How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie by Gina Henning Read Free Book Online Page B

having a colorful conversation with the employee. She’s flailing her arms from side to side, and the two are laughing like they’ve passed the two drink minimum requirement at the local comedy club, several rounds ago.
    “Maybe.” I draw a circle with the toe of my shoe against the floor. “But I actually need two bags, not one.” I motion a peace sign, and then tuck my middle finger, hoping he will comply with the Thanksgiving spirit and hand over a bag.
    I’m trying my best to bat my lashes. I know my hair is a disaster, which might be why he’s avoiding any eye contact. Or maybe he feels such a strong attraction that he doesn’t want to show all his cards right away, so he’s playing the
elusive
role.
Yeah, that’s probably it
. I shake my head and hold in a laugh, knowing that isn’t the situation. It’s not like I really care if he is interested in me or not. I’m only concerned about the pecans. Making the pecan pie is my number one priority and I’m working on a deadline. I don’t have time for errors.
    “That might be the case.” He turns and pauses as if he is trying to come up with the right words. “However, the amount of pecans you need is of no more importance to me than the reversal is to you.” As he’s speaking, he points at me and back at himself. His gaze drops back to his phone. I want to take that finger and bite it.
    Not to be a Stephanie Tanner, but
how rude
. This guy isn’t budging. Where are his southern gentleman manners? Can’t he see I’m a lady in distress? He’s most definitely not a local. Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing him in some chaps and boots.
Hmm.
    “You must not be from around here,” I say, hoping this will jolt a memory from his childhood days of being advised of good manners and he will politely pass a bag to me. I might not be in a petticoat and waving a fan, but I’m in distress.
    “No, I’m not,” he says with his eyes back on the register.
    One of the customers is having trouble swiping their card. After three tries, they hand it to the cashier who types in the numbers.
    I tap him on the shoulder to gain his attention once more before my chance is gone and he’s purchased all of the pecans. “Would you be willing to sell me one of your bags for twice its value?”
    Since my female charm is not working, I decide to try a different route and go for the language that everyone speaks: money.
    “Its value?” he asks with his head cocked to the right. He then turns toward me. “Value is in the eye of the beholder.”
    A sly grin comes across his face. Is this guy a pecan scalper? Does he show up at pecan farms on Thanksgiving Eve and buy all the pecans so he can price gouge them to helpless people trying to make pies for their families? That’s shocking, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Who knows, he might even post ads on Craigslist selling the pecans at double the price of Tibor’s Farm. I might need to alert the authorities, or at the very least, the storeowners.
    “I think you’ve got the saying wrong. It’s beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Value is what something is worth.” My right leg is flexed. I’ll be unwavering, as if I’m Crazy Horse in General Custer’s Last Stand. “I’d be willing to pay you twenty dollars for one of your bags of pecans.”
    My chest rises as I take a deep breath. I’m self-assured, remembering moments in my life when I won a battle of wits with co-workers and my siblings. The gauntlet is thrown and a price is named. All that needs to happen now is for this statuesque guy—who does not resemble General Custer—to kindly pass over a bag of his pecans, and then we can move on with our lives like two shoppers, passing in a store with nothing more shared than a few verbal exchanges and a twenty-dollar bill.
    “I disagree, and I need all my pecans. Thank you for the offer,” he says with a condescending smile, and turns around. How many bags does he have? Perhaps, if I slide one out of his basket he