Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

by Susanne Ash

It has nothing to do with hazel eyes or sunshine smiles or the way she said "thank you" like she meant it. Nothing at all.

I nod once, sharply, already regretting this decision. But then she smiles—really smiles—and something inside me shifts, like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

But there's something endearing about her determination. Not that I'm noticing things like that.

Her smile is like sunrise breaking over the mountains.

Something twists in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like caring.

Her laugh follows me out onto the porch, wrapping around me like warm butter and cinnamon and memories I thought I'd buried years ago.

His knowledge is impressive, and something about the way he talks about them makes my heart do funny things in my chest.

"The dough needs therapy if it's that complicated."

But he's smiling and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger, lighter. Makes me want to find new ways to make him smile like that again.

But she's right, darn her. I do enjoy this. The quiet mornings, the way she hums off-key while she works, even her ridiculous arguments in favor of excessive spice use.

"Baking is love made visible, sweetheart. Don't ever forget that."

Just smiles that sunrise smile of hers and says, "Anything for my favorite grumpy teacher." And that's what terrifies me most of all is the realization that I'd do anything to keep that smile coming.

Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I find myself leaning in, drawn by something stronger than gravity.

"You heard what happened. What he said about Hale helping me⁠—" "I heard a jealous man trying to diminish something beautiful."

"Well, Aunt Mae," I whisper to the quiet kitchen, "I think I finally understand what you meant about baking being an act of love. Sometimes the love is for someone else. And sometimes it's for yourself."

"You don't understand⁠—" "I understand that you're scared." Her voice softens. "Scared of feeling something real again, of letting someone see past those walls you've built. But Margaret didn't teach you to bake so you could hide behind her memory forever."

"You made me remember that life keeps flowing. That holding onto grief doesn't honor the people we've lost. Living does. Creating does. Loving does."

Like the best recipes, some things need time, trust, and a little bit of faith to turn out perfectly imperfect.