Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

4. Miles

Chapter 4

Miles

Georgia ends her shift singing a made-up song about dates, magic, and galas. Honestly, it kind of blurs together. The sultry wink she gives me as she nudges the door with her hip to leave stays vivid in my mind, though.

I’m a lunatic for letting her set me up. An absolute madman. But telling her the truth feels crazier.

Eventually, I close up Dogeared for the night and head out. New ideas for my next book have been simmering all day, and I’d like to hunker down on my couch with my laptop and a marginally healthy dinner so I can let them loose. But tonight, I have other responsibilities, and head in the opposite direction from my apartment.

It’s still weird driving out to my mom’s house. You’d think I’d get used to the changes, but they never quite sit right. Every time I come out here, I turn into an old man complaining about how things aren’t what they used to be. Youths .

Ten years ago, my mom and aunt sold my grandparents’ acreage on the south end of Magnolia Ridge, where green, sprawling farms dominate the landscape. It was tough to give up the land they’d loved for so long, but with my grandparents gone, we had to be realistic. None of the rest of us would ever farm it. I don’t have that gene, and my cousins in Houston certainly don’t either.

My mom and Aunt Cece each kept two acres for themselves and sold off the rest. We genuinely thought a rancher or a farmer would pick up the torch and keep the land just as it was. Maybe add a new barn.

Turns out we’d all been a little naive.

Today, that former farmland is Rivendell Acres, an upscale gated community featuring huge houses on tiny cement lots. Ironic that it’s named for one of the most beautiful and pristine lands in Middle Earth.

I have to be grateful for the development—the sale of the land provided for my mom and me, and aunt and cousins. I wouldn’t have been able to open Dogeared and dedicate myself to writing books without my share of the money.

But I’ve never seen anything uglier.

At Mom’s house, the old elm trees blot out the wall and the McMansions, and I can breathe again. Inside, I forget it all when the scent of baked peaches envelops me. It’s both deeply comforting and highly irritating.

“I thought you were going to wait for me.” I cross the living room into the kitchen where Mom is setting the golden-brown pie out to cool. I arrived right on time to catch her red-handed.

She just shrugs. “It’s a good day.”

I try not to grumble. I’m always thankful for the good days. But she doesn’t need to do anything to make it worse when she knows I’m nearby, ready to help her out.

Slipping off her orange plaid oven mitts, she turns to fully face me. “Turn off your worried face. I told you I won’t do more than I feel I can, and I’m sticking to that.”

“In hindsight, that’s a pretty vague promise. ”

Especially from a woman who hates to admit there’s anything she can’t do.

“I stopped by Evans Orchards and had to get a few pounds of peaches. I can’t help it if they demanded being turned into a delicious pie.”

Can’t blame her. Evans Orchards has the best peaches around. “Always listen to the peaches.”

Her smile turns wistful. “Sometimes I miss it, you know.”

My face probably mirrors hers. “I know.”

Mom owned Butter & Batter for almost twenty years. Right up until her arthritis got so bad she couldn’t bake anymore. Selling Grandma and Grandpa’s land was hard on her, but it was worse for her to sell the bakery she’d built from the ground up and poured so much love into.

It’s still going strong, though—the new owners didn’t turn it into a condo or anything like that. I even stop in sometimes when I want a slice of pie with a debilitating wave of nostalgia.

“They’re selling hand pies at the farmers market now. Did you know that?” She sits at the kitchen table, surreptitiously rubbing one of her wrists. Her hair is in a bun so messy, I can’t tell if it’s intentional or accidental. It might not be as good a day as she claims. “They’ve got a cute little display case and everything. I wish I’d thought of that.”

“Marketing’s tricky.” It hurts to watch her knobby fingers massage the base of her thumb. I go to the sink and fill it with soapy water to take care of the dishes left over from her illicit baking.

“Are you doing anything at the market yet for the bookstore?”

“Not yet, but Georgia has ideas.”

“Ooh, tell me about these ideas. That girl cracks me up.”

“She found an old adult tricycle on Found & Freebies a few weeks ago. It’s got a big wooden box mounted between the two front tires. She’s dead set on converting it into a bookmobile and taking it to the farmers market in the spring.”

Mom’s laughter fills the kitchen. “I bet it will look good, too.”

“It will. Georgia’s got a vision for stuff like that.”

“Are you helping her convert the bike?”

“The mechanics of that aren’t really my strong suit. Her brother and grandpa will do that part.” I just rode it from its previous owner’s place to her apartment. With an afternoon of experience, I can safely say that thing is a beast. Can’t imagine how it will handle filled with books, but I love her enthusiasm.

“She’s a real nice girl.” Mom’s pause is a verbal shove in the back. No doubt she’s waiting for a detailed confession.

I go on scrubbing bowls. I haven’t expressed to her in words how I feel about Georgia, but it’s clear I’ve said more than enough without them.

“Is she seeing anyone?” Mom’s curiosity has a pushy lilt to it.

“Nope.”

“That’s a shame. Someone should snap her up.”

I make a noncommittal sound, even though I would very much like to commit to snapping up Georgia.

I rinse the dishes and set them aside. Wiping my hands, I turn to face Mom. “What else can I do?”

There’s always something. Her arthritis flareups can make even the simplest household chores excruciating. Her medications and herbal remedies only do so much.

“Just sit around and wait for the pie to cool.”

Down the hall, the dryer chimes.

“I’m on it.”

“You don’t need to do all that.”

But I’ve grabbed a laundry basket and started unloading before she can finish admonishing me. I fold the towels, put them away in the linen closet, and return to the kitchen.

She looks distinctly unimpressed, but we go through this every time I visit. I do something to help her out, she claims she doesn’t need the help, and she feeds me a delicious treat she swears she forgot how to bake. It’s a never-ending cycle.

“I have news.”

Her eyes go as wide as the pie plate in front of her. “About you and Georgia?”

I probably should have prefaced that better, given the direction of her thoughts.

“Not about me and Georgia.” A knot works in my throat as my head fills with all sorts of announcements I’d love to make about the two of us. Maybe one day. “I’ve been nominated for an Andromeda Award.”

She leaps out of her chair to attack me with a hug. “Oh, honey. I never would have guessed. An Andromeda Award. How wonderful.”

Laughing softly, I hug her tight. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

She looks up into my face. “I’ve never heard of it before in my life, but it must be something special if you’re up for one. Tell me all about it.”

We sit and I explain about the awards and how they’re voted on by my peers in the science fiction writing world. Really, they’re not even my peers—most of the authors on the panel have been big names for decades. They’re more like dukes and baronesses to my measly commoner.

I thought it was bad knowing regular people were reading my books, but that’s nothing to having my author heroes reading them.

I mention the gala, but I don’t tell Mom about Georgia’s scheme to find me a date or my counter-scheme to make sure the date is her. She already jumps to enough conclusions. I don’t need to drive her to the edge of the cliff.

Even if that cliff is the exact right conclusion.

“I’m so excited for you, honey. This is really special, isn’t it?”

I’m trying to downplay it for my own sanity’s sake, but I can’t pretend it’s not significant. The Rising Star nomination means people expect big things from my writing career. No pressure, or anything. My agent has called twice already this week to congratulate me, guess at the boost in sales numbers I’ve received, and check on the status of the last book in the series I’m revising. It’s a lot, but none of it quite feels real.

“It’s…something.”

Mom reaches out to take my hand. “You’re allowed to celebrate yourself. Enjoy this moment.”

Sounds a lot like what Georgia said, except she specifically wanted me to celebrate with a date. Who isn’t her. Which is the opposite of a celebration in my book.

“Your dad would be so proud.” Mom’s voice takes on the gentle tone it always does when she mentions him.

It’s not a fresh wound. He’s been gone fourteen years. But it still aches.

Unlike my more reserved nature, Dad had enthusiasm for everything. He would have loved Dogeared and found a way to work it into every conversation around town. He would have giddily bought my books in every possible format. And he would have seen through me a long time ago with Georgia.

“I’ve got a favor to ask of you,” Mom says.

“Must be serious. Usually, you try to convince me you don’t need any help.”

Doesn’t matter anyway—I’ll handle whatever she asks of me .

Mom shakes her head. “It’s really Cece’s favor. I just said I’d be the messenger.”

“Now I’m nervous.” Mom’s favors are usually things like yard work or errands she swears she can take care of herself. My aunt is more of a wild card. When she needs something, it could be anything from being a guinea pig for her latest hair dye experiments to helping her bathe her cat.

I’m never doing either one again.

“You know the Kissing Corn Maze?” Mom asks.

“Sure. The Mackay Farm’s version of a bachelor auction.” Every year at the end of October, they hide a bunch of men in their cornfield, and a crowd of women rush through trying to be the first to their chosen man. They have one where women wait in the cornfield for a swarm of men, too, but I wouldn’t say it’s a step forward for equality.

“They’re finalizing this year’s bachelors, and they’re one short.”

I’m waiting for more, but Mom’s watching me so steadily, my gut twists. This is the favor?

“You want me to be the last bachelor?” I can’t imagine anything worse. I guess standing on a stage and being auctioned off to the highest bidder would be up there, but waiting to be “picked” in the cornfield sounds humiliating any way you look at it.

“It’s for a good cause. All the money they raise this year is going to the Cortez family. Their teen daughter has a long road of physical therapy in front of her after getting hit by that drunk driver over the summer.”

I know she didn’t say it to be manipulative, but that’s all I needed to hear. Victims of drunk driving are a soft spot for all of us since we lost Dad the same way.

“How does this work? Am I supposed to go on a date with whoever ‘wins’ me?” I don’t know how that sentence could be any more awkward.

“I think it’s tradition.” Her eyes turn so gentle, it’s like she’s read the pages of my heart. “It doesn’t have to mean forever.”

No, it doesn’t. But it’d be a whole lot easier if I weren’t already in love with someone else.

It’s ridiculous, and terrible timing, but obviously, I’m not going to turn her down.

“I’ll do it.”

Georgia’s trying to set me up, and my mom and aunt are volunteering me for a bachelor auction. And here I thought I’d have a quiet, relaxed fall without any dating whatsoever.