by Ember Casey
“I’m fine,” I assure her, even though I’m anything but. My fingers shake as I fold the dough, and honestly, I want nothing more than to throw this puff pastry against the wall. Anything to make the images of Dante and Emilia go away.
Mama Pat is watching me in a way that says, I’m shutting up, but I don’t believe you. My mom used to have a look like that. But my mom wasn’t around long enough to see me get upset over any guys. And I’m not sure it’s appropriate to ask a coworker what to do when you catch the man who broke your heart in the middle of a grind session.
I press my lips together and fold the puff pastry one last time. But I’ve been working it too hard, too long, and the layer of butter inside has gotten too warm and soft. It starts to squeeze out of the dough.
“Damn it,” I mutter, stepping back and wiping the back of my hand across my brow. I’ve made puff pastry a hundred times. I shouldn’t be screwing it up, even if I am upset.
But Mama Pat’s already at my workstation.
“You’re distracted,” she says, peeling the dough up from the table. “Why don’t you go work up front for a while? I’ve got everything under control back here.”
I want to argue, but I know she’s right. Working in the kitchen is just giving me too much time to think. So I wash my hands and head to the front of my shop.
Karen Sevelle is behind the counter today. She’s fresh out of college, and though I initially hired her to work the register and answer phones, she’s definitely stepped up—becoming more or less the front-of-house manager, and even joining us in the kitchen a couple of times when we’ve been in a pinch. My bakery might be small and still relatively young, but Karen, Mama Pat, Jilly, and I have become something of a little family.
Watching her work—and watching the line of customers walk away with smiles on their faces—calms me a little. Running a bakery isn’t as glamorous as I expected—you spend horrendously long hours on your feet and the bulk of the work centers on mundane, business-running tasks rather than playtime in the kitchen—but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I love running a business. Love creating delectable treats out of flour and sugar. There’s nothing like watching a child’s eyes light up when I hand him a cupcake the size of his face, or hearing a bride squeal when she sees her wedding cake.
Yes, I love my job—even if I sometimes find flour in places I didn’t even know existed.
I remind myself of this as I watch Karen. When I dated Dante, I was a completely different person. Back then, I still thought I wanted to work in the film industry. But I’ve come a long way in the past three years. Look at the life you’ve built for yourself, I think. Forget Dante. This is what matters. This is what makes you happy.
And just as I’m starting to feel normal and content again, my cell buzzes in my pocket. It’s Jack.
“Hey,” I say as I shove the phone beneath my ear. “Recover from last night yet?”
Jack sent me a handful of texts last night after I made my escape—and judging by the number of spelling errors, I suspected he’d been taking advantage of the party’s open bar.
“Ask me tomorrow,” Jack groans. “I’m already on my third coffee and I still feel like I was hit with a steamroller.”
I smile. “I’m surprised you let yourself drink in front of Brockman.” A couple of weeks ago, he was agonizing daily over which tie he should wear to work, convinced that one misstep would send him back to his old job making copies and getting coffee.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “Brockman was the one who kept shoving martinis into my hand. He was so impressed with what I’d pulled together that he said I deserved a break. And a raise.”
My grin gets bigger. “You got a raise? That’s awesome, Jack.”
“And he loved the cake,” Jack goes on, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Loved it. I mean, he was four Moscow mules in at that point, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to have some repeat business.”
I stifle a squeal. “Really?”
“Yes, really. And your check’s in the mail, by the way.”
It takes all of my self-control not to leap into the air. The money for that cake alone covers my bakery’s rent for the next month. If the studio is regularly ordering cakes from me… I don’t even want to think about it out of fear I’ll jinx it.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say into the phone. “I owe you big time, Jack. Let me take you out to dinner.”
He laughs. “We’re good. You helped me get a raise. I call that even. Frankly, I’m just happy to hear you in such a good mood. I was afraid you might want to strangle me instead.”
“Strangle you? Why—” And then it all comes back. Dante and Emilia, entwined together, moaning in unison…
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Jack says, apparently realizing he reminded me of the thing I’ve been trying very hard to forget.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, hoping I sound casual. “And it’s not your fault.”
“I promised you he wouldn’t be there that early. I still can’t believe that he and Emilia are—”
“I know,” I cut him off, not prepared to talk about it yet. “I just want to pretend it never happened.” Behind me, the bell on the front door jingles as someone enters.
“Got it. Lips are zipped.”
“Thank you,” I say, turning to make sure Karen has the customers managed. “I’ll—” My words dry up when I see who just walked through the door.
“Ashlyn?” says Jack.
I know I should respond, but I’m too stunned by the sight of the figure in front of me. Even though it’s summer, he’s wearing a light jacket, and between the sunglasses and the hat, half of his face is hidden. But I’d know him anywhere. Clothed or unclothed. Dante Fontaine has just walked into my bakery.
“Ashlyn?” Jack says again.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I mumble as I pull the phone away from my ear. I’m not sure whether I’m more shocked or anxious or pissed, but my stomach is suddenly in knots.
This isn’t an accident. He didn’t just get an urge for a muffin and stumble into the nearest bakery. He’s looking right at me, and even though I can’t see his eyes behind his dark shades, that gaze still makes me shiver. He came here looking for me. I know it.
But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even come over to me. Instead, he walks right up to the register, where Karen is waiting.
“Good morning,” she says cheerfully. “What can I get you today?”
She hasn’t recognized him yet. Understandably, since he’s gone above and beyond to cover himself up. If he hadn’t, no doubt the paparazzi would be pressed against our window right now. Dante might not spend as much time on screen as his brother Luca—who’s a bona fide movie star—or even his brother Raphael, but he’s every bit as famous a celebrity.
Dante makes a show of studying the bakery case. I can tell exactly when he notices the man-chest cake because the corners of his mouth tilt up just a touch.
“Actually,” he says to Karen, his voice as dark and velvety as I remember, “I’m interested in ordering a cake for an event.”
“Oh, you’ll need to talk to Ashlyn for that,” Karen chirps with a smile. She glances over her shoulder and beckons to me, unaware that I’ve been watching this entire exchange. “Ash, we’ve got a cake.”
I nod, but my whole body feels numb. Part of me wants to run into the kitchen and hide, but I have my dignity, after all. Another, wickeder part of me is tempted to reach into the bakery case and grab a whole handful of cupcakes to throw right at his head. That would be very satisfying, but expressing any anger would give him the upper hand, and I refuse to do that. No, the best course of action is to show him that I don’t care at all.
“Of course,” I say, forcing myself to sound friendly. “Right over here, Mr. …?”
He knows I know exactly who he is, and the corner of his mouth creeps higher. “Ford. Mr. Ford is fine.”
Apparently he’s not ready to annou
nce himself to the rest of my staff, but I’m fine with that. I’ll play along with his little game. I grab my clipboard and lead him over to the tasting and consultation table, doing everything in my power to pretend that he’s just another customer and not the ridiculously famous celebrity who took my virginity and broke my heart.
That’s hard, after last night. That little scene is still trying to replay itself in my head. Dante and Emilia, grabbing at each other, kissing and moaning and—
No. Stop it.
It doesn’t help that he’s every bit as sexy now as he was when we were together. Maybe even more so. Or maybe I just forced myself to forget how tall he was, or how broad his shoulders are. Even the way he moves is sexy—like a panther. This man oozes sexuality without even trying, and just being near him again takes my breath away.
But all I have to do is think about last night and the anger quickly replaces my momentary insanity.
The tasting table gives us a small amount of privacy, but I’m not ready to out him just yet.
“So, Mr. Ford,” I say, gripping my clipboard. “You’re looking for a cake?”
“Yes,” he says in that intoxicating rumble of his. “And I’ve heard you’re the best.”
I don’t know what he’s hoping to accomplish with his flattery, but it isn’t going to work. I’m all business right now, and I don’t even look up at him as my pen moves down to the next line on my form.
“What’s the occasion for the cake?” I ask.
“A birthday party,” he replies.
“For you?”
“For my brother.”
“Mm.” I make a note. “And what’s your brother’s name?”
This time, I can’t help but steal a peek at him. He smiles a little more broadly, apparently amused that I’m still playing this game.
“His name is Luca,” he says. “His birthday’s in a few weeks.”
Any chance I had of keeping up this little charade crumbles with that answer. He’s brought a real name into this—and not just any name, but Luca’s. Luca, the brother whose fiancée he was screwing last night.
I’m pressing the tip of my pen so hard into the paper that the ink has started to bleed out, but I don’t care. Dante is still wearing those damn sunglasses, but I look him dead in the eyes.
“You said you wanted a birthday cake for him?” I say, my voice icy. “Wouldn’t an apology cake be more appropriate?”
He frowns slightly. “An apology cake? For Luca?”
Good God, this bastard doesn’t even think he’s done anything wrong. Does he feel no remorse?
“Maybe you do things differently in your family,” I say, and though my voice is still even I can feel the color rising in my cheeks with my anger. “But most people would feel bad about fucking their brother’s fiancée.” I know the Fontaines follow a completely different set of rules than the rest of us, but this is too much. Realizing I’m starting to get more visibly upset, I look quickly back down at my clipboard—but not before I see a flash of understanding in Dante’s face.
“It’s not like that,” he says.
“I’m pretty sure it’s like that,” I say. “You can lie to other people, but you can’t lie to someone who saw the two of you together.”
“No,” he says, glancing over his shoulder and lowering his voice. “I mean that it isn’t like that between Emilia and Luca.”
I shake my head, disgusted that he thinks I’m such an idiot. “You can’t lie about that, either. Not with the paparazzi following them everywhere.” What the hell is he trying to pull? I’ve done everything in my power to avoid the Fontaines these past few years, and even I couldn’t miss the photos of Luca and Emilia snuggled up together—they’re everywhere. These days, the tabloids can’t seem to get enough of Emilia’s enormous two-carat engagement ring.
But Dante sits back calmly in his chair. “It’s a sham, Ashlyn.”
It’s so shocking to hear my name on his lips after all this time that it takes a moment for his words to sink in. “What’s a sham?”
“Their engagement. Their whole relationship. It isn’t real and it never was. It’s just for the cameras.” He throws another quick glance over his shoulder. “Frankly, I shouldn’t even be talking about it. I’d appreciate it if you kept this bit of information between us.”
I don’t know why this news is so shocking, but it is. Luca was the first of the Fontaine brothers to get engaged, but it never occurred to me that the whole thing might be a lie.
“It’s done wonders for the publicity of Cataclysm: Earth,” he continues casually. “And it’s helped both Luca and Emilia tremendously.”
“And you,” I point out. It’s his movie too, after all. He wrote the damn thing.
But he takes my words a different way.
“Emilia and I, we—”
“I don’t need to know,” I say quickly. “That’s your business.” I pull my pen away from the paper. “Now, about this cake—how large were you thinking?”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.” Even though he’s still wearing his sunglasses, I can feel his piercing gaze.
I refuse to dignify his comment with a response. “How many people will be at this party? I can’t give you an estimate for the cake until I know.”
“You’re awfully upset about Emilia, considering we haven’t seen each other in several years now. How long has it been? Two years? Three?”
Since he won’t answer my question about the size of the cake, I move on to the next line on my form. “What flavor were you thinking? Or would you prefer to do several flavors? If we go with a tiered cake, you can have a different flavor per tier.”
“Ashlyn.”
“Please answer my question, Mr. Ford,” I say. “I have a lot of work to do today.”
There’s that little smirk again, and I don’t even have to see his eyes for my neck to prickle under his amused and far-too-perceptive gaze.
“Of all people to walk back into my life, I wasn’t expecting you,” he says. “Frankly, if I’d known to expect you, I might have arranged for a slightly different—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “As I pointed out before, it’s none of my business. We’re not dating, Mr. Ford. I felt bad for your brother, I’ll admit, but now that everything has been cleared up, there’s nothing else to discuss. People have sex. It’s well within your rights to do so. And who you choose to have sex with doesn’t affect me at all.” I’m impressed by how calm, how emotionless I sound.
Dante is still watching me closely. “It doesn’t affect you at all, you say?”
“Certainly not.”
“You always were a terrible liar, Ash.”
“I’m not lying—”
I’m cut off by the blare of his cell phone in his pocket. It’s a fortuitous interruption—even though he doesn’t move to answer the call, it still dissolves a bit of the tension between us.
“Let’s get back to the cake,” I say when the sound dies away. “I would suggest dark chocolate for you, I think. With a ganache filling. On the next tier we might do a citrus sponge with some lemon buttercream.”
“I’m not going to let you ignore the matter at hand, Ashlyn.”
And I’m not going to let him bully me into talking about yesterday’s incident. He said he was here for a cake, so that’s what we’re going to discuss.
“Strawberry is also popular this time of year,” I continue. “But I’m not sure it will be refined enough for this event. Maybe something flavored with rosewater? That’s very trendy right now.”
Suddenly, Dante leans forward across the table. “It didn’t mean anything.”
I ignore him. “I think three tiers will be plenty. Do you prefer buttercream or fondant on the outside? Most people prefer the look of fondant, but it will never live up to buttercream in taste or texture.”
“Ash—”
His cell phone goes off again, and with a curse, he sits back and fishes the device out of his pocket.
He gives the screen a quick glance before raising the phone to his ear.
“Yes?” he says gruffly. “I’m in an important meeting.”
I almost snort at the idea of this being a meeting of any importance, but in spite of myself, I find myself curious about this call. Even back when we were together, Dante kept large parts of his life private—he never introduced me to any of his family, and he liked to keep his career separate, too, in spite of the fact that we were in film school together. So where does this call fall—family or business? Or, God forbid, is it Emilia?
“Look,” he says, rubbing his brow. “I’m writing it as fast as I can. You’re the one who keeps sending me on these damn press tours.”
Business, then. Maybe his manager? Agent?
“I’ll have you the next ten pages by the end of the week,” he continues, still frowning. “I can’t promise you more than that.”
Whoever’s on the other end says something else, and Dante gives a short nod. “Fine.” And then he hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket. His brow is still furrowed as he looks back at me. “Where were we?”
I was getting a glimpse into the side of your life you always tried to hide from me, I think. But I don’t want to reopen those old wounds any more than I already have.
“We were discussing cake flavors,” I say.
“Mm. As I recall, you were refusing to answer my questions.”
“You said you wanted a cake, Dante. So if you’ve changed your mind, I ask that you stop wasting my time.”
He’s smiling again, a very wicked smile that makes me nervous.
“I like hearing my name on your lips,” he says, leaning toward me again. He’s close enough now that I can smell him. His scent is spicier than I remember, but still familiar enough that my body starts to respond. “I’ll order a cake if that’s what it takes to talk to you,” he says in that velvety undertone, “but you and I both know that’s not why I’m here.”
I keep my eyes carefully trained on the form in my hands. “It’s the only thing I’m interested in speaking to you about.”
“God, you’re even more beautiful than I remember.” His voice is low, rough. “But just as feisty.”