“What?”
“When you announce to the world you’re devoting your inheritance to philanthropic needs—”
“I didn’t announce anything. Hold on,” she said when her phone blipped with another incoming call. “Sorry,” she said to Casey then, “Yes?”
“Miss Devereaux? This is Shawna Frost of
“I’m sorry. Could you hold please?” She thumbed call incoming. “Al?”
“It’s Chloe. I’m worried Daisy unleashed a monster.”
Rae’s pulse tripped. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not a Hollywood gossip monger, I swear. But I confess to the guilty pleasure of checking in now on omg! or TMZ.”
“What’s on the Net, Chloe?”
“You.”
Rae blinked, swallowed. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” She looked at the screen, saw one “on hold” and it wasn’t Al. “Miss Frost? Yes. Thank you for your interest. Crazy morning. I’ll be in touch.” She disconnected then redialed Al. “I lost you before. Sorry. About the news blast … I can explain. That’s a lie. I’ll try to explain. Once I’m clear on what’s happening. Stay tuned. And don’t give my money to anyone without my consent. Not that you would. Sorry. I’m … discombobulated.”
“Advise ASAP, Reagan.”
“Will do.” She turned to Casey. “Apparently I’m in the news. Got a laptop handy?”
Ten seconds later a screen was up and singing the praises of one Reagan Devereaux.
“Holy cow,” Casey said.
Rae stared in shock as they tripped upon a few more sites, including a string of mentions on Twitter. The headlines read: TRUST FUND BABY TURNS PHILANTHROPIST!
The articles were short blips. Her father was mentioned. Her mother was mentioned—although not in the most flattering way. Rae’s educational background was applauded and the fact that she was so low-key that she’d been off the media’s radar until now was commended. There was mention of her newly inherited fortune and how she’s devoting her time, money, and effort to worthy causes such as a Vermont-based day care center and a cupcake club that supports troops via cupcakes.
“Talk about coming off as the Mother Theresa of the Me Generation,” Casey said. “Who’s your publicist?’
“I don’t have a publicist. Oh, crap. Maybe I do. May I use your office for a sec?”
“Sure.”
“Be right back.”
Rae moved to the back of the store and instead of calling Daisy direct, opted for a more direct answer from Sam. It would be the first time they’d spoken since he’d learned about her and Luke, but Rae was too focused on this media glitch to worry about the potential awkwardness.
He answered on the first ring.
“Sorry to bother you, Sam.”
“No, bother. What’s up?”
“Daisy sent you a text yesterday, right?”
“About you and your offer to throw your money behind the CL recipe book project. Generous.”
“My pleasure. Except, we’re still under contract with Highlife and it hasn’t been discussed or voted on either way by the club. Nothing is settled, yet word is out.”
“You know the Sugar Creek grapevine.”
“No, I mean, word is
“Give me time to sort this out. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Just caught off guard. Speaking of.” She ignored her unease, needing to get this out of the way. Wanting to smooth things over with Sam. “I’m sorry I haven’t called before now. I know you were blindsided when Luke told you we were involved and—”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Enough said.”
Rae collapsed on the one cushy chair in Casey’s office. Why did she keep blurting that? Before long, Luke would be the only one in town who didn’t know the extent of her feelings. “I haven’t told him yet. I haven’t said the words. I don’t know why I told you, except you asked and I … I don’t want there to be hard feelings between us.”
“No hard feelings,” he said in his ever calm tone. “We can’t choose who we love, Rae. Let me talk to Harper. I’ll get back to you when I have answers.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
Rae disconnected, her mind spinning in a dozen directions when Casey cried out, “Oh my God! Someone wrote about you on
TWENTY-SIX
Sam reread Daisy’s text from the day before, slowly, word for word.
Just as he’d feared, he’d screwed up.
The text had been so damn lengthy and convoluted and Sam had been distracted. By Harper. Sex with Harper. Kinky sex with Harper.
The roll in the sheets (and a few other places) had been amazing. The moment after, not so much. Harper and her damned rules. He wasn’t supposed to linger. Conversation pertaining to their sex-a-pade, including the sexting, was off-limits. Considering they had nothing in common, aside from an animal attraction and an appreciation for the Rothwell Farm, Sam had been at a loss for words. In fact he couldn’t seem to grasp one cohesive thought. Celibate for two years, Sam had overdosed on Harper’s uninhibited approach to sex.
Sensory overload.
He knew now that he’d definitely experienced some sort of brain freeze because he sure as hell hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d forwarded Daisy’s text to Harper.
He’d felt awkward leaving her bed without a word and as he’d dressed he’d been keenly aware of his surroundings. The room in which an original Cupcake Lover had pined away for her love. Which made him flash on the club and the recipe book and Daisy’s text.
After he’d climbed into his cab, he zipped off a text to Harper, their only comfortable means of communication.
NEED A FAVOR
INTRIGUED
He’d then forwarded Daisy’s text following up with his own message, telling Harper that the Cupcake Lovers would be grateful for any help. He hadn’t expanded beyond that. He hadn’t expected her to act without checking with him first. Honestly he hadn’t thought she’d give the CLs the time of day. It’s not like they were Hollywood
