But I have nothing to say, and I turn back around in my chair. My attention goes back to Sax, who’s still gawking at her. My chest tightens and my pulse thickens.
“Stop drooling like an asshole.”
He looks over to me. “You must not see what I see, because she is one beautiful woman.”
I want to punch my only friend.
How dare he look at her like that?
“Do you know who she is?” I say, in a measured tone.
“No, do you?”
“Yes. She’s not fucking available.”
He leans back to a normal sitting position. “Oh, I see. You’re already in pursuit.” He holds his hands up in surrender, not daring to challenge me.
“Something like that.” I might as well let him think that, even though nothing could be further from the truth. I wouldn’t chase her if my life depended on it. She destroyed my family.
But that doesn’t mean Sax can have her.
Or maybe I don’t want anybody to have her. Let her be miserable and alone.
My hands ball into fists under the table. What is this magnetic draw to her then?
I catch the eye of the waitress and lift my glass to signal another. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Aspen walk through the restaurant, not seeing me, and she heads into the kitchen. The waitress brings my beer to me, and I chug half of it immediately to dilute the pull in my body to follow Aspen.
A few minutes later, I hear that laugh. Her laugh. Coming all the way from the kitchen.
The doors to the kitchen swing open, and Aspen walks out with the country club’s head chef. She’s a large, smiling woman with frizzy, brown hair, and they’re hooting and hollering about something, and I grind my back teeth. I turn my head so Aspen doesn’t see me. Then, I turn to look over my other shoulder and see her walk out of the restaurant. She returns a moment later, carrying pies.
I try to pay attention to my conversation with Sax, but with every other word, I’m thinking of her golden hair and red lips. He doesn’t seem to notice, so long as I keep nodding and going along with whatever he’s saying.
The waitress comes back and asks us if we need anything else.
“I’d like a slice of pie,” I say, without even thinking.
“Pie? Seriously?” Sax asks. “I’ve never known you to eat pie in your life.”
“We just had the pies delivered,” says the waitress with a bounce. “They’re so good! Made locally. I think we have cherry today.”
“Fine. Cherry.” I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I have to taste her pie. My pulse quickens at the accidental double meaning. The literal one will have to do. For now.
Christ. What am I thinking?
A minute later, the server returns with a slice of cherry pie and two forks. I stare at it, noticing the full, round, succulent cherries. The buttery crust, rich and delicate, like Aspen’s curves. I breathe in through my nose. I notice the wet and shiny pie filling. I exhale. I’m almost afraid to taste it. What if I like it?
“Earth to Ryker.” Sax waves his hand in front of my face. “Are you gonna eat it? Hurry up. Our tee time is in ten minutes.”
“No. I don’t want it anymore.” I stand up from the table.
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” he says and follows suit.
We head to the locker room to change into our golf shoes, and I stop. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I turn the other way and head toward the kitchen. I walk through the doors, and the afternoon lunch rush has passed, so the staff is cleaning the kitchen and prepping for dinner. I strain my neck, looking around for the executive chef.
There. I spot her. She’s wearing purple cheater glasses on a chain and looking down at a clipboard, taking inventory or something. I approach her. “Excuse me, chef?” She looks up, alarmed, not recognizing me. “Yes? What can I do for you?” She pushes her glasses up on her head.
“The pies that just came in, that Aspen brought.”
“Yes? They’re amazing. Best I’ve ever had. What about them?”
“I’d like Aspen’s contact information,” I say.
She eyes me warily, and I continue, “I’d like to talk to her about placing an order.” I don’t want to lie. I’ll order pies for my dad’s office to make it legit.
She pulls out her phone. “Yes, I have a number to her restaurant, Gabby’s Rooster, right here.”
“Do you have her cell phone number?”
“Oh?” she says, raising her eyebrows at me, but we members get what we ask for. I shift my stance and wait. Let her assume whatever she wants.
I don’t even know why I’m back here in the kitchen getting Aspen’s number. But I want it.
I give the chef my friendliest smile, and she says, “I do have it. Let me find it.” She puts on her purple glasses and scrolls through her phone. She pauses to look up at me over the glasses and adds, “I should tell you, Aspen is a very busy woman. She’s about to be much busier. I’m not sure if she’s doing small orders.”
“That’s OK, I’ll try anyway,” I assure her.
She clears her throat. “Uh-huh. Well, a friendly tip. I’ve been ordering her pies since she came back from Arizona. She works her butt off at the bistro. Like I said, a very busy woman. A very nice woman.”
A young guy, just a teenager, walks by rolling a noisy cart with a wobbly wheel, and I have to step back and let him pass.
The chef continues, one eyebrow lifted, “And she just told me she’s putting in an offer on The Rose Hotel, so I don’t know… just don’t get your hopes up.” She looks at me, and then adds, “For ordering pies, I mean.”
Is she warning me?
What the hell, Ms. Non-matchmaker?
Stick to food.
Besides, I’m not after Aspen.
I just want her number.
I don’t respond. She purses her
