by Bella Cruise
#
Cal finishes the first cake and starts whipping up another. I duck into the bathroom to clean the icing off my thighs. I’m sticky and tender from the wild pressure of his mouth. But I guess that’s the price you pay for eating out with the Cake Master. I dry off with a hand towel, then pull my shorts back on.
“Hey,” Cal calls to me from across the bungalow. “What’s your favorite substitute for cream of tartar? I’m all out.”
I surface from the bathroom into his living room.
“You can skip it. It doesn’t need it.”
Cal’s voice comes back immediately. “No you can’t. That would be a disaster.”
“Sure you can. Hold on, I’ll prove it.”
“How?”
“Chef Google.” I spot his laptop sitting on an armchair in the corner and grab it, draping myself across the arms.
That’s when Cal appears in the doorway. I give him a sleepy, satisfied smile. But he’s not smiling back. In fact, he looks furious.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?” he asks, and, stalking forward, he swipes the laptop out of my hands.
Chapter Fifteen
Cal’s anger doesn’t surprise me, not entirely. I’ve watched him bitch out two employees now, and he’s infamous for his temper in the gossip rags. More kitchen scuffles than barroom brawls. He’s a passionate know-it-all, not a fighter. I always figured that if he turned that anger on me that I could take it—and I can. I’m no soggy cupcake.
But I’m absolutely flabbergasted that he’s being so shady about his laptop. Still shirtless, he stalks off toward the kitchen and tosses the closed laptop down on the counter with a thud. I wince. What’s he hiding, anyway?
“What’s the big deal?” I demand as I follow him to the kitchen, my heart pounding furiously in my chest. He looks at me, and then down at the computer again. Then he lets out a laugh, but it’s dry, and really not funny at all.
“Damned if I don’t love your pussy, Jules,” he begins. My cheeks flush, even though I sense a but coming. And sure enough . . . “But I hardly know you. I’ve got my business plans in here, recipes, scripts for my next show—”
“I thought it was reality TV,” I say bitterly, even though my experiences on Park Avenue Princess should have taught me better. It’s not as if I haven’t been skeptical about Cal’s show, but somehow, I thought he was different.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cal snaps, his grip on his computer tightening.
I scowl. Of course his show wasn’t real. Makes me wonder what else is fake about him. And what he’s hiding in that laptop.
“All this over cream of tartar?” he continues, his expression growing stony. “Don’t be ridiculous, Juliette.”
God, this is all way too familiar. I remember how careful my ex was with his phone. He never told me the passcode and was on edge if I so much as looked at it. Once, he left it at my place by accident—and drove over at three in the morning to get it, even though he had to work at six. He pretended it was a sexy a booty call. It was only later that I learned the truth.
He didn’t want to risk it, in case his wife called.
“Don’t change the subject,” I sputter. Cal’s trying to play this off as a joke, trying to make it seem like it’s no big deal. But I learned this lesson the hard way last time. What kind of man doesn’t let you see his communications? A man who has something to hide.
Cal’s expression is cool, infuriatingly mild. I can’t decide if it makes me want to sock him in the face or snatch that computer out of his hands. “Tell me what’s in your laptop.”
“Files,” he says pointedly in that maddening Scottish accent. I set my hands on my hips.
“You know, this isn’t my first time in the kitchen. I’m not trying to seduce you to learn your secrets.”
“I never said you were, Juliette.”
“Then why don’t you trust me?”
Cal stalks forward, reaches for my hip, and holds it firmly. Then he pulls me close. Half of me wants to melt into him, enjoy his hands covering every inch of my body. But that’s the half that got me into this mess last time, that idiot sliver of my brain that sees a sexy man keeping secrets and doesn’t know to run away. The masochistic half of me that falls head over heels for sexy liars again and again.
Cal begins to kiss my neck roughly, as though he owns the soft flesh there. Pulling away for just a breath, he looks at me, green eyes piercing. I could run my hands through his hair. I could kiss him.
But I don’t. Instead, I put both hands on his strong, carved shoulders and shove him back into the counter.
“Tell me what you’re hiding, Cal,” I say evenly.
I’ve spent five years obsessing over every conversation I ever had with my old boss. Every phone call he had to take in the bathroom on a date. Every night he claimed he had to go fix some emergency at the restaurant so that he couldn’t stay the night. I can remember every single lie he told me, and the flat, firm way he told them, too. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes, the one that made me feel crazy and uncertain and small.
When Cal looks at me, it’s with that look, burning steady in his bright gaze. He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Maybe not a wife and kids, but some sort of secret that’s bound to hurt us both.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice unwavering.
“Bull. Shit.” I stalk forward, and shove my feet back into my waterlogged flats. I wrestle my bicycle from the coat rack, tossing a handful of lightweight jackets and flannel shirts aside.
“Juliette, wait,” he says, following me. Part of me is glad we haven’t even fucked yet. It’s safer this way.
“No, Callum,” I say, my voice full of anger. I wrench open the door. “Thanks for the head, though.”
He looks at me, jaw dropped, eyes wide and pleading. But I don’t care. I storm back out into the rain and let the door slam behind me.
#
I don’t cry as I pedal home through the steady, dreary rain, or as I trudge up to my apartment and slam the door behind me. I don’t shed a single tear as I scrub my skin raw in the shower, or when I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I’m not sad about what’s happened between me and Cal. I’m mad as hell. Not even at him, but at myself. I can’t believe I let myself open up to him. I should have known better. Love has always been a disaster for me. Why did I think this time, with this guy, things would go any different?
Sometime around midnight, the storm kicks up again. My bedroom is bright with lightning. The windows rattle in their frames. I pull myself out of bed and grab my laptop, bathing myself in its blue, healing light.
[email protected]:
Hey, cupcake, you around?
But cupcakecasanova isn’t online. I hate-Google Cal, but it only makes me feel worse. Oh look, there he is at a restaurant opening in New York with Angelique Sutton on his arm. Here he is judging a kids’ bake-off for charity. It would be adorable if it wasn’t such a bold-faced lie. God, can’t the world see through him? I slam my laptop shut and bury myself in my comforter, hoping to bury myself in sleep, too.
I wake up feeling like crap, throw on comfortable clothes, put my hair up in a sloppy ponytail, and head downstairs for work. It’s Sunday, usually one of our busiest days. Most Sundays, I get to chat up the bagel and donut crowd and charm the pants off our football fanatic locals. Today, my heart’s not in it. Hell, the store’s probably empty, anyway, like it’s been for the past few weeks. I help Summer take the plywood off the windows in a wordless sulk, then ask her to man the register while I handle things in back. It isn’t until a guy in a football jersey wanders in and asks if we know the way to Mecca Cakes that I lose it.
“We don’t want your kind here!” I bellow.
“What?” the dude asks in a panic. “Cowboys fans?”
Before I can answer, Summer gives me a look. She gives the guy directions, then hustles back to the kitchen. When she emerges, she’s got something in her hand. A cupcake, with
a poodle moth drawn on top in icing.
I stifle a laugh-sob at the sight of it.
“It’s because I hate your guts and think you’re a terrible person,” she says, flashing her signature creepy, fake Summer smile. I bury her in the world’s longest hug.
After a few beats, she says, “Okay, you can stop now.” When I don’t let her go, she adds, “Really. Please. Touching. Ugh.”
“Sorry,” I say. I swear I’m kind of sniffling when I let her go. I lick the poodle moth off the cupcake.
“Okay, but, you’re being weird today. So I called your friend. You know, the perky one?”
“Ginny?”
“I think so?”
I look at her flatly. “Summer, you’ve met her like a dozen times.”
“Shut up. I have prosopagnosia. It’s a real disease.”
Summer does not have prosopagnosia. I roll my eyes. “You called Ginny. And?”
“We’re staging an intervention. A brunch intervention. Only I’m going to stay here, so your business doesn’t fail and we don’t end up homeless and working the streets. You know, as prostitutes.”
“Thank you for clarifying, Summer.”
“You’re welcome. Now go drink bloody marys and talk about My Little Ponies or whatever it is you two do when I’m not around.”
I stare at her. Nod. “Right. My Little Ponies it is.”
#
I meet Ginny at our favorite lunch spot. It’s crowded, full of hungover people chowing down on hash browns, tipping back mimosas. She’s already waiting for me, a pitcher of bloody marys on one side of her and her wedding portfolio on the other. She pours me a drink before I even sit down.
“I ordered us tapas,” she says. I flash her a grateful smile, but before I can ask her what kind, she adds, “Summer said something was up. What’s this about you rushing home in the storm last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. What’s up with the book?”
“Oh, you know how freelancing goes. A wedding planner’s work is never done.”
I give her a suspicious glance and thumb through her portfolio. Her weddings are so damned beautiful. I can’t believe my high school best friend ended up so talented and so successful. I mean, she always seemed pretty amazing to me, but in a sixteen-year-old sort of way. Probably because we were sixteen at the time.
“Actually,” she says, “I was trying to pin down a venue for my wedding. Finally.”
“Oh.” I close the book and take a huge swig of my drink. It’s peppery and heavily spiked with lemon juice and it tastes like an alcoholic creamy tomato soup and I love it. So I down it and pour myself another. Ginny watches me.
“We don’t have to talk about the wedding if you don’t want to.”
“I mean, I should. I’m your best woman, right?”
Ginny’s always been a stickler for using the right names for things. “Maid of Honor. I know it’s not easy when you’re not in the same place. Believe me, there were years when I could hardly stand most of my clients. So mushy and obnoxious and in love.”
I pull a face, thinking of the way she and Luke smooched all over the place the last time I saw them. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”
“Funny thing is,” Ginny says, “now, seeing other happy couples just makes me feel happy for them. And optimistic, too. I know you’ll find someone, Jules.”
I scowl. She’s being too nice. It makes my heart ache in my chest. “Ginny, something happened last night,” I begin.
“What?” she asks.
And then it comes spilling out of me, the whole damned story. The stolen customer and the storm. The angel food cake and the oral on Cal’s kitchen island. The laptop. The secrets Cal is obviously keeping, whatever they might be. Ginny’s expression is sympathetic, but guarded. By the time I’ve finished my story, both our glasses are empty. I reach for the pitcher, but Ginny shakes her head.
Crap. I was hoping she’d get stupid drunk with me. Then maybe we could go egg Cal’s house, like old times.
Instead, she’s careful. She slowly puts her hand on top of mine, gives it an infuriatingly gentle squeeze, and then cautiously says: “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? You haven’t even heard his side of the story.”
I look at her for a long time. She looks concerned. And she’s probably right to be.
“Well,” I begin reluctantly. “Maybe I can ask him.”
“Maybe you can,” she agrees. “And besides, it sounds perfectly reasonable that he doesn’t want to share his laptop with someone he’s only known for a few weeks.”
I wince. Ginny says it like it’s nothing, with the carefree attitude of someone who has never been hurt by lies. I remind myself that Ginny’s been a little luckier in love than I have. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have your heart truly broken, stomped on, and ground to a pulp.
“I should talk to him,” I concede.
“You should,” she agrees. Then she smiles at me. “How about eating something while we get completely wasted?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say, lift my bloody mary, and clink glasses with her.
#
I’m too drunk to go back to work after brunch. The world is too bright and too wobbly around me. I shoot Summer a text asking for her to cover for me. Ginny looks worried as we walk home, asks if I need her help to make my way up the stairs. I assure her I’m fine. I’ve been way drunker than this before. She didn’t know me in those days, when I was nursing my wounds from lost love, self-medicating, grieving, barely keeping my head above water.
I stagger upstairs, promising myself that I’ll give Cal a call as soon as I sober up. I’ll be strong then. I won’t run away. Instead, I’ll demand the answers that I deserve, talk things through without screaming at him or going weak in the knees. I don’t know if we can figure everything out. Who knows what he’s hiding? If he can’t trust me, how can I open up to him?
I don’t know if this whole thing can work out.
But damn, if I don’t hope it will.
I grab a water bottle from my fridge, pausing to take a long swig. Then I turn toward my living room. It’s a beautiful day. Maybe I’ll throw open a window, let the fresh air wash over me.
But I don’t get the chance. Because I turn around, and walk right into Cal as he comes out of the bathroom.
“Holy shit!” I cry, and nearly lose my footing. But his arms are strong and swift. They bolster me before I can stumble.
“Summer let me in,” he says quickly. But that hadn’t even crossed my mind, because I was too busy gazing right into his laser green eyes. He smells like nutmeg and brown sugar, and he’s smiling at me.
I’m smiling right back.
Chapter Sixteen
Falling into Callum McKenzie’s arms is dangerously easy. It’s like breathing, or falling asleep. His strong, firm muscles bolster me as I squint through my alcoholic haze, making out his gorgeous green eyes, narrowed in concern. I almost don’t know he’s got me until it’s over and my feet are touching the wood floor again.
“Don’t hold it against Summer,” he says. “She thought we should talk, and I agree. You left my house in a fury, Juliette. I was worried about you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I say. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Taking good care of yourself. You’re drunk before noon, for one thing.” His voice has an edge that surprises me.
“I’m not—”
“I know drunk,” he says coldly. “My father was a champion drunkard. Still is, actually.”
Something inside me dislodges at Cal’s expression as he talks about his father. He looks pained. Vulnerable. Soft. And that almost makes me want to be soft, too.
But I still deserve answers.
“I only had three drinks,” I tell him, which is the truth. But then I remember what Ginny and I discussed. We need to talk this out. So I pry myself from his arms and settle in on the sofa. I pat the cushion beside me, and he sits down. “Okay. I’m a little d
runk. You’re right. But I want to know what you were hiding on that laptop. And don’t tell me it was nothing. It wasn’t. I can tell when someone is lying to me. I have enough experience with it.”
Cal flinches at that. But he doesn’t argue with me.
“Fair enough,” he says, and then he offers me his hand. I look down at it. I can see how it’s been mangled from years of knife slips and kitchen work. Mine are the same. Our scars align as I lace my fingers with his.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says. It’s clear from his body language how uncomfortable this makes him feel.
I brace myself for the worst, as he rubs his eyes. Unbidden, I remember the night I learned about my ex’s family. The raging flood of betrayal. The icy humiliation.
“I’ve been living a double life,” Cal says.
My stomach clenches. I was right, then. He was cheating on me. I knew it.
But then what comes next is nothing like I suspected, because he adds, “I’m cupcakecasanova.”
What?
I can’t believe my ears. Not at first.
“No,” I say automatically. “That can’t be true. He lives in New York . . .”
“I live in New York,” he says. “Have since I left Scotland. Educated in the best kitchens in Soho.”
“This has to be some kind of prank. Did Summer put you up to this?”
Cal lets out a small laugh, then shakes his head.
“No. I promise you she didn’t.”
“Prove it,” I blurt out. It can’t be true. Because if it is, Cal knows all of my secret desires, every single one . . .
“Icing injector. Up your—”
“Oh my god,” I say, and I put my hands over my eyes. I’m blushing bright red as I process this information.
My first reaction is relief. It drains out of me like a river, pooling beneath my toes. Cal McKenzie is not a liar or a cheater or married. He’s just some guy, on the internet.
Some guy on the internet who knows all of my secrets. My skin is blazing hot. The things I’ve said to that man! The things I’ve imagined him do to me. I feel naked, but worse than naked. I feel like he’s stripped my skin off, laid all my organs bare.