Sweet as Pie Brisa Starr Sweet as Pie Copyright © 2020 by Brisa Starr. ISBN: 978-0-9823722-5-8 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers. All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual. Also by Brisa Starr His Secret If he tells her, he’ll loser her forever. Adron is heir to a billion dollar fortune, but only if he fulfills two special requirements. Save Me Only she can save him. But they must remain “just friends.” A small town, friends-to-lovers, hot and steamy romance. Lockdown Love Fake It (Young Series Book 1) - September 2020 Count on Me - September 2020 Contents 1. Aspen 2. Ryker 3. Aspen 4. Ryker 5. Aspen 6. Ryker 7. Ryker 8. Aspen 9. Ryker 10. Ryker 11. Aspen 12. Ryker 13. Aspen 14. Ryker 15. Ryker 16. Aspen 17. Aspen 18. Ryker 19. Aspen 20. Ryker 21. Ryker 22. Aspen 23. Ryker 24. Aspen 25. Aspen 26. Ryker 27. Aspen 28. Aspen 29. Ryker 30. Ryker 31. Aspen 32. Ryker 33. Aspen 34. Aspen Acknowledgments About the Author 1 Aspen “You!” the customer says, after I set down his bill on the table. His voice is hard like granite. “Excuse me?” I ask, and turn to look behind me, wondering if he’s talking to someone else. But I know he means me because his eyes bore into mine. A shiver crawls up my spine, and I wipe my palms on my leopard-print apron. I blink. He’s not my customer; he’s Jessica’s. But I brought him his bill because Jessica had to leave the bistro early. I hadn’t noticed him until now because he sat in the next-to-last booth in our bistro, with his back to the place, and I’m usually in the kitchen baking my pies. “You. It was your fault,” he repeats, keeping his fiery green eyes locked on mine. They’re beautiful eyes, even if they do want to strangle me. Dark green emeralds with flecks of silver and blazing with bitterness. I swallow loudly, but the high-powered blender starts up in the kitchen, covering the sound of my fear. “Shit!” my mom calls from back there as she turns off the blender, followed by the familiar clink of a quarter going into her swear jar. “Goddammit!” Clink. Another quarter. “Problems, Gabby?” Johnny yells to Mom, chuckling. Johnny’s a regular. He’s sitting at the counter, enjoying a piece of my mom’s famous Quiche Lorraine. He smiles as he slices his fork through another tender bite. Our regular customers, which are most of them, are no virgins to hearing Mom cuss. Or hearing me do the same. Mom is a force to be reckoned with. Born with dark hair from her Greek side, she’s been bleached blond since she was thirteen years old. She’s beautiful, talented, and funny as hell, but she made terrible choices, which affected my life. It wasn’t her fault Dad cheated on her—the bastard—but when she left him, she followed up with a string of husbands she depended on financially, as she tried to survive. She was afraid to venture out on her own. Why she stayed married to men who didn’t appreciate her, for so long, still irks me. She’s one of the most amazing women I know. And so, growing up, seeing her discontent, struggling, always unhappy and pretending otherwise, I promised myself it’d never be that way for me. Never. Thankfully, things are different for her now. She always said she’d “bury one someday,” and that she did. When husband number four keeled over from a heart attack, he left her a small amount of money. The rest went to his five ungrateful kids. She would not marry again. Instead, she took the money, and her blessed talents in the kitchen, and opened a restaurant. I look just like her, from our eyes, to our bleach blond hair, to our high cheekbones and full lips. She loves to tell everyone, “I looked just like Aspen when I was younger, when my boobs were two inches higher.” And here we are, in Gabby’s Rooster, though behind closed doors, we call it Gabby’s Cock… and it’s the closest she’s been to one in years, as she’s so busy running the place, even with my help. I’m not far behind her in the celibacy department—which I admit, is sad—but it’s the path I’ve chosen, so I’m content. My attention returns to the handsome stranger, who apparently has nothing but hate for me. He is not a regular customer. I don’t know who he is. I blink hard, twice, and I find my voice. “I think you have the wrong person.” “You’re Aspen. Aspen Kingsley,” he says with disgust, like he can’t stand the taste of my name on his tongue. My heart shifts to third gear, either from his good looks or his stormy tone, I don’t know which. Both? But this heated stranger is appealing. He has thick and short, dark brown hair, the color of 80% dark chocolate—my favorite—and he’s wearing a crisp, robin’s egg-blue shirt, the top button undone, under a gray herringbone suit jacket. Too hot for summer weather, but stylish. He has money. Shit. Is he coming to sue me? Did he get sick from one of my cherry pies? I nod. “Yes.” I swallow, and my heart races into sixth gear at the alluring appeal of his firm lips. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve been with a man. I can’t remember the last… oh yeah, I do. Two years ago, and it was so bad, I think it turned me off men forever. He liked Vaseline. Gross. Mystery Man slides out of the booth. He grabs his black, tattered Moleskine journal and Mont Blanc pen, and stands up. He throws a hundred-dollar bill onto the table,
