaned toward him.
His eyes were hooked on mine.
“I can’t wait for you to get this business started—to see your work popping up all over Sweet River.”
He put his hand on my wrist where it rested on his knee. “You don’t think …” He took a beat. “You don’t think there’s a chance people will think that I’m delusional and my pieces are not really as great as I think they are—or hope they are?”
I shook my head vehemently. “Not a single chance.”
