Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate. –Alan D. Wolfelt
Scarlett
“You better be safe and invest in some condoms or something,” I say to Reese on the phone at the exact moment Brent opens the door to the apartment he shares with Bethany.
He bursts out laughing and I could just die of mortification.
I hadn’t even knocked yet, but I’m sure the doorman called up to let them know of my arrival.
He steps back to let me in.
My face is on fire, and Brent is still laughing.
“Reese? I just got to Bethany’s but we’ll talk more later. I love you, ok bye.” I hang up quickly and Brent leans in for a side hug.
“Scarlett, always a pleasure.”
“Hey Brent, sorry about that, duty calls.”
“That’s some important duty. Bethany is in the living room.” He gestures down the hall and I walk along the tiled entry and into the open spaciousness that is living in rich-person-land Manhattan. There’s original artwork on the walls—one of them is a vibrant abstract my mother painted and costs more than six months of my rent—and the living room is all sleek hardwood floors and white, upscale furniture along with a giant flat screen.
Bethany’s apartment is the nicest place I’ve ever been. And it’s in Greenwich Village. I mean, Julia Roberts lives in Greenwich Village.
Bethany is on the couch, cross legged with her laptop balanced on her thighs. “You should tell Reese to put the condoms in strategic locations. That way, if the urge strikes, you’re prepared no matter where you are.” She winks at Brent who’s still chuckling behind me.
I can’t help but scan the living room. “Are you saying you have condoms hidden all over this place?”
“I’m not saying I don’t,” Bethany says. “It just makes it easier and less awkward when the time is right, you know? But also, potentially more awkward if your future father-in-law stops by and sits on the couch—which he normally never does—and then finds one under his butt.”
Brent groans, covering his face with his hands. “Tell me that didn’t happen.”
“Oh, it happened. And he got pissed because he wants grandbabies. Can you believe that? I told him he wants more people to torture and he laughed and said he wants to spoil them with obnoxious presents so we’re the ones who are tortured.”
At the mention of babies, Brent’s eyes get really soft and he’s staring at Bethany like he wants the impregnating to start right now. I glance between them, half uncomfortable and half jealous, but then Bethany closes her computer with a quick movement and sets it on the table. “Are you ready for ladies’ night?” Her voice is too loud. “I got pizza from Bleeker Street!”
“Pizza?” Brent’s eyes lighten.
Bethany stands up, coming over to where we’re still lingering near the doorway.
“Pizza isn’t for you. When are you leaving?” she asks Brent.
Brent crosses his arms over his wide chest. “Do I have to leave? I could be a lady.”
Brent is six foot five and two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Despite having heart surgery seven months ago, he’s still built like a Greek god. A god of muscles and chiseled good looks.
“Please don’t. I love you just the way you are.”
“Aw that was sweet and not sarcastic or ridiculous.” He frowns at her. “Are you acting opposite of normal because you’re being held hostage?” He glances over at me with fake worry.
“Ha ha,” Bethany says. “I’m always sweet, dammit. Now get the hell out of here. Your dad is waiting.”
“That’s the problem,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t resist when she pushes him toward the door. He leans in to kiss her which makes her growl and push harder. But then she smiles, and they disappear through the doorway for a minute and I’m glad they did because I do not want to see them making out. Hearing it is quite enough for a good thirty seconds while I stew in my own pea-green envy.
“See ya, Scarlett,” Brent calls from down the hall and then the door shuts and Bethany reappears.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “He’s just being cute. Are you hungry? I’m starving.”
“I can always eat, unfortunately.” I follow her into the kitchen.
She pulls wine glasses down from the cupboard and sets them on the gleaming granite countertop. “What was up with the condom talk with Reese?”
I grimace. “It started because we were talking about Christmas. Her new boyfriend is going to be there.”
“Christmas with the family. That’s a big deal.” She pours wine and then hands me a glass.
I nod. “His parents moved away from Blue Falls, and apparently Granny has taken him in. Along with a few other stragglers from around town for the holidays, and all the rest of the year, I guess.”
“Aw that’s sweet! Your granny sounds really nice.”
I snort. “Sometimes.”
“Are you excited to go back home for Christmas? It’s been a while, right?”
“Yeah, almost two years.” I can’t believe I’ve been away that long. Talking to Reese on the phone is always kind of hard—it makes me homesick and I feel disconnected from her. “Reese sounds so different, older, more mature, I feel like I’ve missed out on a big part of her life.”
Bethany reaches across the counter and pats my hand. “It’s important to let people live their lives and grow up—sometimes the best thing you can do is let someone fly on their own.”
“Yeah, I know. But sex! She’s talking about sex! When she was sixteen, I had to beg her to attend high school. She couldn’t talk to boys, let alone consider sleeping with them. It really wasn’t that long ago.”
“She’s how old, nineteen?”
I nod and take a sip of my wine. “Nearly twenty, but I can’t help but think of her like a child, still. Or at least childlike. Thankfully they haven’t,” I lower my voice, “done it, yet, but it sounds like it’s not for lack of trying on her part.”
Bethany’s brows lift.
“He wants to wait until she’s ready. Well, she’s sure she’s past ready and onto annoyed, but can’t convince him of it.”
She grins. “He sounds fun. She should trap him somehow. Maybe kidnap him. Send him on a quest but at the end it’s sexy times.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll suggest that to her next time we talk.” I absolutely won’t.
Bethany pulls the pizza out of the oven and we take plates out to the living room.
“How’s work going?” I ask when we’re seated comfortably on the sofa.
“It’s good. Busy, challenging, but I sort of love it. Oh, I meant to tell you about what I found on your Guy.”
I almost choke on my pizza. “You mean Guy Chapman? He’s not my guy.”
She waves a hand in the air. “You know what I mean.”
“I do not know what you are referring to.”
“Whatever, lady. Listen, I don’t care if you want to do the hottie. Lord knows, I’ve been there. There’s no judgment here. I love you no matter who you bang, okay?”
“Got it, but it’s not happening.”
“Anyway, I was talking to our real estate developer and I guess your Guy has been pretty desperate to get the little lot where you’re parking.”
“I’m aware.”
“Fortunately for you, I already told him not to sell no matter what he offers, but it might get to the point where I can’t stop it. He has a backer, Oliver Nichols.”
I almost choke on my pizza. “Oliver Nichols the billionaire?”
“Yep.”
The delicious pizza turns into a stone ball in my stomach.
“Are they going to have to sell?”
She shrugs. “We’re far away from that kind of talk, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll let you know if they keep upping the ante and we reach a point of no return. I’ll help you find another place. Or maybe you can buy a brick and mortar; it might be worth it since your catering hustle has been taking off.”
“Yeah.” I force myself to take a giant bite of pizza even though it’s not as delicious as it was a minute ago.
“Did you know he was married?” she asks.
“No. And I don’t want to know because it has no relevance.” I take a big drink of wine and wait ten full seconds before curiosity gets the best of me. “Okay fine, tell me what you know.”
Bethany leans forward, eyes gleaming. “They had a total whirlwind romance, met at a promotional event when he was on that reality TV show. They got married after only a few months, and after less than a month of wedded bliss, it busted up.”
“What happened?”
“No one really knows. She disappeared suddenly. This was like a year ago. Now she’s all over Instagram, traveling through Europe and stuff. Marie something or other. She’s some heiress type but she has a ton of followers because she’s like, a lifestyle blogger or some garbage.” Bethany shrugs and takes a sip of her wine. “Some people think there was another woman.”
“He cheated?”
She waves it off. “I don’t think it’s true. I also heard he’s married to his work, so maybe that’s what they meant. Like his work is his mistress. He doesn’t have time for a wife, let alone an affair. Plus, his parents are dead and he’s raising his sisters.”
He mentioned his mom had passed the other night. I wonder what happened. I don’t want to feel any sympathy for the brute, but the emotion flickers inside me anyway. “Sisters?”
“Two of them. And one of them has special needs, I guess, so all his time not at the restaurant is with them. So maybe Marie couldn’t hang without his undivided attention, she seems like the type. But then again, he was spotted on a date with Maya Roberts only a few weeks after the wife bailed out, so who knows.”
“Who’s Maya Roberts?”
“Olympic soccer player.”
I stew on that and eat more pizza. It doesn’t bother me. At all.
“Oh, I know,” Bethany snaps and I meet her bright-eyed gaze. “What if he murdered his wife and all the pics on insta are fakes. That would be, like, the perfect crime. Maybe he buried her in the backyard, hacked into her insta account and now everyone thinks she’s all traipsing the world and poor him but really, he’s a total psycho killer.”
I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. “You think everyone is a murderer.”
She sits up straighter. “I do not. I don’t think you’re capable of cold-blooded killing.”
I wait, watching her with raised brows.
She relents. “Well, there is the whole thing where you don’t immediately have to yawn when someone else does, and you are totally a scream-sneezer so you might be a sociopath.” She eyes me speculatively. “And you’re very charming and likeable. Okay, I totally think everyone is a potential murderer.”
“It’s one of your more irredeemable qualities.”
“Fine, no more talk about murder and no more talk about the opposite sex. Tell me what’s new in cupcakelandia. How’s Fred?”
We chat about work; I tell her about my big wedding order and all the details involved.
“I don’t know how you do it, friend. How are you gonna cater that big of an event with just you and Fred?”
“I have the Vulcan which can cook 125 mini cupcakes in an hour. Then it’s a matter of waiting for the cooling and cutting the fondant into the shapes required—that will be the more time-consuming part, but it won’t be too hard. I have a plan. I’ve done large orders before. We’ll get it done. I’m not worried.”
“I’m starting to worry,” I tell Fred as I bustle along the sidewalk, hugging my coat tighter. It’s getting darker, the sun setting behind the skyscrapers and I swear the temperature has dropped twenty degrees since I left the truck fifteen minutes ago.
“I’m fine.”
She sounds like a frog. A sick frog with a plugged nose, harboring a million germs, and this is no good.
I closed up shop early today to get started on the wedding order since Fred won’t be able to help me with the fondant toppers. I only have one more batch to throw in the oven and then it’s a matter of waiting for them to cool, cutting out the designs, and then getting them into place and into travel containers.
Except all day I’ve been off. Discombobulated. Mostly due to the fact that I’ve been working triple time since Fred has been out. I think I’ve gotten a grand total of five hours of sleep over the last three days. And then this morning, I happened to catch sight of some young blonde getting into Guy’s SUV with him. They were gone for an hour and he returned on his own.
Who is she? One of his sisters? I would like to think so, but I doubt it. She appeared too old to be in need of a guardian and Bethany made it sound like they were significantly younger. What bothers me most is I noticed at all and I cared. I shouldn’t care. I should hate him.
“Did you go to the doctor?” I ask Fred as I enter the market, bypassing a fake Santa ringing his bell. Christmas music jingles in the background.
“I went yesterday. My flu turned into a pneumonia. I have to take antibiotics for 24 to 48 hours before I stop being contagious. But I should be fine by Monday.”
“Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself and come back when you’re ready. Did Jack bring you to the doctor?”
“No. He worked late so my mom took me.”
I bite my lip from yelling. This is bothersome. He should prioritize Fred.
“You should have called me. I would have gone with you.”
“I couldn’t do that, you’re extra busy since I’m sick. I’m so sorry, Scarlett.” She breaks into hacking coughs.
“It’s okay, don’t worry about me. You worry about resting and getting yourself better.”
Mental note to call and have soup delivered since Jack sucks ass.
“I closed up the truck early, and I’m halfway done baking. I need more sugar for the frosting though, so I’m at the store now. Do you need anything? I can grab it and bring it to you on my way back to the truck.”
Long pause. “You used all the sugar from the truck?” Her already nasally voice squeaks even higher on the last word.
“Yeah, so?” I bend down to grab a bag of organic sugar from the shelf.
“But…didn’t you, I mean, you tasted the first batch, right?”
My gut sinks with sudden intuition. Why would she be asking me this unless . . .? “What? Why are you asking me that?” And why didn’t I taste test it? Because I was too busy thinking about Guy’s young girlfriend, that’s why.
“Oh shit, tell me you didn’t! Dammit, Scarlett!” She barks out the words and then breaks into a round of phlegmy coughs.
I drop the bag of sugar and back into someone behind me.
“Excuse me,” an acidic voice says, but I barely hear it over the dread filling me.
Fred speaks again. “I told him it wouldn’t be a big deal because you always taste the batter on the first batch. And you do! What made you stop now?”
“What do you mean, you told him it was no big deal? What’s wrong with my cupcakes?”
“Why didn’t you taste test?!”
“I was distracted!”
She blows out a breath and we’re both quiet for a few long seconds. “There’s salt.” Now her voice is small.
“Salt?” It’s like I don’t even know the meaning of the word.
“You know, the old switch the sugar with salt trick? It’s such a lame, predictable prank, how could you have not checked? Who doesn’t taste test? You always taste test.”
This is it. He’s won. He’s manipulating my situation to try and get rid of me, just like he manipulates everyone and everything else. I should never have let him rub his face on mine.
“It’s my fault, I’m sorry Scarlett. It wasn’t him, I—” I hang up. I can’t talk to her anymore. I have sixteen hours to bake 1500 more cupcakes and decorate them and yes, I can probably pull it off, but it will mean another all-nighter or nearly an all-nighter and I’m not sure I can take it. If it wasn’t for the time it takes for the cooling and the fondant . . .
I’m a failure. I can’t cancel or even change an order the day before the wedding, there’s no way. All it takes is one bad customer experience for the tales to spread and then no one will hire me, and I’ll have to move back to Blue Falls and, and…he’ll be right. He can’t be right. I can’t fail. I have to pull this off. The mother of the bride is going to be enough to ruin me. It’s going to be blow torch Scarlett all over again. But worse.
Everything goes silent. I buy the bag of sugar in a daze even though I’ll probably need more since I need to re-do the entire order, but none of that is really registering at the moment. I make my way back to the truck, taking a bite to confirm they really are ruined, then a grab a tray of finished, salty product and stalk across the street.
No one notices me striding through the kitchen. Carson is sitting in his little cubby outside Guy’s office and I launch a cupcake at his head. He dodges it. “Scarlett, hey!” he calls, but I pass him right by and push open Guy’s door.
He’s reading some kind of paperwork at his desk and his head lifts at my entrance.
He’s utterly unsurprised, expression flat. Even when I start throwing cupcakes at him.
“This.” Throw. “Is.” Throw “All.” Throw. “Your.” Throw. “Fault!”
When I’m done, there’s mini cupcakes all over his office. Too bad they weren’t frosted. As it is, I barely did any damage at all and the lack ratchets up my fury another notch.
“Who is this?” I glance to the side where a man in an elegant three-piece suit is sitting, watching with lifted brows.
“This is Scarlett Jackson,” Guy answers him, and my gaze snaps back to his.
“I am also the woman who is going to sue you for…for…existing.”
“Now I can see why you’ve been so reticent,” the unknown man says, and the all-consuming anger takes a step back as embarrassment and humiliation move into place.
“Sorry, sir. This doesn’t involve you.”
He grins. “It likely does, but I’m not sure how much I should admit to. Not while you still have ammunition.”
Guy stands. “Oliver, we can talk later. I have something to deal with.”
“Clearly.” Oliver stands, his gaze roving over me briefly in assessment before he turns to Guy and shakes his hand.
The review wasn’t overtly sexual, more evaluating. Not like you would appraise a woman, but like you would examine a particularly interesting specimen of bug or something.
He lifts his brows at Guy and then walks out the door behind me.
Once he’s gone, Guy says, “You didn’t taste the first batch?”
He would turn this around on me. “That’s not the point.” I slam my cupcake tray on his desk and a couple of them pop out and roll onto his desk. I’ve made a little mess of his perfect office and I’m not sad about it.
“How can I fix it?” he asks.
Shocked, I laugh, somewhat manically and pace back and forth in front of his desk. “You want to fix this? You can’t. Unless, of course, you want to help me cook 1500 cupcakes and craft detailed fondant tops, in the next 16 hours?”
He blinks. Silence for a few long seconds. Then he gives a short nod. “You’ve got all the fondant and stencils?”
I nod uncertainly. That didn’t put him off at all?
“Right. We can manage it.”
He stands, grabbing his coat off the hook. It is a victim of my cupcake drive-by, but he just wipes off some of the cake with a swipe of his hand.
“Carson,” he barks.
“Yes, boss.” Carson peers around the doorway. Just the top of his head. He’s bracing himself for further attack.
“Clean up this mess,” Guy tells him. He waves at my feeble attempt at destruction. “And call Clara. Let the girls know I’ll be home late and have dinner sent over.”
I stand there, watching the exchange in befuddled silence.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Carson salutes and gives me a jaunty wink before spinning back to his workstation.
Guy motions for me and leaves out the side door. I follow him, in a complete daze. What is happening? We’re standing outside before he speaks.
“What do we need?” he asks.
“Besides twenty-four additional hours in the day?”
“I mean what do we need as far as ingredients.”
“Oh. Um. Sugar.”
He stops and turns to face me, one brow lifting. “Is that it?”
“I have everything else in the pantry of the truck, but if you have extra mixers, baking trays, and piping bags, that will help.”
He nods and talks in a rapid-fire manner I recognize from catching bits of his old show.
“Bring your notes for the order and whatever you have on hand. Go down two doors this way,” he points down the length of the building, “I’ll get out mixers and sugar and start pre-heating the ovens.”
“Right got it.”
And then he stalks away, and I have no idea what to do with myself except follow his instructions.
Bustling back to the truck, panicking slightly, I call Bethany. I can’t be alone with him for the next…however long this is going to take. I need a buffer.
She answers, “Scarlett!” but sounds breathless and her phone has background noise, like wind. “Where are you?” I ask.
“Hamptons, baby!”
Brent’s family has a house there and they occasionally make the trip for the weekend. “Crap.”
“Uh oh, what’s going on? What’s up?”
I give her a quick run-down of everything that’s happened in the last hour.
“I’m sorry I can’t be there to help but…. So now you’re going to use Guy’s oven? Using someone’s oven sounds like a euphemism for something else.”
“Well get your mind out of the gutter because it is not a euphemism for anything but not losing my entire life and reputation and career. Do you think I’m making a mistake?” I ask as I pull the pre-made fondant out of the fridge.
“Depends. Are there other options? You could go to our place and use our oven if you needed to.”
“You have a great kitchen, but you only have one oven. He has multiples.”
There’s a lengthy pause. “Oh. Okay, I get it. He can give you multiples.”
I would strangle her if she were in front of me right now. “That’s not—”
“No no, it’s fine, I’m sure his appliances are way better than mine.”
I sigh and start rummaging through some of my storage for powdered sugar. “I need help decorating, too, and no number of ovens is going to help me with that. I need hands.”
“So, you’re saying his hands are good, huh?” She snickers.
“Bethany, I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about cupcakes!”
“You keep your cupcakes clean, okay? Always make sure the frosting is groomed and the interior is nice and moist.”
“You did not just say that word.”
She ignores me. “Make sure you use oven mitts, and if he doesn’t give you three blenders, he’s not worth it.”
“Bethany, I am not going to have sex with Guy! Ever! It’s about cupcakes! I hate you, goodbye!” I push the end button on her laughter right as a throat clears behind me.
Oh, no. I turn around, dread filling me. I know exactly who is at the back door to the truck and who heard me yell, quite loudly, I would not be having sex with him.
“Hi.” His mouth is twitching like he’s fighting a smile or laughter or some combination of the two and my mortification doubles. “I just came by to see if you needed help carrying anything?”