Free How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie by Gina Henning Page A

rain?”
    “Not really the rain, more because of the ice.”
    He gives nothing away. Is he always this reserved? It’s not like he’s so much older than me that we can’t have a decent conversation. I’ll make him enjoy my company. By the time I get out of his car, he’ll be kicking himself for not capitalizing on the small amount of time he could have made enjoyable instead of stuffy.
    “The ice, or is it because you just want to make the time with me last?” I’m batting my eyelashes coyly. The perfect flirty ball has been wrapped up in ribbons and tossed his way. This is such a soft ball, he can easily knock it out of the park, or at least get us to first base in this conversation.
    “Icy roads are dangerous, miss.”
    Strike. Maybe he isn’t a ball player. Not your average guy, this is for sure.
    “Miss? Jack, I’m going to walk out on the ice and ask that you call me Lauren.”
    “I thought you wanted to keep this ride professional.” Jack smiles at me.
Ouch
. That smile makes me weak. His irises are flickering between light shades of blue with only a hint of green. They’re sparkling at me. Calling my name. I break the trance and stare out the window. The charmer in this car has already been determined. We aren’t switching roles midway through because of those forever blues. In fact, I’m going to charm those pecans from him.
    Self-assured, I focus my attention on him. “So, what did you plan on making with your multiple bags of pecans?”
    Jack raises an eyebrow. “Pie.”
    “Pecan pie. Do you have a recipe?”
    “Yes.”
    “I have a recipe, too. A family recipe that has been passed down to me from my grandmother. This is my first year making the pie.”
    Why am I becoming such an oversharer? It must be his monosyllabic answers.
    The lime numbers on his dashboard show it’s 4:58 p.m. This is not good. I still need to pick up the other ingredients for my pie and Aurora’s list, too. At this rate of travel, I won’t make it home until after six, and who knows if any stores will still be open?
    The car slides across the road. Jack slows down even more. Another set of light green numbers claim that it’s thirty degrees. Great
,
the temperature is below freezing. Central Texas weather can change by forty degrees in only a few hours. Predictably unpredictable pretty much sums it up. I shake my head thinking about those silly bumper stickers that read “If you don’t like the weather in Texas, stick around, it’ll change.”
    “Do you know what time the stores might be closing today?” I ask, hoping he’ll say something late like nine or ten.
    “Normally things close around six on the day before Thanksgiving,” Jack glances my way with that pensive stare, as if he’s trying to read through me and figure me out.
    We’re still many miles from home on this empty, ice-covered road. Happy Thanksgiving Eve!
    “This is not my day.” I lean my head back in aggravation. “I still need to pick up some ingredients for my pie at a grocery store. Do you think you could drop me off at one, and then I can call my family to get me?”
    “Sure,” he says with his eyes back on the road.
    It’s 5:30 p.m. At this pace, I can’t imagine how much longer it will take before we see civilization, let alone an actual grocery store.
    “Do you have a cell phone I could use?” I ask. Why didn’t I think to ask this earlier?
    “Of course.” Jack digs a phone out of his pocket and gives it to me.
    His fingers graze my palm. They’re a mixture of rough and soft bristles, like a well-used paintbrush. Little tingles pulse up my arm. The lightest touch from him and my body is heated like a furnace. Jack pulls his hand back. I try to compose myself and pretend I didn’t feel that surge of electricity.
    I take his Blackberry. I type in my parents’ ten digits and wait for a ringing sound. Nothing happens. The display shows there’s no signal.
    “Here you go.” I sigh.
    “No signal. How convenient.” He