I glance up when I hear the disbelief in his voice, then fake glare at him for obviously playing it up. His spirited smile beams at me.
“I have all the faith in you. Rock it out, girl.”
Taking the money being held out for him, Joey hands the woman behind the counter her purchase while I search for the order form for next weekend. The woman takes her change and exits the shop.
“Here.” I slide out the form after matching up the dates and lay it out flat on the open page of the binder. I drag my finger down the thin paper to the bottom where the description is scrolled in Dylan’s handwriting.
Three-tiered almond cake with a chocolate ganache filling and a mocha buttercream.
Okay. I can do that. Three-tiered is better than five-tiered. See, Brooke? No big deal. You got this.
I continue reading the notes on the design.
Edible flowers. Tons of them . . .
Make them epic?
Oh, God, no. No. No. No. No.
I drop my head into my hands, groaning. “Fuuuck. Why couldn’t she have wanted farm animals or something? I hear country weddings are all the rage. Shit!”
“Don’t believe what you hear. I went to a country themed wedding one time. We all sat on hay bales during the ceremony and drank out of mason jars. Talk about slumming it. I was itchy the entire night.” Joey’s body presses into mine as he leans closer. “Oh . . . gardenias,” he quietly observes. “Dylan’s really good at those.”
I slowly look up at him, my scowl unforgiving.
Flinching, he steps back. “You know, I think I’m going to go get my coffee now.”
“Good idea.”
As Joey hurries out of the bakery, I lean against the case and rub my temple, digging my fingers into my flesh. I stare down at the order form and fight off tears when my eyes begin to sting.
This is it. This is how I’m going to get fired. Taken out by the mother of all baked goods.
Tugging out my phone, I sniffle and type out a message as tears dampen my cheeks.
Me: Hi.
God, I need him to talk me through this. To tell me I’m not going to fail.
His reply comes within seconds.
Mason: Hello, gorgeous. How are you?
Me: Freaking out.
My stomach coils and my hands shake. I wipe at my face and wait for his response, staring at the screen, waiting for those little bubbles to appear.
I wait.
And wait.
They never come.
The bakery door chimes open. I look up, expecting to see a customer, or Joey returning with his coffee and hopefully something alcoholic for me.
I’ve never needed a drink so badly before in my life. Screw unprofessionalism. If I’m getting canned, I might as well spend my last week of employment drunk and oblivious.
To my surprise, Mason steps inside the shop, looking more keyed up than I feel, if that’s even possible.
His fretful gaze slams on me as he clutches his cell in his one hand and rakes through his sweaty hair with the other. The muscles in his arm swelling and glistening. His chest heaving.
“Brooke,” he rasps, some emotion tightening his voice.
I study him. The apprehension in his eyes. His distraught demeanor. It confuses me. I don’t understand it.
Until I glance down at the phone in my hand and read the last message I sent.
MASON
She’s crying. Fuck. She’s freaking out, and she’s crying. Fuck!
What happened? It’s barely been an hour. What the fuck? Did someone say something to her again? Get inside her head and cause Brooke to over think this and the way it makes her feel? The way I make her feel. She was fine.
No. Fine is cheapening it. She was much more than fine. So much more.
She was fucking perfect with me this morning. Unreserved. Laughing and completely open. Free with her affection. Then she comes here and reverts back to those old familiar habits. Drawing in on herself and slipping behind that shield of uncertainty.
Baby . . . God, don’t do this.
What do I need to do? Pull each one of her friends and family aside and tell them to back the hell off? Fine, if that’s what it takes. Their opinion of me notwithstanding, this is between me and Brooke.