Burnt Sugar (ACE Series Book 2)

by Layne Harper

  Pausing the music, I answer, “Hello.”

  “Flowers for Miss Landry,” a male voice says.

  “Ohhhh,” I squeal. “Just a second.”

  I turn off the mixer and walk outside.

  The delivery guy is shielded by the most obnoxious display of flowers I’ve ever seen. It looks to be an arrangement that would be sent to a funeral, definitely not a good-luck-on-your-first-day bouquet. After opening the gate, I sort of balance it on my hip while I sign his paperwork. We wish each other a good day, and I carry the behemoth thing into the carriage house being extra careful not to drop it.

  After resting it on the counter, I dig through the baby’s breath, green fern, pink carnations, pink roses, and something else pink that I’ve never seen before to find the card.

  My dearest MK,

  Good luck today! Just know, I’m your biggest ducking fan. I’ll be at your place at 8:00 tonight. We’re going to dinner, and the rest of the night is up to you. Thanks for agreeing to give us a second chance.

  Love,

  Aaron

  I laugh at the ducking reference. That was cute, clever, and funny but also tells me he received all the texts that I sent.

  Staring at the card and then the flowers and then at the card again, I wonder if I’m making a huge mistake. His timing couldn’t be any worse. I’m in the middle of filming the renovation of my store. I’ve got merchandising meetings and employees to hire. My focus should be one hundred percent on that. I don’t have the time or energy to deal with the needy rock star.

  Grabbing my phone, I type . . .

  Me: Look, I shouldn’t have agreed to seeing you. I can’t focus on my career and a relationship right now. I’m sorry. Let’s reconnect when your tour is over, and I’m further along in filming.

  I don’t send it. I can’t quite compel my finger to hit the up-arrow button. Instead I leave my phone resting on the counter.

  Grace’s words flood my brain. “You’ll see, my darling. I’m warning you right now—you’re his play-thing, his new addiction. He’ll tire of you when life gets rough—when the honeymoon is over. When you’re no longer the new hotness. A new one will come along, and you’ll be like the rest of us—lost in his shadow.”

  Am I the new toy that he wants and can’t have? Will I once again give in to him and then be thrown away when life hits a speed bump? The difference is now I’ll be forced to discuss it on my show.

  Looking back at the funeral spread, I shake my head. I don’t have a clue what to do with it so I take a picture and send it to Bella.

  Me: Flowers from Aaron. Drop by my place, and get rid of this. Nursing home? Hospital? Cemetery? Your choice. I’ll leave the card for you to read next to it.

  I go back to making my cookies and try not to think about tonight. I have the most important day of my No Pink Caddy life so far, and I will not be derailed by Aaron Emerson and his date and the text telling him to go away and the hideous flowers.

  After the dough is in the oven and the timer has been set, the nagging mother voice in my head reaches a fever pitch. I grab my phone deleting the text I had written.

  Me: Thank you for the flowers. I have no idea what my schedule will be today. If your only reason for coming is to see me, you might want to reconsider.

  It’s much more passive-aggressive than what I had previously written. Part of me is kicking my own behind. But there’s this tiny speck in my heart that wants to believe that Aaron’s sincere. It’s the part that remembers what it’s like to be adored and loved by him, and it craves those feelings again.

  The timer dings, and I pull the two cookie sheets from the oven. I let them cool while I pack my laptop and make my bed. Making my bed is a task that doesn’t always get completed, but new career equals better habits.

  Once the cookies are cooled enough, I place them in a pink Tupperware container and set them by my bag. Checking my phone, it’s seven-forty. I could kill another ten minutes here before I need to leave, or I can just be a little more than early. Yup. The ants in my pants tell me it’s time to go.

  As my phone falls into my bag, I hear the text tinkling noise. Wouldn’t you know it, it’s Aaron.

  Aaron: Of course, the only reason I’m coming is to see you. I got you to say, “Okay.” That was ducking huge. What I HATE is you dating someone else. What I HATE even more is this indifference you seem to have towards us.

  As I’m reading it another text arrives.

  Aaron: I hate autocorrect. If I want to say fucking, I should be allowed. That’s not all that I hate. I hate not seeing you and hearing your laugh. I miss you. I miss your smile and how you roll your eyes at me. I miss our conversations. I miss seeing you first thing in the morning.

  And then another.

  Aaron: I know you’re headed to your first day. I’m so proud of you. Knock’em dead. Can’t wait to hear about it tonight.

  Staring at my phone, I don’t know how to reply. In three texts, he was angry, sweet, and encouraging. That familiar stirring in my gut happens. It’s the one that I had every time my rock star kept me guessing and on my toes. My lips draw into a smile that I’m ashamed of. I should be stronger than this. I’d be so disappointed in Bella if Nyall had treated her like Aaron treated me and she let him back into her life.

  Me: Okay.

  Aaron: I send you three nice texts and I all I get back is “okay.” SMH

  Me: Leaving now . . . Go to sleep.

  Aaron: Already did the sleep thing. I’m a new man.

  Me: It’s like 5:45 there, and you’ve slept and woken up?

  Aaron: Your text woke me. Now I’m wide awake.

  Aaron: All of me is wide awake if you want to know.

  Rolling my eyes, I type my response.

  Me: When isn’t all of you awake?

  There’s a pause long enough that I pick up my things and begin walking to my first day filming. As I pass Whistling Willie’s empty corner, my phone vibrates in my hand.

  Aaron: I know you think I’m an asshole and full of shit. But believe this. You’re the only girl for me . . . all of me.

  Aaron: I can’t wait to see you tonight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aaron

  September

  Rock Star Groupies @RockStarGroupies

  Didn’t play #PinkCadillac. What’s up with that @RealJohnnyKnite? Number one song and not playing live.

  James Core @GuitarGuy

  Huge #ACE fan and love @RealJohnnyKnite. Last night he was off. Screwed up some cords. #disappointed

  “You’re going where?” Grace asks as I watch her jaw tighten. This is probably her attempt to keep it from dropping open in surprise.

  “New Orleans.” I bought a duffle bag from the hotel gift shop. It’s bright blue with a white outline of Mount Rainer printed on the side. Shoving in a clean pair of jeans, I think what else I might need for an overnight stay. One of the perks of being me is that I have someone who travels with us that takes care of my clothes. Having to pack myself is something I haven’t done in a long time.

  “Oh,” she replies.

  I’ve always been able to read Grace like a book. After our blowup in LA, she’s been acting weird—like she agrees with me and hasn’t been a bitch one single time. Most people would probably think this is a good thing, but it’s odd.

  “You aren’t going to lecture me? You know why I’m going.” I have to prod her just a little.

  I crumple a red Blink-182 shirt and stick it in the bag. Her hand reaches in and extracts it. For a split-second I think she’s going to throw it back on the bed and begin one of her infamous Grace tirades. Instead, she runs her hands over the wrinkles and folds it neatly. Then, she places it back in.

  “Make sure you’re back in time for sound check.”

  God, I hate the weirdness. “I’m going to try to persuade MK to give us another chance. That means she’s going to be around.”

  My strong, confident sister sinks to the mattress. She proceeds to fold a pair of kh
aki cargo shorts, two pairs of gym socks, and my swim trunks before she says, “You aren’t happy.”

  I nod and wait for her to continue as I reach up instinctively and run my thumb over the cool point of the tooth.

  She takes a deep breath and exhales while she tears a loose thread from the hem of my shorts. “Touring used to make you happy.”

  Leaning against the dresser, I cross my arms over my chest while I calculate whether her statement needs validation. Journey’s Faithfully plays in my head.

  Fortunately, Grace keeps talking. “This tour has obviously been rough on you. You’re miserable.” Her eyes meet mine before she swallows and continues, “MK is not my favorite person. I think she’s immature, naïve, and will never fully be able to immerse herself in this life.”

  My biceps tense as I prepare for another battle.

  “At the time, I thought she was a couple of weeks’ distraction. But, I can see that you believe that you fell in love with her, and you think she’s your key to happiness.” She stands and looks at me with the same bright blue eyes that she used when she was little to convince me to let her sleep in my bed when she was scared at night. “You may not believe this, but all I’ve ever wanted is the best for you. Maybe no girl will ever be worthy of you in my eyes.” She shrugs. “But as long as she makes you happy then that’s all I need.”

  “Thank you.” I want to reach out to her. My brain screams to give her a hug or rumple her hair, but I don’t. We’ve never had a particularly affectionate relationship. So instead, I change the subject. “I heard back from the doctor.”

  Concern spiders around her eyes and her bobbed blonde hair shades the sides of her face. “And?”

  “And he says that I need more testing, but he’s pretty sure this is some sort of arthritis.” At just the mention of the word, my hand flexes and then balls into a fist. “He said that I need more X-rays and additional bloodwork to figure out what sort of arthritis it is.”

  “So when are you going to do those tests?”

  Shrugging, I shove my hands in my pockets. “I guess whenever I can get back to LA.”

  She stands throwing her arms towards the ceiling. “You’re Johnny Knite. The doctor comes to you and if he won’t, I’ll find you another one. Don’t be stupid. This is your career. You’re a corporation. Because of you, we have ninety-three employees who put food on their table. You can’t just blow this off. Your health is vital to you being successful. But by your logic, instead of flying to LA and getting this diagnosed, you’re traveling to see MK instead.”

  I hate her words. Turning away, I toe a patch of carpet. She doesn’t understand that making things right with MK is vital to my health. “Okay. Set something up for whatever city we’re going to next.”

  Wanting to end this conversation, I head to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. The bottle of Tylenol rests next to my electric toothbrush. I pick both up and throw them into my toiletry bag. I add my razor, deodorant, and brush.

  When I walk back into the bedroom, Grace is placing the rest of my folded items in the bag. I toss in my black toiletry bag.

  “I’ll have Jennifer take care of the rest of your things.”

  Nodding, I stand feeling the tension travel back and forth between us as if it’s electric bolts. I’m so tired of this weirdness.

  She zips the hideous tote and hands it to me. Her eyes soften, and a little smile draws her cheeks. “I love you, Aaron.”

  It’s the first time she’s called me by my real name in so many years that it sounds foreign coming off her tongue.

  Taking the bag from her, I drop it on the floor and pull my baby sister into a deep, true hug. It’s probably the first real affection we’ve shown each other in more years than I can count. It feels good to not be employer and employee and to finally feel like brother and sister again. “I love you too, Gracie.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  MK

  September

  MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy

  Sorry #GardenDistrict. I didn’t realize we’d take up so much room. #Thanks4YourPatience

  MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy

  I have a dressing room and a stylist. Poor Margo, she has no idea what she signed up for.

  MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy

  Vince Asher just walked into a meeting. I’m fanning myself. #NoticeIDidntTagHim #FanGirling

  I grab a pen and begin spinning it around my fingers as I do everything in my power to leave my poor abused cuticle alone. Janet is standing at a white board and writing times with a one or two-word description of what they mean to our production schedule.

  Because I don’t know enough to have an opinion, I sit here quietly sipping on a glass of lemonade while Vince, Shannon, Cindy and the older lady, who I’ve come to learn is named Robbie, debate the schedule.

  Vince leans forward on the card table, and I think for a moment that it might collapse under his enormous arm muscles. It creaks and groans and I guess decides to do its job and stay erect. “I understand what you’re saying, Janet, but it’s unreasonable to think we can paint the floors in the design MK has asked for in one day. There is such a thing as drying times. And if you haven’t noticed, paint dries slower in this swamp.”

  Cindy replies, “We’re on the clock. Each day we lose to drying floors costs us ten thousand dollars. Let’s just scrap them and put in hardwoods.”

  Shannon speaks on my behalf. “MK’s design is part of the approved budget and renovations. The painted floors are important to her.”

  Every head in the cramped trailer swings in my direction. I swallow hard before I reply, “I really think I can paint them myself. I can start as soon as production ends on Friday. They’ll be ready for Monday.”

  “Quit being stubborn,” Vince admonishes with a head shake. “What’s wrong with us installing wood floors? They’re very New Orleans after all.”

  All the eyes are trained on me again. The plate of cookies I made this morning are in front of me, and I push it in their general direction. My cookies helped diffuse many of a situation when I was president of my sorority. “I had a vision.” Standing up, I walk to the board and grab a purple dry erase marker. I begin sketching the paisley pattern I’d drawn on my pad in what seems like so many months ago. In reality, it’s only been about five weeks. “See, the dirt from the glass cast this sort of shadow on the floors. A voice inside my head told me to save the old floors and to paint the pattern. It’s my passion. It doesn’t need to be filmed,”—I swallow hard—“but I will not be okay with getting rid of them.”

  Janet looks at Vince. “If she’s good with spending all weekend doing that back breaking work who am I to argue?”

  “Thank you.” I walk back and take my chair, melting into the metal, relieved that I won this battle. Now, I just have to figure out how I’m going to paint the floors and have them dry in essentially forty-eight hours. I might have to call in some favors.

  Janet caps the marker that I used and looks at Vince. “If you can give us a minute.”

  Vince stands and pushes in his metal chair. On the way to the door, he pauses, squeezes my shoulder, and then shuts the door behind him. I do my best to ignore the butterflies his touch stirs in my stomach. I don’t have time to dwell on the fact that Vince is here and seems to have feelings for me while Aaron is leaving his tour to take me on a date tonight. As the saying goes . . . when it rains, it pours.

  Cindy and Janet exchange one of their speaking-without-words glances and Janet sits down while Cindy assumes the position in front of the card tables. “We need to finalize the name of the show.”

  The butterflies in my tummy feel like they’ve been doused in acid.

  Janet joins us at the table and pats my hand. “MK, Cindy and I understand what it’s like to be told that the name that you came up with isn’t good enough. I named my son Francis and I refuse to acknowledge that he has his friends call him F.” Her head shakes. “I mean, who in God’s name wants to be known as a letter.”

  Ci
ndy clears her throat, and Janet’s face morphs into a horrified look when she realizes what she said. “I’m sorry. MK is a lovely name.”

  Cindy takes over for her flustered partner. “I think what Janet is trying to say is that the store can be named No Pink Caddy. You can refer to you blog as No Pink Caddy, but we all agree and after speaking with Holden, we’re even more convinced that Burnt Sugar is the perfect name for the show.”

  Robbie hands me a blue binder. A label on the cover reads Burnt Sugar. The font is bold, and the letters have cute little scrolls at the top of the B and at the end of the R. It’s southern, girly, and strong.

  “Inside is the market research we’ve conducted. I think you’ll see that our target demographic thinks Burnt Sugar is a relatable name.”

  I don’t bother opening it. Looking around the room, I see four women who seem to only want me to succeed. Holden’s firm still believes that Burnt Sugar is the perfect choice. And from the two-inch-thick binder in front of me, the public does too. “Burnt Sugar it is.”

  ***

  A parking lot two blocks from the store has been transformed into white trailer city. I’m one of the Hollywood assholes the neighbors complain about. One building is my dressing room. I didn’t know what to expect when Shannon told me I’d have my own space. Thankfully, I didn’t spend too much time dreaming of how lovely it would be because it’s not glamorous at all. There’s a maroon couch made of cracked leather with two matching chairs, a tiny bathroom with a shower that I can’t bend over in, two racks of clothing, a curtained off corner for me to change behind, and a makeup/hair area with twelve bright lightbulbs. The carpet is grey, stained, and threadbare.

  Bella sits with her legs crossed in one of the chairs eating a bag of popcorn while Margo my hairstylist, makeup, and wardrobe assistant fluffs my tresses.

  Shannon leans against the wall, reminding me of all the things that I’m not supposed to do on camera. Some of the favorite no-noes include not turning my back to the camera, not eating anything, watch out for the camera man, and if people peek in the windows don’t acknowledge them until the cameras are off. Oh! I also shouldn’t sneeze, wipe my nose, or bend over at the waist. If I drop something, I must squat with my knees together to pick it up.