DeeDee’s smile widens as she takes in the fallout from trying to do too many things at once. Like use the hand mixer and reach for the phone at the same time so the beaters lift from the bowl and spray blue icing all over the place.
More specifically, all over me. If my apron is any indication, I can only imagine the million blue flecks in my hair as if someone threw confetti at me.
“Nah. It’s just you.”
I laugh and know this is exactly one of the things that irked Mitch so much. My ability to get so lost in my work that I don’t give a second thought to being covered in ingredients. How some days I’d slide into his car and get something—batter, frosting, or God forbid, sprinkles—on the custom leather seats of his precious Mercedes. “Guess that explains why my dating life is so jam-packed these days, huh?”
“You and me both,” she says as she looks up from the computer with a lift of her eyebrows. “Checking social media for you.”
“Per Ryder’s request, I’m sure.”
She laughs for good measure, giving me an answer without saying a word. “Bride’s mom from last weekend tweeted last night saying she loved the cupcakes and wanted to thank you. I private messaged her and asked if she’d be a reference for us. She agreed and asked if it would be okay if she recommended Sweet Cheeks to the catering manager she works with at the convention center.”
“Really?” The thought of getting on their coveted vendor list has me smiling despite the nine hours I’ve already put in today.
“Yes. Fingers crossed she follows through. See? The power of social media.” Someone’s been talking to Ryder too much. I shake my head at the thought as she stands and walks toward the table where I’m working.
“Wow. These look great. Is this the order for the Rosemont family that came in yesterday?” She steps forward to look closer at the ten dozen cupcakes I’m putting the finishing touches on. All of them are decorated like a Marine’s dress blue uniform, complete with accurate bars and accolades.
I angle my head to the side, scrutinize my own work and nod, pleased with how they turned out. “Yes. They’re for a celebration of life event. He was a retired Marine.”
“Highly decorated by the looks of it.”
“Seems so.”
“Do you want me to deliver them for you?”
“No need to. They’re getting picked up after five.” I glance at the clock on the wall and cringe. I have forty minutes left to get them finished.
The bell on the door to the bakery jingles, announcing a customer, and DeeDee smiles.
“The game must be over. I’ll man the counter,” she says as she heads out front to greet them. And thank God for the game, or rather the series of basketball games in a state cup tournament, being held right down the street at the high school. A lot of new faces have been stopping in this week with the buy three get one free flyer we papered the school with, resulting in some boosted sales.
I’ll take any little victory I can get right now.
The intermittent jingle of the door lightens my mood as I finish up the final dozen uniform-themed cupcakes, package them up, and place them in the display case for completed orders behind the counter. I know Ryder will be happy with this week’s receipts and that, more than anything, gives me an ounce of hope I’ll be able to figure something out to keep my dream afloat.
The colors in the sky begin to fade as I clean up the back room and take a few phone orders. What I really want to do is run upstairs to my apartment atop the bakery and grab a quick shower. But I figure if I wait until we close, then I can reward myself with a glass or two of wine while soaking in a hot bath.
The bell jingles again and I hear a man say, “Good afternoon.” Something about the sound of his voice gives me pause, and I stop long enough to notice that after a few seconds, DeeDee hasn’t responded.
“Dee?” I call out as I move through the doorway to the retail front. She comes into view first—eyes wide, mouth agape—staring straight ahead. I immediately open my mouth to apologize to the customer for her rudeness, but the words—just like my heart—stop abruptly when the customer comes into sight.
I feel like every part of me staggers backward, and yet my feet stay completely still, as a pair of chocolate-brown eyes meet mine. A cocky yet cautious smile slowly curls up the corner of his mouth.
That mouth. The one that whispered sweet nothings. Lies. Told me he’d stay forever. And left without ever saying a word.
It’s like the air has been vacuumed from the room. I struggle to draw in a steady breath, and time seems to stand still as we stare at each other.
Because it’s him.
Hayes Whitley.
An older version of the boy who walked away all those years ago. Washed his hands of me and what we had without a word. The one who broke my heart in every way imaginable and stole more than just my innocence when he drove off.
Seconds pass. They feel like those first weeks after he left—long, confusing, and painful. And the hurt I thought I’d let go of years ago, slams into me like a battering ram.