She shakes her platinum hair ‘no’. “They’re still groping each other like wild animals.
“What then?”
“Grayson,” she mouths as if he’s right behind her.
The first wedding cake I made for myself was at the age of four. I showed Milo first. Dad approved. He’d knelt down to my level and exclaimed, “Shit! That’s fucking beautiful, doll!”
He told me I had a knack, probably not entirely sure what my ‘knack’ was, and begged to put the photo on the subzero refrigerator in our vast kitchen. The vision before him was atrocious and almost looked like a wet cat. But I continued to perfect that cake. It would be the focal point of the wedding celebration. And then I had a leather-bound notebook dedicated to my cake. It was perfect.
Grayson had approved of the cake. Now the newest rendering of it–which had been cherished–was burnt to a crisp in my bedroom fireplace a long time ago. What in the heck is he doing here?
The rattling of my bones decreases as my spine erects, I stand tall and get the words out in one fluid, decipherable sentence, “Why is Grayson here?”
“He's with the O'Neil party. I’ve settled them down with a few samples,” Sandra shakes her head as if just realizing that mentioning every bit of the dynamics isn't necessary.
Glenda O'Neil. His brother was dating a woman named Glenda O'Neil. Fuck, why hadn’t I made this connection? We often chatted about marrying the guys, the infamous, moneyed Vandecamp brothers. Why didn't the reservation say Vandecamp/ O’Neil? Why? Why? Why!
I take a seat on my stool. Sandra grabs one of the iPads’ we use to review various designs.
“Butter. Sugar. I need very ripe peaches. I need to bake,” I tell myself.
“What are you doing, tart, you've gotta go sell a wedding cake to the old fart and his little southern belle. And I mean tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of personalized cupcakes!” Jamie tells me.
My palm hits my forehead. “Yes, Kitty and her fiancé.”
“Slap some lip gloss on before you go back out,” Maria stresses, picking up her handbag from beneath the counter. It’s almost time for her shift to end.
“Yes,” Jamie chimes in. “Don't take your ass out there until you look like someone I wanna fuck.”
My glare goes to him as I stop before the door.
He chuckles. “Listen, honey, if you can make me want you, Grayson will cream his tighty-whities with just one look at you.”
“But I don't want him.” I blurt, yet the words are more than convincing, they ring true. Jamie was right that night after coming from Powerhouse. He’d had an epiphany. Even though we ended up ruining the soufflé, he knew I was madly, deeply in love with my stepbrother!
Sheesh, I've seen Grayson out and about, since the notorious breakup email. One time, I twisted my ankle at the farmers’ market just so the ex-Suit wouldn't see me in a sweat suit, bloated and on my monthly.
“So should I go upstairs and return dressed in a string bikini or something?” I quip, giving them all a listless glower.
“Or something,” Jamie grimaces. “One of your tatas is a smidge bigger than the other.”
Luis chuckles.
“You believe it too?” I gawk.
“No speak English,” Luis says and I reach into my apron to throw any available object, which so happens to be a tab of sticky notes. Gravity is in his favor as the colorful pad falls short of hitting my mark.
Shoulders high, chin jutted in mock confidence, I step back to the front of the house to a round of laughter. The O’Neils and the Vandecamps are seated at the picturesque window. Their chins are even higher than mine with a flair for being affluent. The entire wedding party is trying various flavors of cake. I hasten over to Kitty and her fiancé since they’re at the closest table to the display case, which no longer has breakfast pastries, but eye-catching desserts. The two are making out like horn dogs. I assume they’ve sensed me since they stop.
“Miss Dunham, we'll take no less than copious amounts of pearls. And by all means, spare no expense on the cognac for each of the cupcakes,” the old man says. “Now, my gorgeous Kitty, I've got a round of golf to play.”
They return back to smooching, and then he heads toward the Bentley coup parallel parked out front.
“Every step we make, Rupert must finish it with a round of golf,” Kitty's voice holds a dash of melancholy.
“You're in love,” I say, attempting not to look toward the exit where Sandra is seated on a barstool.
Kitty's large, brown eyes water. True to form there is a look of love in them, it makes me shudder since my mother’s eyes have reflected the same look for Tony. I want to inquire more. I can't believe the truth. Lolita met the man in Vegas. Instead, Kitty, myself, and the wedding planner who appeared when I did, finalize her order.
“Reese,” Glenda's sugarcoated voice calls out to me as I thank Kitty for her business and escort her toward the door, twenty minutes later.
She's seated on Grayson's brother’s lap, scanning over Sandra’s renderings. Her blue eyes slither up and down my apron, jeans and the shoes Jamie always points and laughs at. “The business woman works with the help?”
I pause not sure how to respond. Sandra's gaze steels with anger. The boisterous blue-bloods are tickled pink with laughter. All but one. Emerald eyes gaze right through me. Grayson runs his hand through a shock of black hair. I never noticed how puny he was, though a tailored suit attempts to do the trick. His skin is white, which I had once loved, is pale against the beige of his suit. His chin is all sharp angles. It’s a square jaw indeed, but his cheeks are sunken in.
Grayson speaks up. “I always rather enjoyed the scent of Reese, after she came home from the bakery.”
He nods in
