Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes and twenty-two stitches later, Ben saunters out of the automatic door—new bandage on his hand, same hard look in his eyes. I jump to my feet when I see him, beyond ready to get the hell out of this place, and hand him his helmet.

  He grabs my hand in his bandaged one, leading me out the urgent-care door while saying those three little words every woman dreams of hearing. “Burgers sound good?”

  He holds my hand all the way to his bike.

  But does he cover my hand with his as we stop at the red lights? Nope. Does he hold my hand as we walk into Jack’s Prime? Nope. Does this darken my already black mood? Yep. Does it help that our server looks like a tattooed Jessica Rabbit and keeps eyeing Ben like a kid in a candy shop?

  Not one bit.

  I move my fork around my boring Caesar salad, searching for hidden croutons, while my envious gaze flicks to Ben’s fried jalapeño bacon cheeseburger dripping with barbecue sauce and melted cheddar cheese. He’s eating it one-handed, to not get his bandage dirty. I have no idea why I ordered a freaking salad. I never order salads. Especially not at Jack’s. There’s a reason why it’s always jam-packed. And it’s not because they serve good salads.

  My gaze zooms in on Ben as he sinks his white teeth into his burger. God, he makes it look so freaking good, the way he licks his lips after each bite, then wipes the remaining sauce from his mouth and beard with a napkin as he chews. Carl’s Jr. should put him in a commercial—he’d sell millions.

  His gaze meets mine as he swallows. I quickly drop my eyes back to my salad and take an unenthusiastic bite.

  “Want some?”

  I glance up to see him holding his burger out for me to take. If there’s anything sexier than Ben offering to share his food with me, I haven’t seen it.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I say to the thick-cut bacon perched on top of juicy meat covered in melted cheddar cheese.

  Ben chuckles with a shake of his head, sets the burger on his plate, and grabs the knife. I watch as he saws it in half and sets half on my salad. I might have just fallen a little in love with him.

  Just a little.

  “Eat,” he orders with a crooked smile. “Just do it quietly, yeah? Don’t want to start a riot.”

  Falling a little deeper, I build a Game of Thrones-sized wall around my heart, giving orders to the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow included, that none shall pass, especially none named Ben.

  “If it’s as good as it looks, I make no promises.” I return his smile, picking it up, my mouth already watering before I sink my teeth into its meaty goodness.

  I can’t help the small humming moan that escapes. Ben tilts his chin down, his heavy brows kick up in a mock warning.

  I cover my full mouth with my hand, because I’m classy like that, and garble, “Sorry… so good.”

  He chuckles with another shake of his head and picks up his half, quickly finishing it off. If he licks his fingers, I’m done.

  My inner thighs tense as I remember the feel of his tongue on my neck. A shiver runs up my spine. I wash the unwanted memory down with a sip of my Sprite.

  “You’re ordering my food from now on,” I joke, repositioning my burger for the optimum bite. My eyes flash to his at the suggestion that going out with him will be a regular thing. “I mean… not that—”

  “You got it, Shortcake,” he cuts me off with a subtle wink that feels like suede against my skin.

  He grabs his root beer, holding the straw out of the way, and takes a big gulp. If there’s a sexy way to drink soda, he wrote the freaking manual. I turn my eyes to the busy restaurant, away from his prominent Adam’s apple so I don’t do something stupid like lick it.

  My phone rings in my purse, startling me out of my Ben/burger bliss. I can count on one hand how many times it’s rung without Derek’s ringtone in the last few months.

  I chew like a madwoman, ungracefully choking down the burger, wiping my fingers clean on my napkin, then search through my purse for my phone, feeling Ben’s watchful eyes on me.

  I look to the screen. It’s a local area code. Usually, I’d just let it go to voicemail, but there’s a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that says to answer.

  “Hello,” I answer a bit nervously, my eyes jumping to Ben.

  He wipes his mouth and beard with his napkin. His eyes peer into mine.

  “Hi, dear. It’s Betsy. Are you on your way?”

  My eyes go wide. An electric shock of pure panic surges through my body. Wedding dress shopping. Today. With the Brigade. Today. Wedding dress shopping. Now. Like right now.

  I hear Mrs. Baker squawk something about cheese in the background.

  I jerk the phone from my ear to look at the time.

  I’m over an hour late. Fuuuuck!

  That frenzied-urgent feeling I get whenever I wake up late for work squeezes the back of my neck.

  “Emelia… are you there?” Betsy’s delicate voice sounds from my speaker.

  I quickly bring it back to my ear. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there soon. I’m so sorry,” I repeat, hoping she can hear in my voice just how much I mean it.

  Ben signals to our server with his credit card.

  “Don’t rush. I just want you to have enough time to look through all the collections, that’s all.” Her voice is calm and soothing, completely opposite from how I’m feeling.

  There’s a famous photograph of a giant white-capped ocean wave crashing violently into a lighthouse. If you peer closely at the picture, you’ll see that the dark shadow at the lighthouse door is actually a man. He’s probably locked himself out. That guy’s having a better day than me.

  “Okay. I’ll be there soon. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Betsy.” I hang up without a goodbye, which shows how panicked I am. I always say goodbye.

  I briefly catch eyes with the server as she takes Ben’s card. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m Ben’s sister.

  “No dessert?” she asks him with a smile that says she’s on the menu.

  “We’re good,” he says, dismissing her with a polite nod, and turns to me. “What’s up?”

  Feeling a brush of satisfaction that he doesn’t seem interested in her secret menu, I turn my attention back to my phone.

  “I was supposed to be wedding-dress shopping with Betsy over an hour ago. I totally forgot. They’re all waiting for me.” I’m searching the notes on my phone for the name of the place I’m supposed to be at right now.

  “No worries. I’ll get you there.”

  “No worries for you,” I say, under my breath while googling the name.

  My fingers tremble at what I see.

  There are high-end, luxury bridal boutiques, and then there are by-appointment-only places with a doorman.

  Monique’s Bridal Couture is a by-appointment-only.

  With a doorman.

  Fuck my life.

  I set down my phone, grab my purse from beside me, and start to rummage through it, looking for anything to help pull my non-shower self together.

  I come up with a loose Mentos, an empty compact I keep for the mirror, and a tube of Very Berry lipstick—my stomach pangs remembering the last time I wore it.

  I pop in the chipped Mentos, open the compact, and slowly bring it up to my face while holding my breath. Yep. It’s Walmart-meme bad. I close the compact with a groan, leaning back in the booth—no amount of Very Berry is going to fix this hot mess.

  “What?”

  I meet his gaze, my shoulders slumped. “I’m not even dressed for a Pretty Woman moment,” I answer on an exhale, feeling deflated.

  The corner of his lip twitches before he says, “A what?” He grins and puts up his hand. “Never mind, I’m afraid to ask.”

  I pick up my phone and hold it up for him to see. He gives it a quick glance, looking confused, his brows pinched.

  Well, let me help to clarify things for you…

  “They serve Cristal champagne, Ben. I can’t drin
k that looking like this.” I motion to the disaster that is my current state.

  “What’s wrong with how you look?” he asks, with his brows still pulled in confusion.

  “I look like a before picture,” I answer on an exhale.

  His face melts into a grin that causes butterflies in my lower belly to take flight as he gives me a soft chuckle.

  “It’s not funny,” I pout.

  His grin spreads. “You could wear a potato sack, and you’d still look fucking gorgeous. Don’t worry.”

  Time stands still for a breath while I replay his sentence, trying to figure out if he actually said that, or if I somehow misheard it, which wouldn’t be the first time.

  You’d still look fucking gorgeous.

  He said it… I think.

  I’m so shocked, so tasered by his unexpected words (words like gorgeous) that I don’t even notice Jessica Rabbit saunter up until she sets down the bill folder and I catch the generous smile she gives him.

  “Thanks,” he says, reaching to take the black folder from her hand.

  “My pleasure,” she purrs, giving him “the look” while holding on to it a few seconds too long before letting go.

  She glances my way, and whatever she sees on my face causes her smile to drop instantly.

  That’s right. Back off, bitch. I will cut you.

  I don’t care if she thinks I’m Ben’s sister, or whatever… hitting on a man sitting with a woman, especially if said woman is sporting an engagement ring, is just fucking rude.

  She tries for a shaky smile, and when I don’t return it, she spins on her heels and walks away, glancing over her shoulder at me as she goes.

  I’m glad my helmet is strapped to Ben’s bike because there’s a good chance I’d have thrown it at her head. Yeah, we can add being a sister-wife to my list of things I’d suck at.

  My gaze slides to Ben, watching him as he closes the folder and returns his card to his wallet.

  He settles his eyes on me as he slips his wallet into his back pocket, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ready, tiger?” He grabs his helmet.

  I gather my phone and purse. “Tiger?”

  “Got your claws out, babe,” he says with his lips pulling into a panty-dropping grin.

  My cheeks feel hot. “I don’t have claws.”

  He slides from the booth with a deep, silky laugh.

  I follow his lead, minus the laugh.

  “I don’t have claws,” I repeat with a little more venom, feeling like an idiot that he caught me in all my jealous glory.

  I spent years watching Greg get hit on by patients, working long hours with people who made it clear they thought he was Dr. McDreamy hot. Sometimes it was annoying, but never did it get under my skin like Jessica Rabbit’s I’m-yours-for-the-taking look aimed at Ben, which means it’s my mutinous ovaries calling the shots. Not me. Definitely not me.

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but realizing that whatever I say will only become another thing to add to the list of stupid things I’ve said to Ben, I just clench my jaw and give him a Crawford-worthy death glare.

  This earns me another throaty chuckle as his hand rests on my lower back and he guides me through the throngs of happy-shiny people.

  I lock eyes with our server as we walk out, feeling like a total asshole, knowing this is my last trip to Jack’s Prime.

  It’s official: I suck at life.

  * * *

  In less than fifteen minutes, the entirety of which I spent not snuggling weirdly close to his back, he’s backing his bike into a parking spot across and down the street from Monique’s Bridal Boutique.

  Am I dreading this little shopping extravaganza?

  With every fiber of my being.

  Even more then the last time I went shopping for a wedding dress, and that’s saying something. Trust me. I should’ve received the Nobel Peace Prize for that one.

  I peek around Ben’s shoulder. Yep. It looks just like the pictures. A stately brick building covered in romantic green vines, sitting on prime Palo Alto real estate. A regal-looking doorman wearing white gloves, probably named Reginald or something equally regal, stands in front of gleaming gold-and-glass double doors.

  With the grace of a penguin, I huff my leg over the bike while gripping onto Ben’s solid shoulders for stability. Partly because my legs are still crazy stiff from my trail ride, and partly because I just like touching Ben.

  Note to self: add Motorcycle Man to my list of things I need in my life.

  Ben swings his leg over the bike with a gracefulness that shouldn’t be allowed with someone his size. I take off my helmet, set it on the seat, try my best to discreetly fix my hair, then reach into my purse and grab my wallet.

  I’m the girl who walks out of a store with a bunch of shit I don’t need because a salesperson talks me into buying it. Yep. That’s me. I buy shit. Even from pushy salespeople who use the phrase to die for.

  Hence, the retro puffer jacket I’m wearing, sold to me by a delightful man who said I looked so kickback chic. I had no idea what kickback chic meant, but whatever it was, I wanted it. Salespeople are my kryptonite, which is one of the reasons I shop online. The other is that I’m antisocial. And awkward. And can’t seem to stand in lines without losing my shit.

  I grab Ben’s credit card from my wallet and hold it out. “I can’t trust myself in there with this. Take it.”

  “What?” He runs his hand through his hair, his brows pulled tight, confusion written on his beautifully rugged face.

  “If I walk in there, I’m going to try not to buy something I don’t want to buy, but it will happen.” Then with an added bite in my voice I finish, “Take your card, please.”

  His gaze rakes over my face like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Good luck, buddy. “Buy something. I don’t care.” He shrugs and grabs my helmet from the seat, strapping it into the back of his bike.

  “This place had four dollar signs on Yelp, Ben. Four.” I hold up my fingers, just in case he’s forgotten how to count. “Which in wedding-dress dollars translates to thousands,” I further clarify.

  My wedding dress flashes in my mind. Greg’s mom loved it. I hated it. She bought it. It cost as much as my car, which was a 2002 Toyota Camry, but still…

  So, I ended up walking down the aisle lost in a hundred pounds of Cinderella tulle and sequins that did not make me feel like a princess.

  He glares over his shoulder. “Like I said, I don’t care.”

  “I care.”

  “Why?” He faces me and plants his hands on his hips, his hawkish gaze boring into mine.

  “Because I’m not gonna spend your money on a fake-wedding dress.”

  He runs an angry hand through his hair. “Why you gotta always be so difficult?” His gaze darkens. “I said don’t worry about it.’”

  “Why do you have to be so difficult? I said take the card.” I motion sharply for him to take it. “I’m already late. Come on, Ben. Just take it.”

  Ben’s nostrils flare and his jaw ticks, but to my relief, he snatches the card from my hand.

  My relief is short-lived, because in the next breath he grabs my hand in his bandaged one and pulls me across the street.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to go in,” I mumble, trying to keep up with his long strides.

  He ignores me.

  “It’s bad luck,” I tack on as we step onto the sidewalk and close in on the building.

  This earns me a side glare and a jaw tick.

  Yeah, he may have a point.

  My heart jackhammers against my ribs while my stomach does a reverse swan dive as we approach the door.

  Reginald straightens his spine and lifts his chin as we approach. If he thinks it’s odd that a homeless-looking person, who may or may not be a twelve-year-old boy in need of a haircut, is stopping in front of his posh business, he doesn’t let on.

  “Ms. Anderson.” He gives me a small regal nod and turns to Ben. “Mr. Crawford, I presume?”r />
  Ben gives him a chin lift that looks nearly as dignified. An image of Ben dressed as The Bachelor holding a single red rose takes center stage in my mind. The rose is for me, by the way.

  “Welcome,” Reginald says with fanfare while he opens the door and sweeps his hand in a dramatic gesture.

  Ben drops my hand to place his on the small of my back. I may have given Reginald a slight curtsy before stepping inside, breathing in the faint scent of peaches and vanilla as I crossed the threshold. My mom loved peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream.

  My breath catches as my eyes slide over the decor. Delicate. Elegant. Romantic shades of cream and white cover every inch, accentuated by overflowing arrangements of perfectly bloomed blush roses that seems too perfect to be of this world.

  I half expect for Lisa Vanderpump and her pet swans to appear, but instead, an attractive put together Asian woman walks toward us with a polite smile fixed on her perfectly symmetrical face. Her eyes do a quick head-to-toe. She doesn’t look impressed. Can’t say I blame her.

  Behind her, a team of salespeople follow in a V-formation, their smiles fixed at the same degree of welcoming, their eyes the perfect amount of bright. They look like The Stepford Wives of salespeople.

  “Welcome to Monique’s, Ms. Anderson. I’m Rebecca Choi.” She holds her hand for me to shake, so I shake it. Her voice is warm and smoky. It’s a good voice. A voice I’d buy shit from. Shit that I don’t need. Like an expensive wedding dress for a fake wedding. “Your party is waiting in the Bridal Lounge.”

  “Thank you. So sorry, I’m late.” My voice sounds a few octaves higher than normal, louder than normal, and totally annoying, which may or may not be normal, too.

  She gives me a reassuring smile and turns to Ben, holding out her hand. Ben shakes it looking totally at ease and comfortable. Lucky him.

  “You must be the fiancé. We’ve all heard what a special bride you have. You’re a very lucky man.” Her gaze finds mine. In her eyes is a secret sparkle reserved to make people feel special.

  Does it work? Yep. She’s good. Real good. And I know at that moment that I would’ve bankrupted Ben in this place.

  “Yeah, she’s special alright,” Ben says, giving me a look that I can’t place, but I’m sure his definition of special doesn’t align with Rebecca’s.