Every Friday at noon, Joey and I dance and sing along to one song in the shop. It doesn’t matter if customers come in and it doesn’t matter how busy we are. We always make time for one song on Friday. A few months ago, I had an entire wedding party in here dancing along to “Locked out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars. It was awesome. Justin Timberlake’s “Love Stoned” blares through the speakers as I spin around and begin dancing and singing along to the lyrics with Joey.
I’m on a serious roll when he cuts the music and stands, staring at the shop door, the familiar hot guy in the building look on his face. Spinning around to see what the fuss is about, I see a very amused face staring at me. Smiling in a suit and tie, the attractive blond steps forward and tilts his head.
“Well, thank Christ I decided to stop in here during my lunch break. Otherwise, I might have missed that hot little show.” He steps closer to the counter and presses his hands on the top, causing me to stumble back a bit.
“Sweet Mother. You’re like a sexy man-magnet lately,” Joey mutters to me softly.
I clear my throat and smile. “Sorry about that. Can I help you?”
“I hope so, Dylan.” His eyes drop to my nametag and then flick back to my face. Good, but didn’t have the same effect as my name coming out of Reese’s mouth. He’s tall and blond, hair cut short and spiky with chiseled cheekbones and thin lips. “My father came in the other day and requested something. He’s not feeling well, so he sent me to come pick it up.” He glances down at the display case and then back up at my face. “Do you have any idea what I’m referring to because he wasn’t specific?”
I think for a minute before it dawns on me. “Oh, the tarts.” I shuffle quickly to the kitchen and bring out the container of treats. “I’m sorry to hear he isn’t feeling well.”
The man smirks. “Yeah, well, I can’t say I share your sympathy. His illness did bring me in here to see you.” He smiles wide, showing perfect teeth and winks at me. I shudder a bit.
“Jesus,” Joey utters as he steps behind the register. I ignore him and the comment from the man.
“Umm, well, the tarts are three seventy-five apiece. How many would he like?”
“I don’t know, three I guess? Can I get your number?”
I freeze midair as I’m reaching into the container to pick out the tarts. Jesus, Joey was right. I don’t think I’ve ever been this popular with men before. Quickly shaking off his question, I pull four tarts out of the container and place them into a pastry box as Joey rings him up.
“I’m seeing someone. Here you go, the fourth one’s free.” I push the box across the counter and meet his eyes. They’re the strangest color, a mix between mustard yellow and pale blue. It’s a bit unsettling and I quickly glance away.
“Well, that’s too bad. If he fucks up and you stop seeing him, give me a call.” He smiles and pulls a card out of his pocket, sliding it across the table. I glance down at it briefly before flicking my stare back up to him. There’s something about this guy that I find to be a major turn off, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. “Thanks for the tarts,” he says, turning and exiting the shop as I pick up his card.
“Bryce Roberts. Well, he was disturbingly forward.” Spinning around, I toss his card into the trashcan and dust my hands off, brushing the creepiness off my skin.
“Excuse you. Why are you throwing out a hot guy’s number? I thought you and Reese weren’t serious?” Joey pries as my phone beeps.
I reach excitingly for it and hear his quiet laugh. “I have the hottest guy’s phone number. I’m set.”
Reese: I’ll come to you. 8:00p.m.?
Me: Sounds perfect.
I work on the cake for the Smith/Cords wedding all night, finally passing out a little after two a.m. It’s one of the prettiest cakes I’ve made yet. The bride has requested edible cherry blossoms along the base of each tier, and I’ve surprised myself at just how realistic they’ve turned out. I snap a close-up picture of one before sending it to Reese, since he seems to appreciate my work. His response is nothing short of swoonworthy. Yes, now that word is being thrown around in my vocabulary as well.
Joey texts me early on Saturday and tells me he isn’t feeling well, thinking he had some bad food at the restaurant with Billy and is being taken care of in bed all day. I’m sure that means not just in a bring you chicken soup and popsicles kind of way. This means I’ll be making the cake delivery on my own today. I’m a bit nervous. I haven’t done this in years, the last time being when Joey spent a weekend with a very hot Greek guy he met at a club. They fucked and fought while I busted my ass trying to carry a six-tiered cake up a huge flight of stairs. He paid for that one for weeks.