“I’ve decided to have my pie here, Giles,” said Leo. “I know we’re on a schedule and have to get to the UN for the King’s speech. I won’t take too much time.”
Giles looked over Esme’s head at Leo. Then he looked back down at her. If possible, his frown turned even more severe, as though he smelled something from the sewer. But he inclined his head. With one more glance at Esme, he left the take-out container of pie on the counter and headed toward the door.
“Sorry.” Leo took a seat next to her at the counter. “Giles hates to be late.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your job.” That was a lie. Yes. Yes, she did want to keep him.
“We have plenty of time to get there. Giles thinks if you’re on time you’re late.”
“I don’t have that much time myself. I’m only on a short lunch break. Even shorter now since my brush with death.”
“What?”
They both turned to face the woman behind the counter. She slammed her hands down on the counter along with the exclamation. The pound was only a thud since her hands were covered in oven mitts.
Esme held up her hands in a calming fashion. “It was just a figure of speech, Jan.”
“You’re often prone to the dramatic, but it’s always based on a modicum of truth.” Jan knew Esme far too well. It was a condition that came with being best friends.
“When I was texting you, I wasn’t watching where I was going and stepped into traffic.”
Jan’s eyes went as wide as a rounded pie tin.
“Thankfully, Leo here saved both my life and my phone from certain disaster.”
“I swear, Esme, you always have your head in the clouds. You need to keep your feet, and your eyes, on the ground.”
Jan slid a slice of pie toward Esme. The crust was darkened with black streaks, and green filling spilled out of the sides. “Speaking of near-death experiences, here’s your poisoned apple pie.”
Esme rubbed her hands together, preparing to dig into her favorite meal.
“Poison?” Leo asked, his face contorted in horror. But even with the grimace, he was still devilishly handsome.
“Oh, it’s a joke,” Esme clarified. “I’m named after a princess.”
Something shifted in his features. Esme couldn’t quite tell if it was surprise or dismay.
“Princess Esmeralda, most notably in Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“I know the story,” he said. “But she didn’t eat an apple. And she wasn’t a princess. She was a commoner.”
Esme shrugged. “Poetic license.”
Again, his look went inscrutable.
“I suppose this is for you?” Jan took the boxed up pie out of its container and placed it on a plate.
Spices from a foreign land tickled Esme’s nose. The heat of the spices warmed her cheeks. The sweetness of the scent tickled her tongue, enticing her to ask for a bite.
“This is why I pulled over,” said Leo. “I couldn’t resist your ploy of authentic Cordovian fare. This looks and smells just like a bisteeva.”
He dug in and took a bite. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, which was a common occurrence here in Jan’s bakery.
“It tastes just like the palace cook’s bisteeva,” Leo said, taking another bite. “No, better. Please, don’t tell him I said that.”
Jan grinned ear to ear facing another convert to her culinary ways.
“Leo, this is my best friend and the maker of the best pies in the world, Jan.”