was a lot to think about. This could mean she needed to reassess parts of her twenty-year plan.
But she needed to figure it out soon, before she started applying for her next job.
Chapter Eighteen
Mia chewed her thumbnail as she squinted at the screen of her laptop. “What’s a pastry cutter?” Next week was Thanksgiving, and she was spending it at Birdie’s with Josh and Andie. To say thank you for being included in their family celebration, Mia had insisted on contributing a dish and—perhaps unwisely—volunteered to make a pie.
“You’re not making the crust from scratch, are you?” Josh pulled open the refrigerator and got out the coffee creamer. He was wearing her favorite blue plaid shirt tonight, the one with the snaps she liked to rip open. Barefoot and completely comfortable moving around in her tiny kitchen, he looked like something out of a dream. A fantasy boyfriend come to life.
Except he wasn’t her boyfriend, Mia reminded herself. Neither of them had used the word yet—or any other words that might put a label on them. They’d both been careful to avoid that particular minefield.
Mia frowned at him. “Of course I am.”
Could you call someone a boyfriend when there was an expiration date on your relationship? Could you even consider it a real relationship when it was just a temporary arrangement?
Josh gave the creamer a suspicious sniff and shrugged before pouring it into the two mugs in front of him. “Why don’t you buy a crust at the store?”
“Are you implying I can’t handle making a scratch crust?”
“Perish the thought.”
“I’m detecting sarcasm in your tone.”
“All I’m suggesting is there’s no reason to make it more complicated than it needs to be. There’s no shame in taking a shortcut.” Josh brought the two coffees over and set one on the coffee table in front of Mia before settling down at the other end of the couch with his.
Swiveling to face him, she pulled her feet up under her before gesturing at her laptop screen. “It says here, and I quote: There’s nothing quite as good as a pie made completely from scratch.”
“Don’t food bloggers make their money from page views and advertising revenue? Of course they want everyone to use their recipe instead of buying a premade crust that tastes just as good.”
“Do they taste just as good though?” Mia eyed him over her laptop. “Do they?”
He shrugged and blew across his coffee. “Probably.”
“I’ll bet you’ve never had a premade crust in your life,” she said as she copied ingredients to her shopping list. “Admit it. Everyone in your family makes their pie crusts from scratch.”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I don’t think my dad’s ever made a pie that I can recollect.”
“Okay, but I know Birdie makes scratch crusts.” Birdie made everything from scratch. Even the suet she put out for the birds and the nectar in her hummingbird feeders. She could probably make a pie crust in her sleep.
“She’s not going to judge you if you buy a crust at the store,” Josh said. “I promise.”
Mia ignored him. “And I’ll bet your mom does too, doesn’t she?”
“Oh yeah, she makes this apple crumb pie with cream cheese every year.” His eyes got a faraway look as he lounged against the couch cushions, sipping his coffee. “It’s incredible. Best pie I’ve ever had.”
“Should I make that instead?” Why was she making a pumpkin pie if apple was his favorite? And why hadn’t she thought to ask him what his favorite pie was before starting her list?
“You can’t,” he said. “Mom guards that recipe like her life depends on it. She won’t share it with anyone—even Birdie. She says she’ll leave it to Andie in her will, but until then we’re out of luck.” He smiled to himself. “But you’ll get to taste it at Christmas when they’re here.”
Mia’s head jerked up. “Your parents are coming for Christmas?”
She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her that they might. Maybe because they weren’t coming for Thanksgiving. Or because her own parents had almost never bothered to visit her. But of course normal parents would want to see their kids—not to mention their old friends and the rest of their family—and Josh couldn’t very well leave the farm to visit them in Maine.
“They usually come back twice a year. Once in the summer and again at Christmas. So you’ll get to meet them.” He looked down at his mug, his brow crinkling faintly. “I mean, if you want. Assuming you’re