When they’re all plated, the guys lunge across the table for them, snatching them up like unfed hyenas. The room is suddenly filled with groans and chewing.
I sit there, looking around the table as these men and Dillion devour the fritters. I can’t help myself. I glance at Aaron and nearly choke on a laugh. He’s melted into his chair, head lolling back, cheeks puffed out because his mouth is full, groaning every time he chews.
“Jeez. You look like you just had a freaking orgasm,” I say without thinking.
His head lolls in my direction, and he lifts his hand in front of his mouth, since he’s still chewing and apparently he does have some manners. “It’s like an orgasm for your taste buds.”
Van nudges my arm and pushes the paper plate toward me. “You have to at least try one.”
I’ve spent my entire life telling people that I don’t like sweets or dessert. It’s untrue. I love sweets and dessert. I make them all the time. For other people. But I don’t eat them, because sugar is very addictive, and I already have enough vices, so I try to avoid it unless it’s in the form of an energy drink.
But everyone looks so happy.
And the fritters smell so good.
One little bite won’t hurt.
Unlike the others, who are busy stuffing them into their mouths with their fingers, I cut mine with a knife and spear the chunk with my fork. I pop it into my mouth and let the flavors hit my tongue.
First is the sugar and cinnamon, followed by the sour tang of lemon. Then the crunch of the fried dough, delicious and savory, followed by the soft, hot apple ring that fills the center. “Oh, wow. This is really good.”
“It’s better than good. It’s the best damn thing in the world.”
“Heaven better have Boones’s fritters, or I’m going to haunt that place for the rest of eternity,” says Uncle John.
I finish one of the fritters in the time that the others eat both of theirs and polish off their lunch. I pick at my salad for a few minutes, then pack it up so I can take it back to the apartment. Then I offer my second fritter to the rest of the table. Dillion has to cut it into five pieces so everyone gets their fair share.
I already spoke to Van last night, so he knows how the discussion went with our dad, but I haven’t talked to him about the furniture that’s currently sitting in the bed of the truck. I’m crossing my fingers that I’m right and no one will steal it while I happen to be out.
“I’m going to need some help getting a couple of pieces of furniture up to the loft when you get home,” I tell Van as I help clean up the table.
“Big stuff or small stuff?”
“A couch and a chair. But that’s it.”
“Aaron, you think you can give me a hand with those at the end of the day?”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that. I can probably help you get them up there.”
Aaron acts like I haven’t said a word. “I can do that. I need to take a few measurements for the trim.”
“See, we’ve got it all sorted out. You’ll have a couch to hang out on before the end of the day.”
Everyone goes back to work after lunch, leaving me on my own to explore the downtown area, and eventually I make my way to the south side beach. Dillion and Van have taken on the project of cleaning up the town beach. There are two beaches on the lake, the other one on the side with all the big mansions. It’s beautiful and pristine, with white sand, lifeguards, and a marina.
On the south side of the lake, where the townspeople live, it’s different. The beach isn’t as well maintained; the sand is coarser and the beach not as carefully groomed. At least it wasn’t the last time I was here, but I can see they’ve already made significant improvements since they petitioned the town back in the fall.
Over the winter they couldn’t do much physical work to the beach, but they made a plan, and as soon as the ice thawed and the snow melted, a cleanup crew came in to fix the place up.
The formerly derelict and falling-apart docks have been replaced. The sand is groomed regularly, and the seaweed that washes up on shore has been cleared away. A little surf shop and an ice cream store in mini-cottage-style huts have been built at one end of the beach. I can see, with time and effort, more of those shacks going up, catering to the beachgoers.
I can imagine how amazing it would be if there were a miniature Boones shop down here and how much business they would get if they were here on the weekends and during the summer, serving those delicious apple fritters. The smell wafting across the beach, mixing with the fresh water, the scent of sunscreen, the sound of kids playing and families laughing.
I close my eyes and tip my chin up, letting the sun warm my skin, daydreaming about what it would be like if Pearl Lake could be my forever home. I could build a life here. I could fall in love with this town, exactly like my brother did.
CHAPTER 7
MAKE IT WHAT YOU WANT
Teagan
I head back to the loft around three thirty, wanting to freshen up before my brother and Dillion get home from work.
Okay. That’s a lie. My brother has seen me at my worst plenty of times. I don’t care if my hair and makeup look decent when he’s around. Or Dillion for that matter.
But Aaron is a different story.
He shouldn’t be. At all. I should not care one iota how I look, but old habits die hard. And I’m still trying to figure out what the heck happened at that lunchroom table.
I swear there was flirting and smolder, which is very, very different from his reluctant politeness at the bar and his grumpy disdain prior to that.
The first thing I do when I get home is grab an energy drink from the fridge and head to the bathroom to fix my makeup.
I probably spend a good half hour in the bathroom, applying makeup in such a way that it looks like I’m not wearing makeup at all. I even go so far as to remove the mascara I put on this morning and replace it with a coat of lighter brown, followed by a coat of clear. My hair is pale; my eyelashes are also light. Black mascara is obvious, but brown mascara isn’t, and a coat of clear makes them look longer while also still natural.
I get a message from Van that they’re leaving the office in about half an hour.
I loathe idle time. It gives me an opportunity to fret. So I do something that will keep my hands busy and my mind occupied until my brother comes home: bake muffins.
It doesn’t hurt to start small here, considering the oven is new and needs to be tested out to make sure it cooks evenly.
I pull out all the ingredients—which I purchased on my recent trip to the grocery store. There are certain things I need an abundant supply of at all times—almond milk, peanut butter powder, frozen bananas, and basic baking essentials. The baking essentials are stored in the small pantry beside the fridge.