Read Online How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie by Gina Henning - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gina Henning
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ounces of pecans. My grandmother’s prize winning pecan pie recipe depends on it. Even if Megan and possibly the rest of my family thinks I’ll fail. I refuse to give in to this possibility. I read the instructions and I am following them to a “P”. I trekked out to the middle of nowhere for the exact pecans. I’ve encountered a flat tire, been bludgeoned by ice and now have to sit with a guy who is sending so many mixed signals. It’s like he can’t decide how he feels about me. I don’t really care. I’m only home for the holidays. Even if I was interested in him, I definitely would not want to be in a long-distance relationship again. I made a vow to myself after Scott, the next guy in my life was going to have to be local. No more commuting and weekend trips. No thank you.
I inhale and exhale. I wish my phone wasn’t dead. I really want to call Brianna and unload about my day and Mr. Business, Mr. Mixed Messages.
Definitely a focused driver, he rarely takes his eyes off the road. His hands are not gripping the wheel as tightly as mine would be in this type of driving condition. Yet, he doesn’t appear to be relaxed. His shoulders are large and rounded, covered by his button-down shirt. He seems so formal, from his attire down to his uptight mannerisms to match. I want to make him lose his cool, in a fun way.
My eyes work their way up to his hair—dark blond and perfectly trimmed. He probably has a weekly appointment with a reminder on his phone. An appointment he never misses. This guy screams on time and consistent.
He’s certainly been consistent about his interest in me. He hardly looks my way. And when he does, it’s definitely not in the “checking me out” type of way that I normally encounter.
This doesn’t give a gal any validation in her appearance. Oh, that’s right. I don’t exactly reflect an image of desire, other than a before picture for a full-blown makeover.
My outfit is still wet and clinging to my body. My hair is matted down in a wet frizz while my make-up… Well, it’s probably fine. Always buy waterproof—that’s my motto. It doesn’t matter what the product is, if there’s a waterproof option, waterproof is what I get.
I give Mr. Business a once-over. I semi-frown, bothered he’s acting so uninterested in me. How superficial to decide that he isn’t interested in me because of my appearance. Of course, he could be married or dating someone. Why do I care? I’m not interested in him. He’s too vague and doesn’t share. I can imagine if we were on a date, and he ordered a slice of delicious chocolate cake, and I asked for a bite, he would most likely say no. What am I doing? This guy isn’t date material. Besides, my pursuit is for pecans not a guy.
“So, Mr. Georgetown-at-the-moment, what do you do to pass the time between your pecan hoarding and storm rescues?” My lips form into a smirk because I’m amused at myself.
“Though I do enjoy your description of me, please call me Jack,” he says and unravels my smirk with his eyes. “I own an architecture firm in Dallas.”
“Jack. Jack. Hmmm, nice. Very fitting.” I nod. I’m being overly dramatic on purpose. Judging from his stoic appearance, I have to assume he isn’t into it.
“Fitting? What keeps you busy in Maryland?” He raises an eyebrow at me and a sparkle forms over his eyes. Hmm, if I wasn’t mistaken they have a tiny hint of playfulness to them.
“I work in finance.” I wiggle in my seat.
Now it’s me whose eyes are on the road. I don’t want to have the credit card company argument. On my better days, this isn’t a debate I’d want to take on and definitely not today—a day where I have been bludgeoned by ice and suffered from a bad case of road rash. No, this is not my finest and besides, I wouldn’t even want to entertain the idea of a very personal discussion with Jack, the pecan scalper.
“Finance?” He peers in my direction. “Are you a pecan financier?”
I laugh.
I inhale and exhale. I wish my phone wasn’t dead. I really want to call Brianna and unload about my day and Mr. Business, Mr. Mixed Messages.
Definitely a focused driver, he rarely takes his eyes off the road. His hands are not gripping the wheel as tightly as mine would be in this type of driving condition. Yet, he doesn’t appear to be relaxed. His shoulders are large and rounded, covered by his button-down shirt. He seems so formal, from his attire down to his uptight mannerisms to match. I want to make him lose his cool, in a fun way.
My eyes work their way up to his hair—dark blond and perfectly trimmed. He probably has a weekly appointment with a reminder on his phone. An appointment he never misses. This guy screams on time and consistent.
He’s certainly been consistent about his interest in me. He hardly looks my way. And when he does, it’s definitely not in the “checking me out” type of way that I normally encounter.
This doesn’t give a gal any validation in her appearance. Oh, that’s right. I don’t exactly reflect an image of desire, other than a before picture for a full-blown makeover.
My outfit is still wet and clinging to my body. My hair is matted down in a wet frizz while my make-up… Well, it’s probably fine. Always buy waterproof—that’s my motto. It doesn’t matter what the product is, if there’s a waterproof option, waterproof is what I get.
I give Mr. Business a once-over. I semi-frown, bothered he’s acting so uninterested in me. How superficial to decide that he isn’t interested in me because of my appearance. Of course, he could be married or dating someone. Why do I care? I’m not interested in him. He’s too vague and doesn’t share. I can imagine if we were on a date, and he ordered a slice of delicious chocolate cake, and I asked for a bite, he would most likely say no. What am I doing? This guy isn’t date material. Besides, my pursuit is for pecans not a guy.
“So, Mr. Georgetown-at-the-moment, what do you do to pass the time between your pecan hoarding and storm rescues?” My lips form into a smirk because I’m amused at myself.
“Though I do enjoy your description of me, please call me Jack,” he says and unravels my smirk with his eyes. “I own an architecture firm in Dallas.”
“Jack. Jack. Hmmm, nice. Very fitting.” I nod. I’m being overly dramatic on purpose. Judging from his stoic appearance, I have to assume he isn’t into it.
“Fitting? What keeps you busy in Maryland?” He raises an eyebrow at me and a sparkle forms over his eyes. Hmm, if I wasn’t mistaken they have a tiny hint of playfulness to them.
“I work in finance.” I wiggle in my seat.
Now it’s me whose eyes are on the road. I don’t want to have the credit card company argument. On my better days, this isn’t a debate I’d want to take on and definitely not today—a day where I have been bludgeoned by ice and suffered from a bad case of road rash. No, this is not my finest and besides, I wouldn’t even want to entertain the idea of a very personal discussion with Jack, the pecan scalper.
“Finance?” He peers in my direction. “Are you a pecan financier?”
I laugh.
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