by Snow, Nicole
I pinch my eyes shut a second too long, hating how I missed my chance to say no.
He turns back toward his SUV and pulls open his passenger door. “Climb in. It’s cold out here. Custom heat in this thing that'll fire up in seconds.”
It is cold, so I climb in and set the pie on the wide console so I can rub the chill out of my hands.
Hunter climbs in the driver’s side.
“Okay, so talk. What's going on? Is it Ben?” I ask, growing more concerned, wondering if there's something he's holding close to his chest.
“Depends. Do you have time for a drink?”
“Sure.”
Crap. There I go again, mouth moving faster than my brain. Why, why, why is it so hard with this man?
“A quick one,” I clarify, thankful I have a getaway. “Have to be at my parents' house in an hour. A second Thanksgiving dinner of sorts. My sister and her fiancé couldn’t attend yesterday, so we're catching up with them today.” I shut down again, cursing my motor mouth.
Hunter Forsythe is the last man on Earth I should be telling this to.
“Rochelle really gets on your nerves, doesn’t she?”
Self-loathing over my own attitude churns my stomach. “No. Not usually. I mean, she’s always been self-centered and a diva, but that’s never bothered me before. It was just Rochelle. I’ve lived with her my entire life.” A sigh pushes against my chest. I slowly let it out. “It’s this whole wedding thing. She’s just gone over the edge and it's wearing on everyone.”
He pulls out of the parking space and I glance at my car. It’ll shut off after twenty minutes. That happens often enough when I start it and then find something else keeps me distracted.
“Why’s that? What’s put her over the edge?” he asks.
“Perfection. Fantasy. Hell if I know.”
“You know you're not as different as you think, Sugar. You've got a perfectionist streak of your own.” He glances my way and grins, inviting me to slap him. “I saw your unicorn cake. You worked your sweet butt off making that thing damn near immaculate.”
Holy hell. I don't know what's worse: Hunter Forsythe comparing me to my bride from hell sister, or him calling my butt sweet.
I hold back the urge to violently shut him up when I remember he isn't wrong.
I can’t deny that when it comes to my cakes, I want every detail perfect. “It was worth it. The little girl I made that for brought me a thank you note.”
“I know. I held the bakery door open for her.”
“Did she show you the picture?”
“No.”
“She drew the cake and...honestly? It's kinda adorable.” The little girl was a sweetie, too, and her visit made all the work I’d put into that cake more than worthwhile.
“Are you in the wedding? Sister’s maid of honor?”
I huff out a pained laugh. “Ha, very funny. Nope.”
Those blue eyes glance at me again, more beast than man. So intimidating and so damn beautiful.
Maybe that's why every word seems more intense than it should be when he asks, “Why's that? You turn her down?”
“Because everything has to match perfectly, including the couples, Hunter. She's that much of a control freak. Marco’s brother is his best man. So his brother’s wife is the matron of honor. The groomsmen are his friends and cousins, so their wives or significant others are the bridesmaids.”
I'm getting worked up again. That’s one of the things about this wedding that's always really bugged me. Not that I’m not in it, I couldn't be happier.
More that the whole event is more about Marco and what he wants versus Rochelle. I can't even recognize her as the same girl who always talked about having a simple, possible destination wedding before he gave her that oversized rock.
I think Tolkien himself would be stunned at the power of her engagement ring. She’s turned into a fire-breathing bridezilla, all right, and every other sentence out of her mouth begins with Marco wants.
“But you're still doing the cake, yeah?” His question brings me back to Earth.
“Right.” I sigh at the plainness of the cake. “White. All white. Boring frosting. Blah flowers. Cookie cutter plastic bride and groom on top, per her wishes. It'll be the world's tastiest museum piece.” I shake my head. “The entire wedding is black and white, you know. Marco’s favorite colors. Rochelle even told the guests what color they can wear.”
He lifts a brow while glancing my way. “Damn, Sugar. Better can the orange zoot suit I was planning on, then.”
I grin, praying to everything holy he's joking. And not just because of the obvious mythic zoot suit. Maybe this is a good time to tell him not to bother. Or make him bow out, if I can just get it through his head what kind of Kafkaesque day he's signed up for.
“Black, Hunter. Black only for guests. Her and Marco will be wearing white, and everyone else must wear black.” I nod at his frown. “There were little notes inside her invitations explaining it. In every torturous detail.”
“Fuck me. Is this a funeral or a wedding?”
I shrug, shaking my head. “I’m not sure.”
I’m barely joking. A part of me feels like I lost my sister completely the day she met Marco.
She’d always been self-centered, considered herself a step above the rest of us, but since she’d started dating him...God. She lost any hard-working, humble Agnes roots she might've had.
It’s almost like we're all an embarrassment to her, and she's counting down the hours until she can put in her notice with my parents, and leave Midnight Morning forever.
That’s what really has me irritated. The way she belittles the bakery, everything about it, as if it's not a real business anymore. She never used to before him.
“So you're gonna cave? Show up dressed like a Victorian mourner?”
“Of course,” I answer. “Not like I have much choice.”
“You always have one, babe.”
“I know. I’ve thought about that...but bottom line, she is my sister, and it's her wedding day. I won’t do anything to ruin it for her.” Considering that’s the perfect opening, I add, “Speaking of which...the deal's off, Hunter. Ben has his job. I told Mother you're not taking me to the wedding.”
I glance around, pinching my fingers together, just waiting for him to respond.
I hadn’t paid attention to where he was driving. I'm confused as he pulls into the driveway to his house. I assumed we’d have a drink at a bar somewhere.
“You told your mother?”
“You heard me the first time. You're off the hook. Ben's job is safe, no matter what happens.”
He pulls the SUV into the garage, and as the door slowly lowers, I notice headlights coming up the driveway behind us. Now that the deed is done, and I’ve told him, I just want to go home.
I'm fighting a regret that shouldn't be there. A tiny part of me liked the idea of having a date for the wedding. Of him being my date.
“Look,” I say, a bit nervous since we've just arrived. “About that drink...it's later than I thought. I really need to get back to my car. Have to get this pie to my parents' house and –”
“Okay.” He lifts the pie off the console and climbs out of the driver’s door.
I open my door. “Okay, what? I sort of need a ride back to my car. I can't sprout unicorn wings and fly, you know.”
“I know.” He's so cryptic, eyeballing me with that mysterious smirk on his face. Rather than walking toward the door to the house, he opens one that leads outside and gestures for me to step outside.
Baffled, I step out, and instantly notice another car in the driveway.
It's a freaking limo. Hunter’s hand settles on my back and he gives me a gentle nudge forward.
“Holy...what is this?” I ask, wheeling around to face him. “What's going on?”
“That’s where we're having our drink, Sugar. Did you really think I was taking you to some dive?”
“A limo? We're having drinks in a limo?”
I'm not hyperventilating. I'm not in full panic. I'm not losing it.
“Bingo.” He nods at the driver, who steps out and stands next to an open back door, giving a curt nod. “Evening, Silas.”
“Good evening, Mr. Forsythe.” The man nods at me again. “Miss? Ladies first.”
“This is Wendy Agnes,” Hunter tells him matter-of-factly. “She's famous. The one and only head pastry chef from the Midnight Morning Bakery.”
“Indeed, I have heard of her, sir.” He nods again, smiling. “You did the cupcakes for my little cousin's sweet sixteen last year. They were exquisite. Honored to meet you, Ms. Agnes.”
I don't know what's hanging lower. My purse, which I'm barely clinging onto by the strap, or my jaw as it's dragging on the ground.
What. Is. Going. On?
I can't believe a limo driver knows about my cakes, much less remembers me by name. But I also can't believe I’m about to climb inside an honest-to-God slate-black tinted-window limo right now.
“Hi. Thanks,” I say shyly to the driver as I get inside the car.
I swear there’s more room in here than in my apartment's entire living room. The plush leather seats are definitely softer than my cheap secondhand sofa by a long shot.
Hunter sets the pie on the seat across from us and then sits down beside me.
“What's all this?” I ask as the car starts moving.
“A place we can talk in private.” He reaches over, opens the lid on the backside of the front seat that reveals a mini-bar fully stocked. “What would you like?”
The assortment of choice is a little overwhelming. It really doesn’t matter. I point to a mini bottle of wine, figuring I’ll still be safe to drive after drinking that.
He opens it and hands it to me, then selects a bottle of expensive beer for himself.
“What do we need to talk about?” What could possibly warrant a talk like this?
That's what I'm really thinking as the door to the mini-bar closes.
He takes a nice, long sip off his beer before he says, “Your mother called me today.”
My hand tightens around the mini plastic wine bottle. “Why?”
“Because Ben's job isn't as safe as you think. She called to tell me if I don’t take you to Rochelle’s wedding, they'll let my boy go after the holidays.”
The floor drops out under me. My stomach knots. And if he's telling me the truth, I want to bring that pie home and ram it in my own mother's face.
8
Fishy Business (Hunter)
I have to bite back a grin at her reaction.
It was priceless. I wait to respond while she tosses back the entire mini-wine bottle in one gulp. Once it's empty, I take it and toss it in the trash container.
“Wish I was kidding, Sugar. Can't totally blame your ma for being a stickler for the fine print, though.” I hand her a second bottle. “It really doesn’t matter. I'd planned on taking you before she called, all up in arms about you having second thoughts.”
I truly hadn't changed my mind about that.
If anything, her mother’s phone call just confirms the inevitable.
No one strong-arms me or mine, including Wendy. In fact, it pisses me off the way her family treats her.
Like she’s some homely little girl with no chance of ever having a date. From what I’ve seen, she’s the one working day and night to keep their business afloat.
I wasn't as insulted as I should've been by her ma's warning. Because I'm hellbent on proving Sammy, Will, and especially her drama queen sister wrong.
I'll show the whole fucking world how datable and sexy Sugar and Spice is, or I'll die trying.
“But it does matter, Hunter. Ben’s job has nothing to do with Rochelle’s wedding. At least it shouldn’t. It isn't fair.” She huffs out a breath and droops her head back against the seat. “God. I can’t believe she called and said that.”
I drink her in with my eyes, draining the rest of my beer. This woman deserves better, especially for her love life. And I'm on a mission to bring it, all wrapped up tight in a neat bow, controlling mothers and bratty sisters be damned.
“No, wait, on second thought...I can believe it. That’s why this fiasco is so frustrating. Hunter, I'm –”
“Don't apologize,” I growl, even if she's right. It is a fiasco, one I shouldn’t even want to be involved in. Still, Wendy helped me out with Ben, and I can help her with this. “Your mother just wants your sister’s wedding to be perfect. She isn't being rational.”
“No kidding! It doesn’t give her any right to drag you in on it.”
“No, and it doesn’t give her the right to drag you over barbed wire, either. That’s why I wanted to talk to you out here.”
She shakes her head. “I just won’t go. Period. It’s as easy as that. Let Rochelle hate me forever.”
“Nah, Sugar, you can't use the nuclear option. Your entire family will be upset then. Here's what you'll do instead: go. Show them up. Have the goddamn time of your life.”
She turns her head slowly, leveling a gaze full of suspicion on me. “What are you playing at here?”
I like that about her. How she always sees through the lines. “I’ve never done anything like this before, but I'm sure we can pull it off. Just give me a day or two to think –”
“Hold up. Pull what off?”
“Exactly what your mother wants, Wendy. You showing up with a date. Then having the best fucking night of your life.” I’m not joking.
I'm determined. It's exactly what'll happen. By the end of the night, Wendy, the little sister, the one who's never had a serious boyfriend, who rarely ever dated, who'd be mortified if she knew everything her mother told me, will get the recognition she deserves.
Maybe I'm just insane enough to think I can tip the cosmic scales. Deliver a little justice. Take Sister Karma's gavel and lay down the law.
Because Wendy's the one working day and night while her sis throws fits over not having butterflies and birds released at her wedding. Because Wendy doesn't seem to have a selfish bone in her sweet little body. Because said sweet little body does terrible things to me at night when I'm alone, under the covers, and maybe I'll stop jerking myself raw if I can finally have a taste of her, even for one night.
Yeah, that's another ticking time bomb, but so what? This is about more than Ben's job and her neurotic family, if I'm being brutally honest.
It's about whatever insane black magic she cast on me the first time we traded barbs.
“I won’t let you down, and I'm not letting this go. Promise, Sugar.”
“But –”
“Sugar, stop. Stop yourself before you waste another word trying to keep me from showing you a good time.”
“Hunter...”
I glare at her, giving her my best evil eye, shaking my head, transmitting three words: I said, no.
I mean it, too.
Fuck, I haven’t been this keyed up about anything in a long time that doesn't involve Cory's mysterious death.
This is something I can crack. Strategy. Working to make something happen that no one thinks will and shocking their pants off in the process.
When I look up, she's still shaking her head, that gold-blonde hair flying everywhere, calling to my fingertips so bad they burn.
“Whatever, then. I just don't want to be let down or even more embarrassed.” She huffs out another breath. “Hunter, this is crazy.”
The way she’s biting her bottom lip confirm my thoughts. She's still fighting, the little minx, but the idea is growing on her.
She shakes her head again. “But, you know, we'll have to pretend –”
“Yeah, we will.” I take a chug off my beer. “And we can. It won’t be that hard.”
Her bottom lip turns white from how hard she’s biting on it. She’s toying with the idea, but she isn’t quite ready to commit. If only she knew I'd committed a hundred percent before we even stepped in this car.
I push the button to roll
down the limo's privacy visor and give Silas the address to her parents' house.
She's frowning, watching, looking at me intently. “What now? Do I dare ask?”
“It's time to show you how easy this will be.” I gesture toward the pie with my beer bottle. “Practice makes perfect. So, that's why we're going to drop that pie off and tell your folks we can’t stay because Silas is driving us around the city on a private holiday light tour.” I open the fridge beneath the bar and show her the contents. “Their tongues will be hanging out, dragging on the damn floor, and we'll be long gone. Off on our own snacking on caviar and shrimp, and French bread and imported cheese aged in a cave by Trappist monks, and –”
“Stop!” Finally, she breaks. I see her beautiful face completely lit, laughing her head off, even if she's still shaking it furiously. “A holiday light tour in a limo? You're insane. That’s something Rochelle would want.”
“Exactly. But our boy, Marco, hasn’t done that for her, has he?”
“He could've. I'm not sure. Don't tell me you do?”
I chuckle, closing the fridge. “You’d be amazed by what I know.”
She would be, honestly, and I’m thankful she hasn't realized Landmark has its own in-house intelligence that could make the NSA a little jealous. I’m also glad that her mother told me as much as she has. “Marco hasn’t, and I believe he’ll be a little put out, if he's the kind of guy I think he is. So will your sister.”
She presses a hand to her lips, trying to hide the smile that's sneaking up on her. Parting her fingers slightly, she says, “Come on. It's too mean.”
I shrug. “Meaner than firing Ben because I didn’t take you to the wedding?”
“No. That’s downright nasty.”
I reach for a fresh beer, crack it open, and hold it up. “So you’re game to show them we mean business?”
She looks at me, then my beer. A shine slowly fills her eyes before she taps her wine against it with a clink. “Okay. Fine. Game on.”
“Cheers, Sugar.”
“Cheers, ass. Even if you are a sweet one, sometimes,” she says, drinking in my grin.