Tasty (15 page)

When
Cal looks at me, it’s with
that
look, burning steady in his bright gaze. He’s hiding something,
I’m sure of it. Maybe not a wife and kids, but some sort of
secret that’s bound to hurt us both.

“Nothing,”
he says, his voice unwavering.

“Bull.
Shit.” I stalk forward, and shove my feet back into my
waterlogged flats. I wrestle my bicycle from the coat rack, tossing a
handful of lightweight jackets and flannel shirts aside.

“Juliette,
wait,” he says, following me. Part of me is glad we haven’t
even fucked yet. It’s safer this way.

“No,
Callum,” I say, my voice full of anger. I wrench open the door.
“Thanks for the head, though.”

He
looks at me, jaw dropped, eyes wide and pleading. But I don’t
care. I storm back out into the rain and let the door slam behind me.

#

I
don’t cry as I pedal home through the steady, dreary rain, or
as I trudge up to my apartment and slam the door behind me. I don’t
shed a single tear as I scrub my skin raw in the shower, or when I
crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I’m not sad
about what’s happened between me and Cal. I’m mad as
hell. Not even at him, but at myself. I can’t believe I let
myself open up to him. I should have known better. Love has always
been a disaster for me. Why did I think this time, with this guy,
things would go any different?

Sometime
around midnight, the storm kicks up again. My bedroom is bright with
lightning. The windows rattle in their frames. I pull myself out of
bed and grab my laptop, bathing myself in its blue, healing light.

[email protected]:

Hey, cupcake, you around?

But
cupcakecasanova isn’t online. I hate-Google Cal, but it only
makes me feel worse. Oh look, there he is at a restaurant opening in
New York with Angelique Sutton on his arm. Here he is judging a kids’
bake-off for charity. It would be adorable if it wasn’t such a
bold-faced lie. God, can’t the world see through him? I slam my
laptop shut and bury myself in my comforter, hoping to bury myself in
sleep, too.

I
wake up feeling like crap, throw on comfortable clothes, put my hair
up in a sloppy ponytail, and head downstairs for work. It’s
Sunday, usually one of our busiest days. Most Sundays, I get to chat
up the bagel and donut crowd and charm the pants off our football
fanatic locals. Today, my heart’s not in it. Hell, the store’s
probably empty, anyway, like it’s been for the past few weeks.
I help Summer take the plywood off the windows in a wordless sulk,
then ask her to man the register while I handle things in back. It
isn’t until a guy in a football jersey wanders in and asks if
we know the way to Mecca Cakes that I lose it.

“We
don’t want your kind here!” I bellow.

“What?”
the dude asks in a panic. “Cowboys fans?”

Before
I can answer, Summer gives me a look. She gives the guy directions,
then hustles back to the kitchen. When she emerges, she’s got
something in her hand. A cupcake, with a poodle moth drawn on top in
icing.

I
stifle a laugh-sob at the sight of it.

“It’s
because I hate your guts and think you’re a terrible person,”
she says, flashing her signature creepy, fake Summer smile. I bury
her in the world’s longest hug.

After
a few beats, she says, “Okay, you can stop now.” When I
don’t let her go, she adds, “Really. Please. Touching.
Ugh.”

“Sorry,”
I say. I swear I’m kind of sniffling when I let her go. I lick
the poodle moth off the cupcake.

“Okay,
but, you’re being weird today. So I called your friend. You
know, the perky one?”

“Ginny?”

“I
think so?”

I
look at her flatly. “Summer, you’ve met her like a dozen
times.”

“Shut
up. I have prosopagnosia. It’s a real disease.”

Summer
does not have prosopagnosia. I roll my eyes. “You called Ginny.
And?”

“We’re
staging an intervention. A brunch intervention. Only I’m going
to stay here, so your business doesn’t fail and we don’t
end up homeless and working the streets. You know, as prostitutes.”

“Thank
you for clarifying, Summer.”

“You’re
welcome. Now go drink bloody marys and talk about My Little Ponies or
whatever it is you two do when I’m not around.”

I
stare at her. Nod. “Right. My Little Ponies it is.”

#

I
meet Ginny at our favorite lunch spot. It’s crowded, full of
hungover people chowing down on hash browns, tipping back mimosas.
She’s already waiting for me, a pitcher of bloody marys on one
side of her and her wedding portfolio on the other. She pours me a
drink before I even sit down.

“I
ordered us tapas,” she says. I flash her a grateful smile, but
before I can ask her what kind, she adds, “Summer said
something was up. What’s this about you rushing home in the
storm last night?”

“I
don’t want to talk about it. What’s up with the book?”

“Oh,
you know how freelancing goes. A wedding planner’s work is
never done.”

I
give her a suspicious glance and thumb through her portfolio. Her
weddings are so damned beautiful. I can’t believe my high
school best friend ended up so talented and so successful. I mean,
she always seemed pretty amazing to me, but in a sixteen-year-old
sort of way. Probably because we were sixteen at the time.

“Actually,”
she says, “I was trying to pin down a venue for my wedding.
Finally.”

“Oh.”
I close the book and take a huge swig of my drink. It’s peppery
and heavily spiked with lemon juice and it tastes like an alcoholic
creamy tomato soup and I love it. So I down it and pour myself
another. Ginny watches me.

“We
don’t have to talk about the wedding if you don’t want
to.”

“I
mean, I should. I’m your best woman, right?”

Ginny’s
always been a stickler for using the right names for things. “Maid
of Honor. I know it’s not easy when you’re not in the
same place. Believe me, there were years when I could hardly stand
most of my clients. So mushy and obnoxious and
in
love
.”

I
pull a face, thinking of the way she and Luke smooched all over the
place the last time I saw them. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“Funny
thing is,” Ginny says, “now, seeing other happy couples
just makes me feel happy for them. And optimistic, too. I know you’ll
find someone, Jules.”

I
scowl. She’s being too nice. It makes my heart ache in my
chest. “Ginny, something happened last night,” I begin.

“What?”
she asks.

And
then it comes spilling out of me, the whole damned story. The stolen
customer and the storm. The angel food cake and the oral on Cal’s
kitchen island. The laptop. The secrets Cal is obviously keeping,
whatever they might be. Ginny’s expression is sympathetic, but
guarded. By the time I’ve finished my story, both our glasses
are empty. I reach for the pitcher, but Ginny shakes her head.

Crap.
I was hoping she’d get stupid drunk with me. Then maybe we
could go egg Cal’s house, like old times.

Instead,
she’s careful. She slowly puts her hand on top of mine, gives
it an infuriatingly gentle squeeze, and then cautiously says: “Don’t
you think you’re overreacting? You haven’t even heard his
side of the story.”

I
look at her for a long time. She looks
concerned
.
And she’s probably right to be.

“Well,”
I begin reluctantly. “Maybe I can ask him.”

“Maybe
you can,” she agrees. “And besides, it sounds perfectly
reasonable that he doesn’t want to share his laptop with
someone he’s only known for a few weeks.”

I
wince. Ginny says it like it’s nothing, with the carefree
attitude of someone who has never been hurt by lies. I remind myself
that Ginny’s been a little luckier in love than I have. She
doesn’t know what it’s like to have your heart truly
broken, stomped on, and ground to a pulp.

“I
should talk to him,” I concede.

“You
should,” she agrees. Then she smiles at me. “How about
eating something while we get completely wasted?”

“I
thought you’d never ask,” I say, lift my bloody mary, and
clink glasses with her.

#

I’m
too drunk to go back to work after brunch. The world is too bright
and too wobbly around me. I shoot Summer a text asking for her to
cover for me. Ginny looks worried as we walk home, asks if I need her
help to make my way up the stairs. I assure her I’m fine. I’ve
been way drunker than this before. She didn’t know me in those
days, when I was nursing my wounds from lost love, self-medicating,
grieving, barely keeping my head above water.

I
stagger upstairs, promising myself that I’ll give Cal a call as
soon as I sober up. I’ll be strong then. I won’t run
away. Instead, I’ll demand the answers that I deserve, talk
things through without screaming at him or going weak in the knees. I
don’t know if we can figure everything out. Who knows what he’s
hiding? If he can’t trust me, how can I open up to him?

I
don’t know if this whole thing can work out.

But
damn, if I don’t hope it will.

I
grab a water bottle from my fridge, pausing to take a long swig. Then
I turn toward my living room. It’s a beautiful day. Maybe I’ll
throw open a window, let the fresh air wash over me.

But
I don’t get the chance. Because I turn around, and walk right
into Cal as he comes out of the bathroom.

“Holy
shit!” I cry, and nearly lose my footing. But his arms are
strong and swift. They bolster me before I can stumble.

“Summer
let me in,” he says quickly. But that hadn’t even crossed
my mind, because I was too busy gazing right into his laser green
eyes. He smells like nutmeg and brown sugar, and he’s smiling
at me.

I’m
smiling right back.

Falling
into Callum McKenzie’s arms is dangerously easy. It’s
like breathing, or falling asleep. His strong, firm muscles bolster
me as I squint through my alcoholic haze, making out his gorgeous
green eyes, narrowed in concern. I almost don’t know he’s
got me until it’s over and my feet are touching the wood floor
again.

“Don’t
hold it against Summer,” he says. “She thought we should
talk, and I agree. You left my house in a fury, Juliette. I was
worried about you.”

“I
can take care of myself,” I say. “I’ve been doing
it for years.”

“Taking
good care of yourself. You’re drunk before noon, for one
thing.” His voice has an edge that surprises me.

“I’m
not—”

“I
know drunk,” he says coldly. “My father was a champion
drunkard. Still is, actually.”

Something
inside me dislodges at Cal’s expression as he talks about his
father. He looks pained. Vulnerable. Soft. And that almost makes me
want to be soft, too.

But
I still deserve answers.

“I
only had three drinks,” I tell him, which is the truth. But
then I remember what Ginny and I discussed. We need to talk this out.
So I pry myself from his arms and settle in on the sofa. I pat the
cushion beside me, and he sits down. “Okay. I’m a little
drunk. You’re right. But I want to know what you were hiding on
that laptop. And don’t tell me it was nothing. It wasn’t.
I can tell when someone is lying to me. I have enough experience with
it.”

Cal
flinches at that. But he doesn’t argue with me.

“Fair
enough,” he says, and then he offers me his hand. I look down
at it. I can see how it’s been mangled from years of knife
slips and kitchen work. Mine are the same. Our scars align as I lace
my fingers with his.

“There’s
something I need to tell you,” he says. It’s clear from
his body language how uncomfortable this makes him feel.

I
brace myself for the worst, as he rubs his eyes. Unbidden, I remember
the night I learned about my ex’s family. The raging flood of
betrayal. The icy humiliation.

“I’ve
been living a double life,” Cal says.

My
stomach clenches. I was right, then. He was cheating on me. I knew
it.

But
then what comes next is nothing like I suspected, because he adds,
“I’m cupcakecasanova.”

What
?

I
can’t believe my ears. Not at first.

“No,”
I say automatically. “That can’t be true. He lives in New
York . . .”

“
I
live
in New York,” he says. “Have since I left Scotland.
Educated in the best kitchens in Soho.”

“This
has to be some kind of prank. Did Summer put you up to this?”

Cal
lets out a small laugh, then shakes his head.

“No.
I promise you she didn’t.”

“Prove
it,” I blurt out. It can’t be true. Because if it is, Cal
knows all of my secret desires, every single one . . . 

“Icing
injector. Up your—”

“Oh
my god,” I say, and I put my hands over my eyes. I’m
blushing bright red as I process this information.

My
first reaction is relief. It drains out of me like a river, pooling
beneath my toes. Cal McKenzie is not a liar or a cheater or married.
He’s just some guy, on the internet.

Some
guy on the internet who knows
all
of
my secrets. My skin is blazing hot. The things I’ve said to
that man! The things I’ve imagined him do to me. I feel naked,
but
worse
than naked. I feel like he’s stripped my skin off, laid all my
organs bare.

“Are
you alright, Juliette?” When I don’t answer right away,
he just keeps talking. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I
wanted to as soon as I realized. It seemed unfair, that I would know
but you wouldn’t. But I was afraid you’d think I was some
sort of pervert, after everything I said . . .”

He
trails off. I let him. Because, yeah, he’s said some nasty,
nasty things to me. But you know what? I
liked
them.