Mark’s mother takes one look at my face when I emerge from the supply closet and presses her lips together. “Go,” she says softly. “I’ve got her.”
Maybe it’s single mom intuition, but she seems to know I need a moment alone. That I’m seconds away from falling apart, and the last thing I need is for Libby to witness it.
I glance at the ball pit and see Libby’s playing happily with her new friend, both girls swimming through a sea of red and blue and green plastic bubbles. She’s laughing like the world is a perfect, rainbow-hued utopia, and for her, it is. I want it to stay that way as long as possible.
So I go, murmuring a promise to be back in an hour. I just need some air, a few moments of quiet to figure out how the hell I’ve managed to do this again. To press myself magnetlike to a man hellbent on pushing me away.
I burst through the side door and out into the darkness. No one follows, especially not Mark. Cloaked in darkness, I skirt past the ballroom where the party’s still in full swing. There’s Senator Grassnab, deep in conversation with Austin on the far side of the room. Neither looks up to notice me scuttling through the shadows, making my way to the other side of the resort.
I’m not even sure where I’m going until the glow of the main lodge flickers into view. The dining room is bright as a lantern, with dinner rush in full swing. I jog around to the other side, making a beeline for the pastry kitchen. Thank God Sean told me about it. Maybe he knew I’d need the therapy at some point. For as long as I can recall, baking has been my solace, my comfort, my safe place.
I’ve never needed it more.
Pushing through the side door, I move down the hallway by the restrooms and head for the nondescript door at the back. My hands are shaking as I pull my key card out of my pocket and wave it in front of the scanner. It clicks open like a welcome, a wave of cinnamon and vanilla greeting me warmly.
My sleeve tangles on the door handle, and I waste a few precious minutes struggling to free myself. Tears drip down my face, blurring my vision and making me feel like an even bigger idiot than I already did.
God. Finally, I’m in, safe in the spice-scented cocoon. Here, I can pretend for just a few minutes that I haven’t screwed up again. That I didn’t fling myself head first into another relationship with a guy unwilling to offer more than a flimsy paper cutout of himself.
I make my way to the sink in the corner and wash my hands, stopping to splash water on my face. It’ll be okay. Everything will be fine; I can get through this.
Spotting a row of chef’s aprons on pegs along the wall, I pull one down and cinch it around my waist. Then I get to work.
Poking my head in the cooler, I locate the tools required to soothe my soul. Butter, eggs, fresh milk from the dairy down the road. I drag them out and pile them on the stainless-steel counter beside tidy canisters of flour and sugar.
I don’t even know what I’m making, but my hands are flying, going through the motions on autopilot.
Just like Mark.
No. I push the thoughts aside, forcing myself to get lost in the familiar comforts of sifting, stirring, mixing.
But my mind won’t be easily subdued.
How did I not know? How did I miss the fact that I’d thrown myself face first into an ocean of caring and commitment, while Mark stood coolly on the shore, not daring to wade in?
I thought I knew him. I wasn’t dumb enough to think I’d burrowed all the way inside the warm chambers of that big, cavernous heart of his, but I thought I’d at least touched the surface.
But it turns out I wasn’t close. Not even a little.
Flour sifts through my fingers like fairy dust, and I lose track of time. How long do I work like that? Five minutes, ten, cracking eggs and stirring in cocoa powder until my heart rate starts to slow.
Click.
My head snaps up at the sound, but it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. When they do, my brain synapses fire in a fizzy repeat of what the hell?
A woman, cloaked in a slinky black dress, stands by the doorway with a thick gold bangle on one arm. Her smile is a brittle slash of red lipstick and perfect white teeth, and her sleek blond bob glows bright under the kitchen lights.
I notice these things in sequence, cataloguing them one by one—dress, jewelry, makeup, hair—with the growing awareness that I’m avoiding the one thing in this pretty picture that chills me to the bone.
A pistol, gripped in her manicured hand, pointed right at my head.