Sweet as Pie (Spring Hills Book 1), стр. 41
I turn on the lights, and I make myself a cup of hot coffee before sitting down in a booth. I’ll need all my energy for the kids. I take my phone out of my purse, and I’m about to text Mom, when I see a text message from Jessica.
Jessica: Did you see the review on Yelp? >:(
Me: Uh-oh. No. What did it say?
Jessica: Don’t freak out, but it wasn’t positive.
Me: Stand by.
I open up the Yelp app and tap the link to Gabby’s Rooster, and there it is. The latest review, one star! I open my mouth in horror as I read about how much this reviewer hated my pie. It’s a stab in my chest, and my breathing turns shallow. I sit there for a moment, stunned and deflated. I can’t believe someone didn’t like my pie.
Aspen: That’s awful!
Jessica: They don’t know what they’re talking about. Still, sorry. :(
Anxiety sours my stomach, and I frown.
Me: This sucks.
Jessica: I know it’s hard, but try not to think about it. The overall average is stellar! You can’t please everyone, girl. Besides, you’ve got great things ahead! I heard the inspection got moved up. Exciting!
Me: Yes, in a couple of days, we’ll be full speed ahead, I hope. Well, thanks for letting me know about the review.
Jessica: At least you have your favorite customers coming in soon. They’ll cheer you up.
Me: Yeah, you’re right. Talk to you later.
I close the messaging app. My heart weighs heavy in my chest, and I slouch my shoulders. I wish I hadn’t seen that review. I should stop reading them, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
I sigh.
Somebody didn’t like my pie.
What’s not to like?
I let the review take me down a dark rabbit hole. Putting myself out there with things like this—food—well, you’re going to get reviews.
But what if people stop coming in for my pie because of the review?
What if I’m just dreaming about this bed-and-breakfast, and I can’t pull it off? All this time, I just push-push-push, confident in my abilities. But what if somebody leaves a bad review for The Rose? What if we get a lot of bad reviews? Bookings could drop off. I could go bankrupt! I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh.
I waste enough time in this dreary space, and my alarm goes off, letting me know I have an hour before the kids arrive. I have to get up and set out the ingredients. As I scoot my butt from the booth and stand up to go into the kitchen, the bells above the door ring, and I glance up. Ryker walks in.
My heart picks up its beat. He’s carrying his black journal and wearing faded, soft blue jeans that hang perfectly on his waist, and a navy-blue, V-neck T-shirt that’s, again, a size too small if you ask me, because my hands are itching to run themselves all over his beefy chest and biceps. He’s also wearing Reef leather flip-flops. Even his toes are sexy.
Wait.
Why is he here?
And what did I last decide about him?
I was mad at him, right?
Yes, I was mad.
I am mad at him right now!
And I’m mad at that reviewer!
I scowl, and my eyes wet as I remember the bad review.
He cuts the distance between us in four powerful strides, my heart pounding heavier with each one, and he sets his journal on the dining table. “Aspen. What’s wrong?” Concern etches his face, and he puts his hands on my shoulders. My skin overheats under his strong touch.
I wave him off and blink back my tears. “Nothing.” I shrug, and before I know what I’m doing, I open up. “I got a bad review on Yelp.”
“A bad review?” He cocks his head and wrinkles his eyebrows. “What did it say?”
“Ohhh… just that my pie sucked. It ‘lacked passion,’” I say with air quotes, “whatever the fuck that means. And it had ‘horrible mouth feel,’” I say flippantly and head to the kitchen.
He follows me back there, which I find funny. Until yesterday, I considered him just a customer, and his coming into the kitchen would’ve been inappropriate. But since he helped me make pies last night, I guess it’s earned him certain privileges. With the kitchen.
He stands there and leans against the counter, looking at his phone. Then he blurts out, “Fucker! No passion? Mouth feel? What the hell kind of bullshit is that, anyway?”
I smile inwardly… he’s on my side. He puts his phone away. “Want me to have that reviewer kneecapped? I’m a billionaire,” he says, his eyes flashing. “I’m sure there are people I can call.” And he’s so serious that I crack up with a full-on belly laugh. I slap my hand on the counter and shake my head. I think I’m delirious.
Then, I look at his face, and he cracks a big smile. My heart leaps from my chest in its attempt to reach his, like a trapeze artist flying to her partner. And in that moment, I want him to have my heart. It’s that simple. I was so alone ten minutes ago, sad and scared, insecure, and then he came in, and, well… I wanted to share my problem with him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he helped carry my burden. Even made me laugh over it!
And so, now I want to cry. What is wrong with me? Hormones? I’m a mess. Part of me—from my neck down—is light, warm, and bubbly. But the other part—my unyielding head—is tense, hard, and frosty.
Ugh! Who has time for this?
I tuck my feelings away. I’ll unpack them later. Maybe.
But he’s looking at me with such tenderness in his beautiful green eyes. “I love your laugh so much, Aspen.”
“Yeah. Thanks. You mentioned that once.” I blush, and some