Breathe Again (2 page)

When I was fourteen, we got a new
student at Selden High School. It was a big deal, since my freshman class had
only twenty students at the time. Not only that, she was from California, the
product of parents who grew up in Selden, wanted to see the world, and moved
back when they realized that Los Angeles wasn’t the best place to raise a
family.

Paulina ended up becoming one of my best friends, much to my
parents’ annoyance. She used to love talking about her childhood by the beach
and how amazing California was, with its endless summers and massive houses. It
wasn’t until I actually moved here myself that I realized she grew up in a
duplex in Pasadena.

One of her favorite topics—usually either made up completely,
or exaggerated by my
creative
friend—was the celebrities
she saw on a regular (if not daily) basis. Brad Pitt had saved her life once,
when she was in a car accident (he apparently carried her, in his arms, for
either six or ten miles to the nearest hospital, depending on the day she was
telling the story), and supposedly Gwen Stefani lived in the same neighborhood
that she did.

It took me four months of living in Los Angeles before I saw
my first celebrity, and even then I didn’t realize who it was until
after
one of the real housewives of Beverly Hills left the café.

I glanced at the directions in my hand, and wondered if I
would finally meet someone famous. I didn’t feel like I’d be the type to be
starstruck, but I wanted to be prepared anyway. The birthday cake I was
delivering was going to a house in the Hollywood Hills, and the homes I was
driving by definitely looked like they could house someone with some serious
money. They’d left a somewhat innocuous name on the order, but apparently
people did that a lot in this town. I turned onto the right street and pulled
up to a high gate surrounded by a lot of greenery. There was no way to tell
what it would look like on the inside.

I pushed the button on the intercom and let them know I was
here to deliver the birthday cake. Whoever was on the other side of that
speaker didn’t seem too concerned with who I was, since they let me in without
even asking my name or what company I was with.

It took me almost five minutes to maneuver Josephine’s
catering van up the steep driveway, but I finally parked in front of a
Spanish-style house that had to have been bigger than my high school. I made my
way to the back of the van and pulled out the large, square box containing the
elaborate two-tiered birthday cake I’d been working on since yesterday.

The front door to the house was open slightly, but I rang the
bell with my elbow anyway, hoping someone would come find me. I stood outside
for another few minutes, wondering if I should just head inside and drop it
off. There had to be someone around; they did let me in the gate, after all.

Eventually my arms started to ache and I decided to just go
for it. I nudged the door open with my foot and made my way in through the
enormous foyer. It was still midafternoon, and light seemed to pour in from
everywhere. The floors were a brilliant white marble, and a gorgeous antique
buffet sat at the other end of the hallway.

“Hello?” I called out, pausing midstep, just in case someone
could hear me now. It was quiet, so I just kept going, and saw a massive
kitchen to the right. I made my way through a high archway that separated the
foyer from the rest of the house, and set the box down on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?” I called out once again. I couldn’t just leave the
cake alone, since I did need someone to sign for it, but I wasn’t about to go
explore the rest of the house to find someone. I stood kind of awkwardly in the
kitchen, hoping someone would just appear and put me out of my misery.

Finally, I heard footsteps from behind me, and turned
quickly. “I’m sorry,” I said, before I could even see who it was. “I have the
cake, and nobody was answering the door, so I thought I’d just bring it in. I
didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No need to apologize,” a petite, young blonde said as she
made her way into the kitchen. “We’re all in the back, which is why I left the
door open.”

There was something familiar in her features. I studied her
face for a second, but I tried not to make it obvious. “Well, I just need
someone’s signature, and then I can be out of your hair.”

She smiled, and I immediately recognized her as Meredith
Sawyer, a fairly well-known talk show host. I didn’t have cable, but I’d seen
the ads for her show around town. I looked away quickly, hoping she didn’t
notice.

“Wait,” she said, looking down at my chef’s jacket. “Are you
the one who made the cake?”

“I am,” I said, returning her smile. “You’ll have to let me
know how you like it.”

She looked at me closely. “Are you the same one who makes
those amazing cream puffs and éclairs, then?”

I nodded slowly. I’d never seen her in the café, so I didn’t
know how she’d tried my pastries before. “Yes, I make all the pastries at the
café.”

Her eyes widened and the smile returned to her face. “Oh my
goodness, they are absolutely decadent! I’ve been having my assistant go in
almost every day for the past three weeks to buy you out of them! They’re the
only things that can satisfy my sugar cravings right now!” She rubbed her
belly, and I noticed a small bulge under the bohemian top she was wearing.

“Oh,” I said, “I’m glad you like them. They’re my
grandmother’s recipes.”

“I have to introduce you to everyone! I’ve been bringing the
rest home for my husband, and it’s his birthday today. That’s what the cake is
for. Do you think we could bring it outside?”

“Um, sure,” I said, turning back to the cake so I could
remove it from the box. I looked it over quickly, one last time, just to make
sure everything looked perfect, then picked it up gently and followed her
through the sliding glass doors into the backyard.

The backyard was massive, just like the rest of the house. A large,
rectangular pool sat in the middle of the yard, surrounded by greenery and
trees. On the right of the pool was a rectangular patio where about a dozen
people sat around on chaise longues and couches. A barbecue was going at the
edge of the patio, by the grass, where Meredith’s husband, director Blake
Hannigan, was grilling steaks for the group.

“Everyone,” Meredith called out, “this is the woman
responsible for those fabulous cream puffs that Genevieve has been bringing on
set.”

Everyone started talking at once, and a few of them even
started applauding.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t get your name,” she said, leaning
in to me.

“Mellie,” I said quickly, embarrassed at the attention I was
getting. I recognized quite a few of the faces in the crowd, including actress
Sophia Lewis. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

“Well, Mellie,” Meredith said, louder this time, “thank you
so much for coming and dropping off my husband’s birthday cake. I am so looking
forward to tasting more of your amazing treats. I should have had you bring me
some of those cream puffs! They really are the best.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make sure I have a few more than
usual for next time Genevieve stops by,” I said, my arms starting to ache from
the weight of the cake. I eyed an empty table near the opposite edge of the
patio.

Meredith was already too busy to notice, chatting with one of
her guests.

Not only was the cake heavy, but it started to feel
uncomfortable in my small hands. I needed to put it down immediately, before I
dropped it. I turned to put it on the table in the corner, but out of nowhere,
a solid, very large body was blocking my path. I tried to maneuver around him,
but he was trying to move out of my way at the exact same moment that I was
trying to move out of his. Instead, I found my arms collapsing inward, and the
entire cake came crashing onto my chest.

Everything went silent at once. People weren’t talking anymore,
just staring at me, frosting and filling and cake covering me from my neck down
to my shoes. I felt my lip quiver, but I refused to look down at myself. I just
stood there, wide-eyed, unsure of what I was supposed to do next.

“Oh my god,” I heard someone say, pulling me from my stupor.
I immediately turned back toward the kitchen, so I could compose myself in
private before trying to fix the situation, and hoped desperately that nobody
was following me. My ears were ringing so badly that I wasn’t sure I would even
notice if someone were.

I was dangerously close to hyperventilating in Meredith
Sawyer’s multimillion-dollar mansion. The celebrity in that backyard could have
filled a small state, and I just shit all over myself.

When I finally got to the kitchen, I looked around
desperately, my chest heaving. I felt the frosting drip off of my shirt, and I
cringed when I heard something slap onto the floor. There were no towels, no
napkins, nothing in sight that I could wipe myself off with, and I considered
just running out to the van and never looking back. I clutched the counter,
trying to get my heart rate to slow down, before realizing that even her
fucking countertops probably cost more than I made in a year.

“Here,” I heard a deep voice say behind me, and a towel was
suddenly in my hands. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to do, there was
just so much. Everywhere.

I took the towel willingly, and just wiped my hands on it
pathetically. When I looked up, I realized that the person who gave me the towel
was the same person that put me in the situation in the first place. I hadn’t
had a chance to even look up at his face before, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to
know who it was. I just stared at the same broad chest that had knocked the
cake out of my hands. Even under the button-down shirt he was wearing, I could
see how solid and strong his chest and arms were. I was almost afraid to bring
my eyes up much more than that, but I was too curious, and couldn’t help but
look.

When I finally did bring my gaze to his, my panic attack
almost returned full force. I immediately recognized his face, of course. It
belonged to last year’s Sexiest Man Alive. Literally.

“I’m sorry about that out there,” he said. “I guess I was
just . . . distracted. I didn’t notice the cake in your arms.” He gave me a
strange look.

I stared at him, openmouthed. I was carrying a thirty-pound
cake, covered in bright blue-and-red frosting, and he hadn’t noticed? As soon
as I realized I was gawking at the man in front of me (though not necessarily
for the reasons he was used to), I made my way over to the sink to wash my
hands and get started on the dessert buffet that covered my entire torso.

“Really,” he said, walking around the counter to where I was
now standing. “I’m sorry, I’ll cover the cost, whatever you need.” I could feel
him staring at me, but I just continued to wash the frosting off my arms. I
really hoped I didn’t stain her white-porcelain sink blue.

“It’s fine,” I said, my voice laced with anxiety. I just felt
so . . . small. “I don’t care about the cost. I just feel terrible that Ms.
Sawyer’s husband won’t have a birthday cake to enjoy later.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, turning off the water for
me when my arms were finally clean. The rest of my body was still covered in
red velvet cake. “I’ll figure something out. It’s my fault, anyway.”

I just shrugged and dried my hands and arms with the towel
he’d given me. “I think I saw Vons on the way up here?” I asked, trying not to
keep the annoyance out of my voice. Now that the shock had worn off, I was kind
of irritated.

I risked another glance up at him, and saw a disgusted look
on his face. “I can’t let him eat a cake from the grocery store,” he said, his
voice a little huskier than before. “Not when that”—he motioned down the length
of me—“looks so good,” he said, his eyes roaming over my body.

He did not just do that.

I could barely hold back the strangled gag that almost made
its way out of my throat. Sure, he was hot. Really, hot was an understatement.
But that didn’t give him permission to be an asshole.

I turned to leave. I was so over it all, but I felt his hand
on my arm, stopping me. “Sorry,” he said, his voice softer this time. “That was
way out of line. Please, do you know how long it would take to make another
one?”

I’m pretty sure the look on my face was worse in response to
his question than it was after the inappropriate comment he’d just made.
“Seriously? Do you know how long that one took me? Wait, I’ll save you the
trouble. Twelve hours. Twelve hours of baking and waiting and piping and making
tiny fondant diamonds to put over the entire damn thing.”

His face scrunched slightly. “Wait, you made that?”

“Um . . . duh?” I said.

He blew out a breath. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.
Really, I thought you were just delivering the cake for someone else.”

It wasn’t until then that I realized that he still hadn’t
taken his hand off of my arm. He wasn’t gripping me, keeping me from going. It
kind of just laid there, gently. Suddenly, it felt like there was an electric
current running from his fingertips, over my skin, into my nervous system, and
straight to my core.

I struggled not to let it affect me. “It’s okay. I’ll refund
them the money, but there’s not much more I can do than that. I’ve already
delivered the rest of my orders for the day, and sent one of our customers home
with all the leftover baked goods. I feel terrible.”

I took a chance and looked up at where the world’s sexiest
and most eligible bachelor stood next to me. He had a troubled look on his
face, one that should never be there. He was far too handsome to look that
upset.

“Really, it’s okay. There’s nothing we can do about it now,”
I said, for some reason trying to make him feel better.