Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  “What if—”

  "What if tomorrow is your final day? Would you be pleased with how you lived today?" Maximus interrupts, quoting another passage from my grandfather's vault of infinite wisdom. "We don't live for the ‘what if's,' Cormack; we live for the ‘oops.'"

  With that, he spins on his heels and exits the hallway. I stand in silence for several minutes, considering what he said. I agree with it—for the most part, but shouldn’t my moral obligation as Isaac’s friend outweigh quotes more dated than me?

  I don’t want to add another plate to the many Isaac is juggling, but if I don’t tell him the truth, he may not have any plates left to stack.

  Positive I am doing the right thing, I continue the journey I was taking before Maximus called time. Maximus worked with my grandfather for decades and has been my friend for the past six, but Isaac is like family to me. If anyone deserves to know he is being played, it is Isaac.

  When I reach the room Isaac regularly uses in Mummo Koti, it takes my brain demanding three times that I knock before my body complies with its request.

  “Come in.”

  Isaac's low tone makes sense when I enter his room. He is sitting on the left-hand side of a king-size bed, cradling a sleeping Izzy in his arms. The sheer concern on his face distresses me more than discovering Izzy is an FBI agent. We had a doctor examine Izzy in the jet before Isaac carried her to our waiting limousine. He was adamant her slumbering state was compliments of the Xanax/champagne combination, but that didn’t lessen Isaac's worry in the slightest.

  I step deeper into the room. “Hey. How’s she going?”

  “She’s good. Still sleeping.”

  I’m about to issue the infamous “Captain-fucking-obvious” line he used on me months ago, but the panic in his steel-gray eyes steals my words. His eyes are carrying the same amount of concern mine did when Harlow had an allergic reaction to salmon roe two months ago. He is truly panicked.

  Reading the anxiety in my eyes as well as I did his, Isaac asks, “What’s up? Are you just getting up or going to bed?”

  His eyes flick to an alarm clock on the bedside table that announces it is a little after 4 AM. Before his eyes return to mine, Izzy lets out a painful groan. I take a step back, stunned when Isaac's soothes her whimpers by running his hand down her locks and talking softly to her. I've known Isaac for years. I've never seen this side of him. I didn't think he had a nurturing side.

  Once he has Izzy settled, Isaac returns his eyes to mine. They are a set I’ve only seen once before. It was when I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror when Harlow told me she loved me. I was so blown away by her admission, I nearly said it back.

  Thank god reality dawned before I made a fool of myself. She wasn’t telling me she loved me; she was voicing her appreciation of the jets’ impeccable facilities.

  Although I mistook what Harlow said, I can’t mistake the way it made me feel. I have fallen in love with Harlow—just as Isaac has with Izzy.

  When Isaac glares at me, waiting for me to announce the reason for my late-night visit, I mumble, “Ah. . .I was. . .umm. . .thinking about taking Harlow for a ride tomorrow. I can arrange an extra set of bikes if you and Isabelle want to join us.”

  He smiles as if pleased to hear his name associated with Izzy’s. “Thanks, but you’re never getting me on those death traps.” Isaac isn’t a fan of motorcycles. He likes control, and since he believes you can’t maintain control when there is nothing but an engine between you and the asphalt, he’s never experienced the freedom you get from only having two wheels on the road.

  “Alright. Well, let me know if you change your mind?”

  He dips his chin. “I will.”

  With his focus already returned to Isabelle, he fails to notice my quick exit.

  One battle forfeited—I wonder how many more I am going to skirt today?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Harlow

  “It’s about time you learned your place.”

  Although I am well aware whom the voice belongs to, I stop loading dishes into the commercial-sized dishwasher to confront my unwanted visitor. Clara is standing in the doorway that separates the dining room from the kitchen. Her long legs are crossed in front of her slim body, and her regularly worn bitch façade isn’t put off by the early hour. I’m not surprised. The devil doesn’t rest.

  “I made the mess; the least I could do is clear it away.”

  I realize we are with company when Clara saunters further inside. She and her two impeccably dressed friends’ heels click on the tiled floor, their steps as brisk as their hyena-like laughter. “If that were true, Cormack would have put you out with the trash weeks ago.”

  Her friends laugh as if she is funny. I’m glad they can find pleasure in her bitchiness. It is probably the only benefit they get being friends with someone as cold-hearted as Clara. They circle me like a pack of sharks, assuming they’ll have me running scared since it is three against one. They’re wrong. I left high school years ago, so any participation in childish pack-mentalities ended just as long ago.

  I return to stacking the dishwasher, doing my best to ignore them. The entire situation is quite comical when I think about it. When I first pursued Cormack, I thought the only crazy bitches I would be handling would be his ex-girlfriends. I had no clue most of the disdain would come from his sister.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot Clara’s lips furling. Something is coming; I just don’t know her well enough to determine exactly what. She taps her polished nails on the kitchen counter, a baker’s version of someone scraping their nails down a chalkboard.

  “It was right here, wasn’t it, Stephanie?” Clara slings her eyes to a waif-thin woman on her left. She is blonde, drop-dead gorgeous, and wearing enough diamonds to make my eyes hurt.

  Stephanie nods, sending trestles of wavy locks in front of her bright green eyes.

  “Oh god—” Clara’s second minion, an equally beautiful brunette, throws her hand over her shrieking mouth as her eyes lock with mine. “I hope you sterilized the counter before cooking. You really shouldn’t eat off the same surface your boyfriend has fucked on.”

  I am about to call her out as a liar, but a drop of hesitation stops me. As my stomach twists, in-depth conversations Cormack and I had last month strike me. He admitted numerous times that he has never been in a serious relationship, but that doesn’t mean Clara’s claim is untrue.

  I hate the thought of Cormack with anyone but me—it makes me sick with jealousy—but I’m not so naïve to believe he has been celibate since his charges. Cormack is an incredibly handsome man; I knew from the moment I laid my eyes on him bouts of jealousy would be inescapable. Does it make it any easier to stomach Clara’s underhanded jab at our relationship? No, it doesn’t. But I’m not going to let his past continuously shape his future. Cormack may have slept with Stephanie—it could have very well occurred in the kitchen I’ve been working in the past six hours—but he is with me now, and that is all that matters.

  When I say that to Clara, she scoffs like I am insane. “You have nothing to offer him. He needs a woman with style and grace.” Her slit gaze drags down my body. “You have neither of those things. You will never be what he needs. But instead of acknowledging that like a proud, independent woman would, you continue to play house, thinking you can win him over without money. Well, I have news for you, sweetheart, your act is up. Why do you think he’s been avoiding you since he arrived here? Your humble look at me, I’m a baker routine is cute in Ravenshoe, but here, it’s just plain pathetic. He is embarrassed to be seen with you—plain and simple. ”

  With a flick of her hair, she leaves the kitchen as dramatically as she entered it. Her unapologetic friends follow closely behind her.

  An hour later, I’m moseying down the hallway Cormack’s room is located in. I tried to brush off Clara’s snarky comment as well as I have the last three she fired at me, but this one is a little reluctant to budge. She planted a seed of doubt in
my mind, and Cormack’s absence the past several hours watered it.

  Is he embarrassed of me?

  My arrival wasn’t well-received yesterday, but I thought Cormack was a man who saw the value underneath high-priced dresses and fault-hiding jewels. Maybe I am wrong? Cormack's contact has been scarce, to say the least. It is nearly 10 AM, yet I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since yesterday afternoon.

  I stop rubbing at a kink in my neck when a deep voice calls my name a few seconds later. Although I am hoping it is Cormack, I know it isn’t. My body announces his presence long before I spot him, so I know it isn’t him.

  A dark shadow three paces down stops my steps as quickly as my heart. “Oh, hey, Isaac. Everything okay?” The rims around his unique-colored eyes are as dark as mine, his complexion just as pale.

  When he glances at Isabelle lying in the middle of a monstrous-sized bed, my mouth gapes. "She's still asleep? Jesus. What's it been? Fourteen hours?"

  “A little over eighteen, but who’s counting?” Isaac has the same smooth grumble of Cormack, but his is a little deeper.

  Hoping to ease the tension pumping out of him in invisible waves, I jest, “You, by the sound of it.”

  My effort has the effect I am aiming for when Isaac laughs. I don’t know him very well, but his chuckles still sound foreign to my ears.

  After his laughter dies down, he asks, “Would you mind keeping an eye on Isabelle for me? I have a very important. . . call I need to make.”

  The way he sneers "call" piques my suspicion, but his genuine worry over leaving Izzy alone has me nodding. I am exhausted, but I don't see me sleeping anytime soon. The knot in my stomach ensures this.

  “Thank you. I won’t be long. Please don’t leave her side. I don’t want her to wake up alone.” I’m startled when Isaac presses his lips to the corner of my mouth before he darts down the hall as if a swarm of bees is chasing him.

  After shaking off my confusion about vanishing men with a quick shimmy of my shoulders, I enter Izzy’s room, close the door behind me, then hightail it to the bathroom. With my freshly prepared waffles being a hit amongst Cormack’s guests since 7 AM, I haven’t had a chance to use the restroom.

  I could have made a killing this morning. One gentleman in a hideous Hawaiian print suit tried to tip me $100 for my waffles. That is more than I cleared in income the weeks before my bakery resurrected from its slump. The gentleman was shocked I wouldn’t accept his money. He couldn’t understand why I’d go to so much effort not to make “coin.”

  When I told him I don't bake just for the money, our conversation ended. That's not unusual. People with dollar signs in their eyes rarely understand the joy others get from seeing people enjoy the fruits of their labor.

  After finishing my business, I wash my hands, then exit the bathroom. Relief consumes me when I am met with Izzy’s wide eyes floating around her room. I really need my best friend right now.

  “Sleeping Beauty finally wakes.” I inwardly sigh when my voice presents as playful and chipper. I am feeling anything but.

  With a grunt, Izzy throws her arm over her eyes. I secure a bottle of Tylenol and an unopened bottle of water off the bedside table, plunk onto her mattress, then thrust them into her face. “Here, take these; they will help with your head.”

  I accidentally mixed Xanax with champagne at my cousin's wedding three years ago. I will never make that mistake twice.

  After guzzling down half a bottle of water with three pills, Izzy lifts her chocolate brown eyes to mine. “Are you sure it was champagne in that bottle? My head is telling me a different story.”

  “Yes, it was only champagne.” I pause when she makes a face like she is going to be sick. Once she has things under control, I add on, “But if you had mentioned you took Xanax, I would have limited the number of glasses I allowed you to consume.”

  Her eyes widen. “Ohhh.”

  "Yeah, oh. That's the best blackout concoction I know of." Hating that her horrified expression matches the sludge at the bottom of my stomach, I say. “But oh. . .my. . .god, girl, you should’ve seen Isaac. He was all frantic and possessive when you wouldn’t wake up. He wouldn’t let anyone go near you, let alone touch you. It was h-o-t HOT. He only settled down when Cormack discovered the bottle of Xanax in your purse, and I explained we were drinking champagne before we left.”

  I let out a little sigh. Isaac’s reaction was unexpected, but fun to witness. I’ve known from the day I saw them sitting across from each other in my bakery that they were destined to be together. Isaac’s response to Izzy’s collapse backed up my claims.

  The worried expression on Izzy’s face grows before she stammers out, “Cormack went through my purse?” Her eyes flick between mine as her throat works hard to swallow.

  “Yeah,” I respond, unsure what has caused her shocked response. She hasn’t heard the worst of it yet.

  Isaac was so panicked when she wouldn’t wake up, he demanded Cormack search her purse for clues to her groggy state. That is when Cormack stumbled onto her open packet of Xanax. . . and another unexpected surprise. Izzy had a massive strip of condoms in her purse. I’m not talking the regular three most woman keep stashed away. I’m talking a good dozen or more.

  “Harlow. . .?” Izzy’s low tone demands further information without another word spilling from her lips. She looks worried and justly so. Isaac nearly had a coronary. Actually, come to think of it, that was the exact moment Cormack’s change in composure occurred as well.

  When Izzy continues glaring, begging for me to hurry, I rip off the Band-Aid in quick succession. “They also found your strip of condoms.”

  “I don’t have condoms in my. . .” Her pupils fill her corneas when she spots the truth in my eyes. “They’re an old stash. I haven’t used them in months. I packed them when I went on vacation. They were an emergency stash. Everyone has an emergency stash. Just in case. . . in case—”

  "You need to have sex in a bathroom thirty thousand feet in the air?" I interrupt, my brows waggling. Every second I spend with Izzy eases the turmoil in my gut. It is always like this when we are together—carefree and fun. That’s why she is my soul sister.

  I smile at Izzy’s frozen state. Isaac and Izzy met at an airport, but instead of exchanging numbers like an average, everyday couple, they organized a raunchy hookup while thirty thousand feet in the air. If Izzy’s womb wasn't indisposed with ovary-twisting dwarfs, I'm reasonably sure they would have hooked up then and there.

  The wider Izzy’s pupils become, the harder it is for me to hold in my laughter. Usually, she is on to my wit like white on rice. Clearly, Isaac’s attention isn’t just wreaking havoc with her libido.

  Incapable of holding back my giggles a moment longer, and preferring to fall than collapse, I flop onto the bed dramatically. It takes several tedious minutes for my manic laughter to die down. Second only to cake, laughter makes everything better.

  Once I have my sanity bordering lunacy, Izzy asks, “What was Isaac’s reaction to the condoms?” She tries to act disinterested in my reply. Her acting skills are shit.

  Mine on the other hand. . .

  I clutch her hands in mine, building the suspense as well as James Foley does in every movie he directs. The veins in her neck flutter when I stare her straight in the eyes. "He growled. Not a dainty little pussycat roar. He full on growled a sexy-as-sin growl. Then he scooped you into his arms, and that is where you stayed until he laid you down on this bed. He only left thirty minutes ago because he had some business to attend to. He made me promise I wouldn't leave your side until he returned."

  Izzy pants as the color in her cheeks returns. If I didn’t know she was only twenty-five, I’d swear she was having a hot flash. After fanning her heated cheeks with her hand, her eyes scan the room. “What time is it?”

  When I fail to see a clock, I rise from the bed and pace toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Izzy lets out a hearty gasp when I grip the burgundy and gold pleated curtains and throw them open
. I wince, my tired eyes also unappreciative of the blinding midmorning sun.

  “I slept all afternoon and night?” Izzy gasps in a long drawl.

  “Yep!” The “p” pops from my mouth.

  It’s been a very long and lonely eighteen hours without her by my side, fending off fire-breathing dragons in Prada dresses.

  “Please don’t leave me alone with them for that long again,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

  Izzy giggles at my comment, until she realizes I am serious. Usually, I’m too busy to let negativity affect me, but with a lazy weekend comes an abundance of time. It's a lot harder to ignore the naysayers when you’re surrounded by them. Then a lagging sleep schedule just makes matters worse. I haven't slept a wink in nearly twenty-four hours. I am beyond tired, and somewhat irrational.

  I can see a million questions streaming through Izzy’s forthright eyes, but not a word squeaks from her lips. She wants to be here for me, but knows I’m not a fan of personal Q&As. Well, not ones that center around me.

  Hoping that a burden shared is a burden halved, I say, "Cormack and I have been on a couple of dates." It is more than a couple, but with my emotions dangerously teetering, I downplay his seriousness in my life.

  Izzy huffs, revealing she heard the dishonesty in my tone as readily as I did. “I figured that part out when you rammed your tongue down his throat yesterday.”

  The snark in her tone forces a grin onto my lips. That playful, happy Harlow of yesterday seems like an entirely different person today. I hope I can find her again soon, as this Harlow sucks.

  “He is great; I really like him, but I didn’t realize he was. . . this.” I wave my hand to the door protecting Izzy from the pompous, pretentious people outside of it. “First, a stretch limousine, then a private jet, and now. . .”

  I stop talking, hating that I'm letting a bitch like Clara dump Cormack in with a group of people he doesn't belong with. If he was here with me, I'm confident I wouldn't be having these stupid thoughts. But after spending the night alone, her snark is affecting me more than it should. I love Cormack, but if this weekend is a prelude to our future, I need to have a serious think. I don’t want to affect his livelihood, but I don’t want to be hidden either.