Free How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie by Gina Henning

I’m not going to be specific about my job. No one can force a conversation.
    I gaze out the window, letting the question sit. There is no need to discuss my 9 to 5, I work hard for my money, Donna Summer definitely sings it better, but it has always been my mantra. I try and smooth down my hair, which is not possible. I dig into my purse and find my red bandana. I wish I would have thought to use it earlier. Brianna has a convertible and loves to drive with the top down. I wrap the red bandana on my head.
    “Credit. You could earn some with only two small ounces of pecans.”
    “Let’s say I was interested in offering two small ounces of pecans, what type of credit would I get in return?” Jack leers in my direction.
    I hope he is not speaking in sexual innuendos. “You would earn a good Samaritan credit.” I raise my eyebrow and turn to face him.
    “Hmm…but I’ve already got one of those.” Jack eyes me with a sheepish grin. “For picking up a stranded woman in a hail storm.”
    Shiat.
He has a point. I’ll have to try another route. “Have you lived in Texas your whole life?” I tap my fingers against my knees.
    There, this ought to temper the heat in the car. I reach forward and turn down the red arrow. I’m plenty warm at this point. It’s time for him to do some sharing. I answered his question, one I didn’t want to answer honestly. Now, my question to him is bigger and requires a thoughtful response. Maybe he will even share a holiday memory from his youth. I bet he was a cute child. He has a playfulness in those baby blues.
    “So is your offer of credit in exchange for pecans off the table?” He glances my way with those eyes—eyes that you would want to sit by the fire with and watch the flames reflecting in them, maybe even get close enough—
Uh, Lauren, snap out of it.
    Aargh, what is wrong with this man? Why can’t he hit the balls I serve him? Why does he keep letting them fall to the ground and then reroute the discussion? This isn’t how the game is played. Or not the game I’m used to for that matter.
    I laugh. “No, it’s not. If you want some credit, I could write you a really nice review for Uber and then you could make this a full time thing.” I wave my hands around the car.
    Jack smirks. “You’re a funny gal.”
    I grin. “So, where’d you grow up?” I fidget with my skirt. It’s still a bunched-up mess. Though it’s getting a little drier thanks to the heated seats and warm air flowing at me. My face is dry. I can’t wait to get home and peel myself out of this sticky outfit and climb into the shower. Well, this time I might opt for a long, hot bath when I get home versus another round of hot/cold, dribble/splat. Who needs that?
    Jack hasn’t answered my question. I’m hoping and pleading for the love of all things holy that he isn’t going to ask me anything further about my job. I wouldn’t have such an aversion to career discussions if it weren’t for my brain being sent through the inferno one too many times in previous conversations with other people about it. I take a deep breath.
    He has a few “wisdom highlights”, mostly blond, and a strong jawline. His profile makes his full lips appear to be in an almost permanent pout. I want to bite them.
Get a grip on yourself.
This is the pecan scalper.
    “I grew up in a small town outside of Dallas.”
    He doesn’t even take a peek in my direction. Surely he can feel my eyes wandering all over him. Am I not appealing at all? Before the ice situation, my outfit was cute. My shirt hasn’t dried and I have goose bumps on my legs and arms. Other things are protruding as well. I’m still wavering on the borderline of almost-not-cold and maybe-not-going-to-die-of-frostbite. There’s a mixture of pellets and raindrops tinging against the car as we crawl on the icy asphalt. Jack is driving around twenty miles per hour. We’re driving at a school zone speed.
    “Are you driving slowly because of the