“What kind of pie do you have?”
“Boston Cream, French silk, cherry, and apple.” The man’s voice was a lazy drawl and Nicky found it a little arousing.
Nicky tried to give the man a smile. “I’ll take a slice of French Silk and a slice of Boston Cream, please.”
The big man chuckled. “Got a sweet tooth, do ya?”
“More like depressed as hell,” Nicky muttered.
“Oh, well then, you sure I can’t bring you a slice of each?”
Nicky laughed. “Nope, two will do. I don’t need to get fat on top of everything else.”
The guy’s eyes raked over him and Nicky was sure he didn’t misinterpret the way he was being appraised. Nicky watched as he cut the pie and brought it over. “Whipped cream?”
“No thanks,” Nicky said.
“Doubt it would pack on any extra pounds,” the man quipped.
“Fine, whipped cream,” Nicky relented, his eyes widening a little as the guy piled it on.
“Eat up.” The big man chuckled before he resumed wiping down the counters.
Nicky took his time eating the pie, savoring it. It was really, really good. So good he couldn’t help but close his eyes and slowly chew several bites, allowing the flavors to roll over his tongue as the anger and tension of the day finally began to melt away.
“Wow, you really love pie; don’t you?”
Nicky’s eyes popped open to find the man watching him. He felt his cheeks heat up a bit as he averted his gaze.
“It’s, umm, really good,” Nicky said. “Chef must be awesome.”
“I am, thanks.”