by Kelsie Rae
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care that I sleep alone. I don’t care that he cancels the majority of our date nights. I don’t care that it’s evident he cares more about his job than our relationship.
I. Don’t. Care.
Because the truth is, I have just as much fun hanging out by myself than I do when he decides to come home at a decent hour.
I think that when neglect becomes part of your normal routine, you get comfortable in it. It’s pathetic, but it’s safe. I know what to expect and can sum it up in one word. Disappointment.
It isn’t that Tony’s a bad guy. He isn’t. He’s actually a really good guy. The problem is that neither of us cares enough about our relationship to nurture it into something worth having.
Instead, we’re stuck in our own mediocrity.
I breathe out my frustration as the same thoughts I have on a daily basis enter my head.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Couples go through this. It’s normal. Everything is completely. Absolutely. Fine.
Tony follows me to the back and plants a chaste kiss against my cheek. I smile tightly in return, as my fists clench at my sides.
“Why don’t you get some rest or something? I need to finish these éclairs and get them out front before we open.” I look at my clock and realize I’ve been working for the past four hours and got way more done than normal. Maybe I’ll even have time to start on the buttercream frosting for the Johnson wedding this weekend.
“I just had some coffee, so I’ll be good for another few hours. I’m going to try to squeeze in a conference call with some contacts in China before sleeping. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
He heads to the front before I have a chance to respond, though I’m not sure I would’ve anyway. What’s there to say?
Instead, I grab a few pounds of butter and throw them into the industrial-sized mixer before adding some powdered sugar and vanilla.
An hour later, Theresa, one of my favorite customers, walks in. She stops by every day for her White Sinful coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin after her daily exercise routine. The girl is a major inspiration, and I love hearing about her newest adventures.
“Hey, you,” I greet her, as I bag up her usual order.
“Hey!” she returns. “What’s new with you?”
I shrug as I ring up her order. “Just the usual. How ‘bout you? How are the boys?”
She grins from ear to ear. “They’re awesome. Remember how I was telling you about Mathieu’s upcoming game?”
I nod my head in interest.
“Well, they won! The opposing team fumbled the ball in the last five minutes, and Matt picked it up and carried it down for a touchdown. You should’ve seen it!” she gushes excitedly, while signing her name on the credit card machine.
“That’s incredible!” I slide on a pair of plastic gloves then add another poppy seed muffin to her order. “Here. On the house for his win. Tell him congrats for me, okay?”
“I’ll definitely do that.”
She takes the paper bag gratefully before saying her goodbye and rushing toward the door. She’s about to open it when someone beats her to it. A recently familiar man walks into my shop, bringing a swarm of butterflies in my stomach with him.
My tired expression transforms into a giant smile as soon as I see him. That is, until I remember to keep my thoughts in check.
“See you later, Theresa!” I shout as she walks to the exit.
“See ya tomorrow, Indie,” she throws over her shoulder, still subtly gawking at my newest customer.
Rhett hasn’t seen me quite yet and is focused purely on the glass case holding a variety of pastries and other sweet treats.
Today, I have an assortment of muffins, cronuts, éclairs, cupcakes, croissants, and the white chocolate brioche buns from earlier.
Rhett’s practically drooling as he scans the selection. His expression is nothing short of lust.
Yes, you heard that right. There’s a reason people say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’ve seen it on multiple occasions, and this guy needs a solid sugar rush with his morning coffee. Stat.
“Hey, stranger!” I greet him before casually leaning against the top of the display counter.
“Indie?” Rhett seems genuinely surprised to see me here. “Is this your shop?”
“It is! What can I get ya?”
He finally gives me a wide smile. “I have no idea. It all looks incredible. What would you suggest?” His gaze drops to the plethora of options again before glancing up at me.
I hold up my finger, gesturing him to wait just a minute, and head to the back of the shop where I grab a freshly made cronut still warm from the fryer. It’s a combination of a flaky croissant and a glazed donut. They sell out daily, but I try to keep the shelves stocked whenever I have time to make more.
“Is it for here or to go?” I ask when I come back to the front. His mouth is practically watering when he sees the pastry.
“What is that? And can I have ten?”
Laughing, I reply, “It’s a cronut. And I’d give you more if I had them, but this is the very last one. Plus, they’re pretty rich. I wouldn’t want to put you in a sugar-induced coma before noon.” I wink. “Would you like some coffee, too? And you never answered my question, mister!”
“Yes, a large coffee would be great, thank you. And while I’d love to stay, I have to get in to work. I can’t be late on my first day.” He smirks playfully, and my heart skips a beat in response.
“Well, aren’t you the little rule follower?” I tease, trying not to get lost in his tawny-colored eyes. He has a slightly crooked nose, which looks as if it was broken but wasn’t set properly, and a strong chin that had to have been chiseled from granite.
Now who’s the one drooling? I ask myself, as I check out the whole Rhett Jacobs package.
And boy, is it a package.
“Can you add two sugars and some cream to my coffee? I think I’m craving something particularly sweet today,” he jests, causing those blasted butterflies to swarm all over again.
“Sure thing,” I mumble, as I add the ingredients to his coffee while trying to get my libido under control.
My hands tremble when I swipe along the screen of my iPad that acts as a cash register, my heart racing like I’ve just run a marathon. He hands me his credit card after I give him the total, and I grip it tightly. The last thing I want to do is drop the damn thing because my hands are shaking too hard to hold it.
I watch him as he leaves then find myself alone with my unusual thoughts and feelings.
The morning rush passes in a chaotic blur of random faces and familiar commotion. I need a solid distraction from the GQ model who left Get Baked a while ago, and I’m hoping that some menial labor will do the job. I wipe the counter and begin organizing the front area where I have an assortment of day-old loaves of bread, cookies, brownies, and homemade jams.
A few hours later, the door swings open and Sophie and Natalie walk in. They’re my new employees. Sophie has short blonde hair with fair skin and reminds me of Tinker Bell, while Natalie is tall with long dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. They’re both gorgeous in their own ways but complete opposites.
“Hey, ladies. Are you guys ready to get started?” I greet them.
“Yup,” they reply in unison. The anticipation rolls off them in waves, and I love how excited they are to be here.
“Perfect. Let’s get each of you an apron, and we can start.”
I spend the rest of my morning juggling customers, pastries, and training the two new girls who are absolutely hilarious. I have a feeling they’ll be keeping me on my toes.
I slide the key into the lock at Get Baked feeling absolutely exhausted. Today was a great day for sales, but it left little time to relax or even sit for a few minutes. I cannot wait until Natalie and Sophie are fully trained. Hell, I’d simply take them understanding how to use the cash register as a win right now.
&n
bsp; My phone rings as I start the short walk home, and I pull it out of my purse to see who’s calling.
My mom’s name flashes across the screen, and I groan.
She and I have a pretty good relationship. Nothing to write home about, but solid, nonetheless. I’m an only child, so I get all the attention. I love her to pieces, but she just . . . doesn’t always see things from my perspective and assumes that if a decision worked out for her then it should work out for everyone.
Or maybe my perspective is skewed? Who knows.
Pressing the answer icon, I put my cell to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart! How’s baking going?”
I chuckle. “Baking is good. How are you and Dad?”
“Oh, we’re fine. How’s Tony?”
Isn’t that the million-dollar question? “Good, I guess? I dunno. I haven’t talked to him much lately. Work’s been really busy and . . .” I try to think of another excuse as to why he and I haven’t been talking. I can’t really think of one.
“Well, that’s nice. It’s always good to have job security.”
I’ve heard this lecture more times than I can count. “I know. It’s great that he’s staying busy.”
“That’s right. Has he popped the question yet?”
This time, I can’t contain the groan that escapes me. “Mom, seriously?”
She doesn’t mean to be overbearing, and I’m sure a lot of it is in my head, but it doesn’t stop the teenage me from making an appearance.
“What?” she defends herself, her voice dripping with innocence.
I roll my eyes. “We’ve had this conversation a billion times. First, don’t you think I would’ve called you if we had gotten engaged?”
She hums her agreement.
“And second, we’re not ready for marriage. I don’t want him to propose right now. When we’re ready, we’ll go from there. But until then, it’s not happening.”
Now it’s her turn to groan. “Indie, you’ve been dating for over a decade. How in the world are you two not ready?”
Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I contemplate an answer that will make sense to her, but I can’t think of one. She doesn’t get it. She’s been happily married to the same man for over thirty years. Married him right out of high school and had me ten months later. The decision was right for her. What she doesn’t understand is that it might not be right for everyone. And more importantly, it might not be right for me. Maybe I’ll never get married. Is that a crime? I mean . . . I always thought I would, but now that marriage is obviously the next step in my relationship with Tony, I just don’t see it happening.
“I don’t know, but things have been”—I struggle to find the right word—“strained lately. It’s like we’ve been off for the past eight years and can’t figure out how to get back on again, ya know?”
“I understand that, but sometimes you just need to make the leap. It might be good for you two. I want you to be happy.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. I know she means well, but this isn’t helping. Aren’t I supposed to be happy before I get married instead of getting married to be happy? Aren’t I supposed to be head over heels for the guy? Maybe it’s all those Disney movies I grew up with. Maybe I have a warped view of relationships. I mean . . . I know they aren’t supposed to be perfect, but shouldn’t I at least be happy when I’m with my future spouse? I’m pretty sure indifferent isn’t the bar I should be trying to reach here.
She senses my hesitation, and her smooth voice tries to console me as she reiterates, “I just want you to be happy, sweetheart. That’s all.”
“Thanks for your advice. I’ll take it into consideration,” I grit out, praying for a subject change. “So what’s new at home?”
By some miracle, my mom takes the bait, going into detail about the latest gossip in the neighborhood and all the latest sales at the supermarket.
Hallelujah.
Chapter 3
Rhett
It’s been a week since I started at the new branch. Thankfully, because I often travel for my job, I’ve already met the majority of the people I’m working with, which means it hasn’t been a very difficult transition. So far, anyway.
Plus, I get to work in the same office as my best friend, Nathan. He’s kind of a dumbass, but he’s also my right-hand man in and out of the workplace.
Today started out smoothly, but ended in utter chaos. A potential investor fell through with a new client of mine, StormShock Enterprises. After a little digging and pulling a few strings, Nathan and I were able find another possible investor who’s interested in the joint venture. We have a meeting with them next week, meaning I have a hell of a lot of paperwork to redo in order to have everything ready.
It’s almost eleven at night on a Thursday, and I’m beat. I pull my keys from my pocket, making my way to my apartment. But when I reach my hallway, I stop short.
There’s a lump in the hallway near my front door that I assume is a well-dressed homeless person––until I take a step closer. It definitely isn’t a homeless person. It’s my angel of a neighbor who is curled into a little ball and fast asleep.
But why is she sleeping in the hallway?
I debate whether I should leave her alone with her welcome mat as a pathetic excuse for a mattress, or if I should wake her.
Really, there isn’t any question. However, I’m still hesitant as I bend closer to brush a few strands of hair from her forehead.
“Indie? You okay?”
She jerks awake like I burned her with a cigarette lighter before scrambling on her ass until her back is firmly against her front door.
“Holy shit! You scared the crap out of me!” she squeals. Indie grabs her chest as if she’s having a heart attack. I hold my hands up in surrender.
“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you, I just figured something was wrong since you were out in the hallway . . . .”
She glances from me to her front door and back. She rubs her eyes then stands up. “I guess I’m okay? I dunno. What time is it?”
“A little after eleven.” Smirking, I ask, “Were you robbing a bank and looking for a place to hide?”
Indie looks confused before following my gaze to her all-black outfit. She rolls her eyes when she finally gets my joke. “Nooo.” She drags out the word. “I went out and locked the door then left my keys in the apartment. Running with keys, along with my phone, is a pain in the butt,” she explains. “My boyfriend was supposed to be home by six, so I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. But . . . apparently, it is.” Her tone drips with a mixture of annoyance and frustration. In fact, her salty comment distracts me for a minute before I fully grasp what she just revealed.
Wait . . . .
“You have a boyfriend?”
She tightens her messy, high ponytail while looking sheepishly at the ground. “Umm . . . yeah. Have I not mentioned him?” she asks awkwardly.
I laugh dryly. “No, I don’t think so.” I subtly try to take a deep breath in hopes of containing my unwarranted jealousy. “How long have you two been together?”
“Way too long,” she answers before rushing to correct herself. “I’m kidding. We’ve been together for thirteen years now. We met in kindergarten but officially started dating my freshman year in high school.” I sense the slightest bit of resentment in her voice, but maybe that’s simply wishful thinking on my part.
“Have you called him?”
She rolls her eyes before lifting her cell and waving it back and forth. “I tried to. It went straight to voicemail.”
Her tone suggests she’s used to being ignored. But maybe that’s wishful thinking too.
“I’m sorry about that,” I answer sincerely. No one deserves to be sleeping in a hallway, especially because their dumbass boyfriend won’t answer his phone.
She huffs a sigh of defeat. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Still sucks, though.”
She nods, rocking bac
k on the heels of her running shoes.
An awkward silence encompasses the hallway. Before I can stop myself, I toss out an offer. “Do you want to wait in my apartment until he gets home? Might be more comfortable than out here.” I motion to her welcome mat.
She shifts from foot to foot while staring at said welcome mat near her front door. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she debates whether this is a good idea or not. In all honesty, I can’t decide if it’s a good idea, either. Probably not, if my attraction to her is anything to go by. But I can’t stand the thought of her sleeping in the hall instead of getting some solid rest. Doesn’t she need to be at work in a few hours?
“Are you sure that’s okay? You don’t owe me anything . . . .” The same awkward silence as before fills the space between us. The bags under her eyes only confirm my decision. She looks tired as hell.
I tilt my head to my front door. “Come on in.”
It takes her a second, but she nods, accepting my invitation. “Thanks.”
There are still a few boxes scattered throughout the family room, and I stack them in the corner while Indie hovers in the entryway.
“You’re welcome to take a seat.” I motion to the worn leather couch. “Can I get you a drink or anything?”
Her gaze takes in the bare walls of my family room before turning back to me.
“Uh . . . yeah. Thanks. A drink would be great.”
I walk over to the kitchen and grab a clean glass before filling it with water from the fridge.
“So, how was your run?”
She hesitates before inching down to sit on the edge of the couch. It’s clear she isn’t very comfortable in my personal space. For some reason, the realization feels disconcerting, though I’m not sure why.
“It was good,” she replies. “It’s nice living near Central Park so I can get my exercise in without battling pedestrians, ya know?”