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

tosses it in the car’s cup holder. It jiggles back and forth in the circle until it decides on a location. The phone in the holder is kind of like me and this day—wobbling around all over. I’m so disconnected and out of my comfort zone.
    “Seriously, this follows suit for my
day
. It’s been anything but convenient.” I make circles with my fingers and pop them open as I lean my head back in angst. Locks that would normally flow softly instead crunch as the messy frizz nest catches on the headrest. I slump my shoulders and sigh.
    “Really? I would think being rescued from that ice storm was…
convenient
,” Jack says and turns my way. I can’t quite place the look on his face; is it annoyance or is it pride?
    My eyebrows wrinkle. “Yes, the pecan hoarder who ‘rescued me’.” I air quote for dramatic purposes even though technically he did rescue me. But do we really have to say it?
    Jack’s eyes are wide, and a vein throbs on his neck. I can’t read these signals. I don’t know him that well,
yet
. Regardless of how he might be feeling, I shouldn’t have said that.
    “I’m sorry.” I brush his arm. Warmth conducts from his skin to mine. I focus on what I’m trying to say and not the electric synapses pulsing from my fingertips. “I do appreciate you picking me up.”
    His eyes are on the road, and that big vein continues to flex along his neck. It looks like a ball of anger that is trying to escape. I stroke my fingers over his biceps. He drops his focus to where my hand remains on his arm.
    He raises his eyes to mine. “Pecan hoarder?”
    I laugh. “Well, you did take all of the pecans.”
    He cocks his head to the right. “No, I left a bag.”
    “Right, there was one bag left in the entire store. But I need two bags, two measly bags, to make the pie, and…” I shake my head, stopping myself from oversharing at this point. “Are we really going over this again?”
    “Yes, we are, because there seems to be a disconnect somewhere.” Jack twirls his finger in the air.
    I crinkle my eyebrows at him. What is he insinuating?
    “Lauren, let’s clear this up. What you need and what I need are two different things. Two different things that are mutually exclusive, yet in no way equate to my being a pecan hoarder.” He points at his chest, and then sighs. “Perhaps you’re a poor planner.”
    My jaw is in my lap. Is this guy serious? Me? A poor planner? How can a stranger insult me like this? And on Thanksgiving Eve? First Megan and now Jack, I seriously cannot take any more claims of my being a poor planner. I am a good planner. I’ve maxed out my 401k plan at work and I own my own townhome. At twenty-six I think this is a sign of a great planner. Just because I didn’t get to the pecan farm prior to it being sold out of pecans is not my fault.
    I’m ready to sign out of this day. I don’t care about the pecan pie anymore. I want to be in my bed. I’ll even gladly crawl into the one at my parents’ house. I don’t want to be around Jack anymore. Not at all. No, I want to be alone.
    Tears build in my eyes. Being called a poor planner isn’t that big of deal. I’ve definitely been called worse. But today hasn’t been great. Sure, maybe one day I’ll reminisce about this and laugh. But right now, my knee is scraped, I’m still cold, and this guy—this guy who warms me with the slightest caress—has insulted me when I’m already down. Surely, he can tell that I’ve been put through the wringer of life today. I glare out the window, straining my eyes to find a store or
anything
that will end this journey.
    “Lauren, if the circumstances were different, I would have offered you one of my bags,” Jack says. I know his eyes are on me. He’s trying to make eye contact. But I don’t want to. “I have an important customer who has very specific demands. As a business owner, I want to ensure that my customers are happy. Which means I need all of the pecans that I purchased.” He