Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Copyright © 2019 Kathryn Andrews Published by Kathryn Andrews, LLC www.kandrewsauthor.com

  Cover design by Heart to Cover, LLC by Julianne Burke, Formatting by Allusion Graphics, LLC.

  First Edition: August 2019Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Andrews, KathrynLast Slice of Pie (a Starving for Southern novel) – 1st ed ISBN-13: 978-0-578-22349-0

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, in investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgements

  Newsletter Sign-Up

  Books by Kathryn Andrews

  About the Author

  From the Author

  Ways to Connect

  The Sweetness of Life

  Chapter 1

  For those of you who understand that cake is really just a round dessert trying its hardest to be as good as a pie but never will be.

  WHY IS IT that the first love is the hardest love to let go? The truth is, it’s a young, innocent love, one fostered by hopes and dreams, born during easier times that are carefree and filled with memories of firsts. Years later, we all understand it’s not a love of reality or life, and unless you are one of the rare ones, it’s not a love that ends with a happily ever after. But, there’s something about it that definitely makes a lasting impression on our hearts. It creates a nostalgic longing, even if you’re one of the unfortunate ones like me and that love is one-sided, kept afar, unrequited.

  It’s not his fault, though. I never told him; he didn’t know—at least I don’t think he did. Because of this, I still cling to the prospect of what could have been versus what wasn’t, and it’s why I’ve followed his football career for years, silently cheering in the background. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s my brother’s best friend, and James freely divulges information about him regularly, which is why I’ve found myself counting down the minutes until his interview on the national sports network tonight.

  A bright light flashes throughout the kitchen and is immediately followed by a loud rumble of thunder. The frame of this old house vibrates, and the windows rattle as the foundation shakes. There’s no rain, at least not yet, but it’s coming.

  Late-afternoon, early-evening storms are guaranteed during the summer. Daily the humidity rises to near stifling, the skies then burst open, and the land collectively breathes a sigh of relief as the rain soaks the earth.

  I love these storms. I love how the temperature drops afterward, a cool breeze moves in, and nightly the sun sets with the most radiant colors. This is just one of the handful of reasons why I’ve never been able to leave my home here on the outskirts of Oakwood, our town in Central Florida.

  Out the window, over the kitchen sink, headlights appear at the bottom of the hill. Marie is tearing down the driveway, and I can’t help but laugh. First off, she hates storms. She’s never explained why, but then again I’ve never pushed her to tell me. Second, this poor girl couldn’t be on time to save her life. She’s late for everything.

  Pulling two large mason jars from the cabinet, I add some ice and fill them with a homemade strawberry citrus sangria. This is Marie’s favorite drink, and this interview being televised tonight is cause for celebration. Other than a few promotional events and a few pictures my brother posted of himself and Bryan on social media over the summer, I haven’t really seen Bryan since they sideline-interviewed him six months ago during last season’s playoff game, which they lost.

  Marie’s car door slams, and her feet pound up the front steps as she runs into the house. It’s five after eight.

  “I’m here, I’m here. It didn’t start, did it?” She’s breathless as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, and I smile. “What?” she asks, pushing her light brown hair off her face and taking a deep breath.

  “Nothing, and nope, it didn’t start yet. You’re right on time. All they’ve aired is the introduction of tonight’s guest and then they broke for commercials.” I hand her the jar, and her eyes light up. “I thought we could make this night a little more fun.”

  “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you made this! I have been craving this delightful beverage for weeks, and after the bath-time battle I had tonight with Finley, I need this.” She takes a long sip of the sangria and hums with delight. “Oh, this is so good. Seriously, why don’t you consider bottling this too? We’d make a fortune on it.” She hands me back her glass to be topped off.

  “I don’t know, I guess because GiGi always made it just for us,” I answer as we walk into the living room. With the storm and the air conditioning, the house cooled quickly, so I grab us both a plush blanket then we curl up next to each other on the couch.

  GiGi is my grandmother—well, was—and she also filled the role of our mother. After all, she was only forty-two when James and I moved in.

  “Well, if you ever change your mind, I am totally on board with the marketing of this product, too. I can see the dollar signs now.” She waves her hand in the air and pretends to stare at imaginary money floating by.

  “You see dollar signs because you are obsessed with money. I have enough—what do I need more for?”

  “Perhaps all the repairs you keep having to make on this house?” She eyes me knowingly, shaking her head, and then she takes another long sip of her drink while watching me over the rim.

  She’s right, and she knows I know she is, but I don’t want to talk about it or listen to her do so. Reaching over, I grab the remote and turn up the volume.

  This house, my house, has been in our family for three generations. It’s a large farm-style with a wrap-around porch, and lately it has seemed to need a lot of repairs and updates, but I don’t mind. I live and work out of this house, and it’s been fun to add my own l
ook and style to the inside, especially the kitchen.

  The kitchen, my place of solace. My temple.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been baking pies. When I was sixteen, I entered a pie contest at the Florida State Fair and won. After that, people around town started coming to me to place orders for pies. That’s when I knew college wasn’t for me, but culinary school was.

  Five years ago, I started a part-time company called Firefly Kitchen. Three years ago, it turned full-time, and that’s when I hired my lifelong best friend Marie, who did go to college, to help manage the business side of things.

  All day, every day, I get to bake pies and cook in this kitchen.

  I have the best job in the world.

  Marie stretches out her legs to prop them on the coffee table in front of us, and I’m grateful when she changes the subject.

  “How about we talk about your football god and how I can’t believe he’s going to do this interview?” She grins at me.

  I don’t correct her, but he’s not mine, even if there is a part of me that wants to believe he is. After all, shouting I saw him first should count for something.

  “I know. I’m just glad they advertised it so we would know.” I cross my legs under my blanket and take another sip of sangria.

  “Of course they were going to advertise this. This interview is going to be huge for their ratings. No one has ever been able to get Bryan to sit down for a one-on-one.”

  Ever since high school, Bryan has hated the media. He’s never wanted to be glorified or idolized, even though it comes with the territory of his career. He’s always wanted people to recognize that it’s hard work, dedication, and love for his craft that got him where he is. Plus, he’s seen over and over again how the media can crash and burn someone, so in his mind, the less he gives them, the less they will bother him. Staying off their radar has always been a big deal to him. He just wants to play the game.

  “Why do you think he agreed this time?” she asks, as if I would somehow know the answer.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they wrote it into his contract. If I were Tampa, I would be pushing him out everywhere. He’s the real deal, and it only brings in more money for all of them.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, but to be on Paul Miller’s show—it just blows my mind. This guy only interviews the best of the best, and yes, before you say anything, I know Bryan is the best, but I can still see him standing in the backyard, lanky, needing a haircut, and throwing the ball around with James.”

  “I can still see him too, which is part of the problem. It was such a long time ago, and I know he’s changed. He’s not that guy anymore.”

  No, at six-foot-four and two hundred twenty-five pounds, he is definitely not that guy anymore.

  “But then again, haven’t we all changed?” I ask.

  Marie just looks at me and doesn’t say anything.

  Yes, I still live in the same house I grew up in, but that is circumstantial. And yes, I still dream about the boy who got away, but I’ve grown up over the years, too. I had to. I graduated from culinary school, took care of GiGi by myself until the end, started my own business, and now manage and run this house. I have responsibilities and commitments.

  Hearing the commercials end, I focus as the interviewer’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. My gaze zeros in on the television, and my heart rate picks up with adrenaline and a tiny dose of anxiety. Internally, I’m scolding myself. It’s ridiculous that I’m having this reaction, but I can’t help it. I feel like I’m being given a peek into a tiny bit of his life, a life I once knew the ins and outs of but now know nothing about.

  “Good evening, I’m Paul Miller, and this is my show.” The setting lights over Paul dim from bright to a more intimate tint. “I am very excited about our guest this evening. I’m sure most of you know who it is based on the promos leading up to tonight, but since this is his first-ever sit-down televised interview, it only seems fitting that I give him the opening he’s due.

  “This individual is a three-time college national champion, a Heisman trophy winner, and a two-time Pro Bowl quarterback. Last year he threw more than forty-six hundred yards, resulting in thirty-two touchdowns, more than any other quarterback in the league. He’s fierce and determined on the field and known to be quiet and mysterious off of it.”

  Paul Miller keeps talking, but at some point I just don’t hear him anymore. All I see is Bryan as he walks out onto the set. The camera changes angles to include him in the frame with the host, giving us a straight-on shot, and my breath leaves my lungs as I take in the sight of him. He’s wearing a navy blue three-piece suit with a light blue dress shirt and a navy tie. He’s devastatingly handsome, more so than I think he ever has been, and then he smiles. It’s my favorite smile in the world, one side rising higher than the other and a dimple popping out on that cheek. It’s a smile I dream about being directed at me.

  Rarely are there images of him smiling. Sure, James has a few on his social media pages, but those are few and far between since he joined the Navy. Mostly, the only images of Bryan floating around are the ones his PR team posts when he’s in uniform and working, and that Bryan is focused, not carefree.

  “Whoa, he sure does clean up nicely,” Marie says quietly. I nod in agreement, because my tongue feels stuck in my throat and I have no words.

  They shake hands, Paul claps him on the back, and they both take a seat. Bryan loosens the button on his coat, and I take notice of how his pants perfectly wrap around the muscles in his thighs. He leans back in his oversized plush seat and crosses one ankle over his knee. From underneath his pant leg, light pink socks with strawberries on them peek out.

  “Bryan Brennen, tell me, how have you been?” Paul asks him.

  “Good, thanks for asking.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m excited about the new season, how our team is performing, and I’ve never felt better,” he answers candidly.

  “That’s good to hear.” Paul pauses and peruses Bryan as his dangling foot bounces and his fingers drum the armrest of the chair. “You hate this, don’t you?” He grins.

  A small, embarrassed smile tilts Bryan’s perfect lips. “I wouldn’t say I hate it. Interviews have just never been my thing.”

  “This I know, my friend, as we’ve been trying to get you to come on for years.” Paul chuckles. “Well, let’s change things up a bit from how we normally get this started. How about an icebreaker? Let’s play a game.”

  “Okay, I like games.” Bryan smirks as if to say, You should know I’m always down for a game. I play games for a living.

  Paul smiles back and nods knowingly. He flips some cards in his hands, presumably to adjust the order of the interview content, or maybe to switch to plan B based on how Bryan is responding.

  “This game is super easy, no stress, just a little fun. Plus, it’ll help the viewers get to know you a little more. Two-word rapid fire: I fire two words at you, and you answer with the one that best fits you. Five pairs total. Are you down for this?” Paul picks up a glass from the little table between them and takes a sip of water.

  “I’m down,” Bryan replies. The lights in the studio brighten a bit as he rubs his hands together, cracks his knuckles in an exaggerated way, and resituates himself in his seat, leaning forward just a bit.

  I lean forward too, mimicking his posture, so eager to hear what he has to say. Basically, it’s a this or that or a would you rather game. My hand grips my glass tightly; I’m starved for any type of personal information about him.

  “All right, here we go. Question number one: country or rap?”

  “Country,” he answers without hesitation. “Don’t get me wrong, I like them both. I like most all genres of music, but if I’m in my truck, I’m listening to country. A little Kenny, Eric, or Zac and I’m all set.”

  He drives a truck. I’ve often wondered. When we were in high school, he purchased a really old Ford F-150 so he could get to practices, but now, so many players run off and buy someth
ing high-end, and I’m happy to hear that he didn’t. Maybe the truck is a super fancy one, I don’t know, but him having a truck somehow makes him still feel like the same guy he was back then, like he could someday be attainable to me. In my eyes, it keeps him down to earth, and I’m about as down to earth as it gets.

  “I can see that in you. You are a homegrown type of guy.”

  “Maybe.” Bryan smirks. Visions of him running through the field behind the house with James flash behind my eyes.

  “Question number two: flip-flops or dress shoes?”

  “Dress shoes. I didn’t come from much, so there’s something about dressing up that makes me feel good. Plus, if I’m dressed up, I know I’m about to have a good time. Who doesn’t like having a good time?”

  The thought of Bryan getting dressed up to go out and have a good time—it makes my chest ache, mainly because it leads me to believe he’s out having a good time with someone else. It’s not that I don’t want him to go out and enjoy his life, because I do; I just like to stick with the old adage Seeing is believing. Since I haven’t seen it, it’s never happened.

  “That’s interesting given that you live so close to the water,” Paul says in response.

  “Yeah, well, flip-flops are kind of a daily staple. I don’t think anything of them, having worn them my whole life. If I was from the north, I can see loving flip-flops, but I’ll stick with my answer of dress shoes.” He glances down at his feet.

  “Alrighty then, dress shoes it is.” Paul flips to the next notecard. “Question number three: cats or dogs?”

  A smile splits across Bryan’s face, and he chuckles as he shifts in his seat again and leans back. “I think most people probably assume I would pick a dog. After all, a dog is a dude pet, but I’ve got to go with cat. I grew up with these two big tabby cats”—he holds up his hands to demonstrate their size—“Simba and Nala, and I guess they made a lasting impression on me.”

  Oh. My. God. Simba and Nala were my cats! GiGi gave them to me as kittens when I was ten to keep me company. James was outside playing with Bryan all the time and they wanted nothing to do with me, so she gave them to me as a present. I loved those two cats, and thinking back, he did too. He was always looking for them so he could pet them.