I click send, then quickly type out another reply.

Oh, and also stop emailing me.

I place my phone on my nightstand and roll over, but it takes me forever to get to sleep.

Chapter Seven

Nick stays in his office the next morning. In between customers, I steal glances back there at his barely cracked-open door, wondering what’s going on. Is he replaying our kiss in his head, pinky promise be damned? Is he hoping for a round two? Because that would be a very bad idea. A very, very bad but also tempting idea. I lean on the baked goods case, thinking about all the things we could get up to in that office. We could definitely move that grungy old desk across the floor. Knock some filing cabinets over.

Tobin taps me on the shoulder. “Hey. Uh, are you saving that pie for something?”

“What pie?” I stand up so quickly I almost lose my balance and topple over.

Tobin points to the slice that’s on the back counter, loosely covered in a clean dish towel. “Uh, the literal one slice of pie on the counter right now?”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, young man,” I say, pouring a black coffee and handing it to a regular who doesn’t need to order at this point. “And that pie is for Nick.”

“Then, like, could you take it back to him? Because Gary keeps asking if he can have it.”

“Gary!” I call out. “Hands off this apple pie. You know I’ll make you any pie you ask for, any time.”

“Have you ever made a Concord grape pie?” Gary asks from his table near the corner.

I blink a few times. “How does that even work, Gary?”

“You have to peel about a hundred and fifty grapes—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Dude. You know I love you. You’re my favorite customer,” I say, mouthing No offense to the regular who’s still standing beside us, listening to this conversation, “but I will not peel a hundred and fifty grapes for you. I don’t think I would peel a hundred and fifty grapes for a member of my own family.”

“But what about the slogan? ‘When you’re here, you’re family’?”

“We don’t have a slogan. That’s the Olive Garden, Gary,” I say. “Do you see endless soup, salad, and breadsticks? No. That’s because you’re a treasured friend and customer but you’re not family and you’re not getting a Concord grape pie and—why am I talking about this? I’ve gotta get this pie to Nick.”

I grab the slice of pie and stomp back to Nick’s office, where he’s staring intently at his computer.

“What is it?” he asks without looking away from the screen. “Do you and Tobin need backup?”

I frown, a little annoyed that he seems to find it very easy to forget about yesterday. I mean, yes, that’s what I wanted, but also . . . well, doesn’t everyone want their make-out prowess to be unforgettable?