The Sweet Addiction Series Collection: Sweet Addiction, Sweet Possession & Sweet Obsession (119 page)

Again.

For the sixth time.

“These muffins right here.” She points at a tray while glaring at me from overtop of her glasses. “Are those raisins?”

“The ones labeled cranberry
raisin
muffins?” I arch my eyebrow. “Yes, those are indeed raisins. We try not to lie to customers here as much as we can. What with allergies and everybody wanting to sue everybody.”

“Mm.” She pinches her heavily lined lips together. “I’m not sure about raisins. They tend to make whatever dough they’re in a bit on the dry side.”

“Nothing in this bakery is dry, I assure you.”

Except for your vagina. When was the last time that thing saw any action? Prohibition?

I watch her walk along the counter. Back and forth. Back and forth. She leans in close, admires a treat or two while pinching the side of her glasses, then pulls back and resumes her leisurely as fuck perusal.

Breathe, Joey. Keep your fabulous shit together. No mauling the customers. They pay you. You love them.

Stopping directly across from me, the woman glances up. She looks bored out of her mind. “I don’t see any gluten free options available. That’s a shame. You know, Whipped over on Madison offers an alternative menu for people who have digestive troubles.”

I tilt my head. “Whipped also caters to rodents. They were busted two weeks ago by the health department for a rat infestation.”

Her eyes flicker a hair wider. “Oh, I . . . wasn’t aware of that.” She clears her throat, studying the case again.

Tension builds in my shoulders. I close my eyes and think of my happy place.

Billy on his knees, his finger probing my ass and his sweet mouth wrapped around my . . .

A loud clanging noise arises from the kitchen.

My head snaps in the direction of the doorway, then back at the woman who startles, a little too dramatically even for my taste, slapping a hand to her heaving chest as her eyes shift frantically around the room.

“What in the world was that?”

I grit my teeth.

Brooke. Poor thing is on the verge of a complete, epic meltdown back there. She has three modes I’ve seen her in the past three days—hysterically crying, angrier than my mother when she doesn’t get a drink by noon, and so utterly stressed she paces around the kitchen, shaking and talking to herself.

Christ, it’s only Monday. Between the Mason incident and this goddamn wedding, Brooke might need serious therapy by the end of the week.

I also might need some serious therapy by the end of the week.

Laughing off the disruption from the kitchen, I wave my hand in the air. “By the sound of it, I’m going to guess a sheet tray hitting the floor. I apologize for that. We’re just so busy back there making things that
aren’t
dry.”

The woman adjusts her glasses, cutting a look at me.

I flick a few strands of hair off my forehead.

Bitch.

My phone beeps in my pocket. I tug it out as the woman continues wasting my time.

Dylan: What was that? Is Brooke breaking shit now? I know she’s upset but she needs to remember where she is, Joey. HANDLE IT.

Sweet Christ. Why couldn’t she be on bed rest at her mother’s?

Me: Ease up on the shouty caps, cupcake. Everything is under control.

Dylan: BETTER BE. (I love you)

Me: BITCH. (love you too)

“Is this all fresh? When were these pastries made?” The woman taps two fingers aggressively on top of the glass. “They don’t look as moist as they should.”

I breathe in deeply through my nose, feeling the veins in my neck bulging, reminding myself again how much I love this job and the woman upstairs I don’t want to piss off by murdering someone in the middle of her shop.

The woman sighs exhaustedly. “Do you offer any beverages here? Coffee, at least? Most upscale bakeries do nowadays.”

That’s it. Fuck her and the stick up her ass. I am done.

Forcing the fakest smile I’ve ever worn, I put my phone away and gesture at the case. “No, no coffee. This is a
bakery
, not a Starbucks. And everything in front of you is fresh and made daily. We here at Dylan’s Sweet Tooth are all big fans of
moist
things. I myself am like a ripe peach, if you know what I’m saying.”

Her overly plucked eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “A peach. You know, the fruit. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tarts on the middle tray in the case you’ve been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. Those are indeed peaches right there. Now, if I can interest you in a cupcake or
anything
today, please let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to take your fresh little attitude and that knock-off Coach . . .”

She gasps.

“Yeah, I see you . . . and head on down the street. This here is an establishment where people come in and purchase things. I know, I am stunning, but unfortunately I am not an exhibit, and neither are the treats in front of me.”

The woman blinks rapidly, looking affronted.

I feel like I just came.

“Well.” She tightens her grip on her handbag and glares at me, her nostrils flaring with her breathing. “I suppose if I’m being rushed, I’ll take three of the mocha chocolate cupcakes,” she huffs, tipping her chin. “Those look the most appealing.”

Grinning, I grab a box. “Excellent.”

After taking her money and walking her to the door, just to make sure she gets the fuck out, I spin around and head for the kitchen.

Brooke is sitting on a stool, her head lowered and her fingers rubbing in slow circles against her temple. The sheet tray I thought I heard is on the floor near the supply shelf. As for the rest of the kitchen, it’s a mess. The worktop is covered in baking materials. Flour is spilled. A stool is turned over. Brooke’s practice wedding cake, which looked pretty damn perfect yesterday, now has a chunk missing out of the top tier.

Did she eat some of it? I wouldn’t be surprised.

I notice as I move further into the room the tiny flower petals made out of gum paste dropped on the floor near the tray. A few are still on it. She must’ve been trying to construct the gardenias again. Each attempt she makes leaves her more and more frustrated and doubtful of herself.

Her head isn’t in this. That’s the problem. It’s across the street.

“Hey. You need me to help with anything back here?” I ask, picking up the stool and righting it. I brush some flour off the wood and scoop it into my hand, dumping it in the nearby trash bin.

Brooke shakes her head. She lowers her hands to her lap and looks down. “How are we doing on treats? Do I need to make more?”

“Not right now. We’re good.”

“And they’re . . . people are buying them? They want what I made?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.”

She slowly looks up at me.

Sighing, I move around the worktop and stand beside her. “Everything out there is fabulous. Including me. We are selling as good as we always sell, because you are an exceptional baker. In fact, don’t tell Dylan this, but I actually think your red velvet icing tastes a little better than hers.”

I quickly glance behind me. The stairs are vacant. Good. She isn’t disobeying doctor’s orders and hearing my blasphemy.

“Yeah, right.” Brooke gazes up at me skeptically. Shadowy smudges line her eyes, which appear dull and lifeless. Her face is pale and a bit puffy.

How much has she cried today? Too much, I’m guessing. It’s all she’s been doing. Here. At the condo. In her bed. In mine.

She isn’t the only one running on minimal sleep. Three people to a queen bed isn’t the most comfortable arrangement.

I’ve suggested a king to Billy. He seems to think Brooke won’t be spooning with us for much longer.

I’m doubtful.

“Do I look as shitty as I feel?” Brooke asks, her chin trembling and tears threatening to fall, her hair a mess all around her, some of it tied back haphazardly while chunks tangle together along her back.

Does she look a hot mess? Yes, absolutely. But having two women as my best friends has taught me a very valuable lesson over the past decade.

Lie when you need to. And lie good. The truth is not worth the headache sometimes.

I rub her back. “You look amazing, as do I. I was actually thinking of taking a few selfies later if you want in. Capturing our first day together as a dynamic duo running this shit like we were born to do it.”

“If you put a phone in my face, I will smash it against the wall,” Brooke growls. “And then I will stab you with something for suggesting we capture this god awful moment.”

Inhaling slowly, I slide my hand off her back. “Noted. And for the record, you are definitely becoming more and more like my little cupcake upstairs.”

For fuck’s sake. How many times have I been threatened in this shop?

“Actually, I’m not. That’s the problem.” Brooke stands from her stool and picks up the sheet tray. “You see, Dylan would be able to construct these stupid fucking flowers with no problem. I can’t. I’ve tried, and I’ve tried.” She drops the tray on the wood. “And I’ve tried. None of mine are turning out right. That bride is going to be getting a cake with no flowers on it on Saturday because of me. Her cake will end up being the most boring looking wedding cake in the history of wedding cakes,
because
of me. And bonus, it could also taste like shit. Happy fucking wedding day.”

I walk over and grab her shoulders. “I think it’s time for a little break.”

She shrugs away from me. “A break? And where would I go on this break, Joey?” Brooke grabs a large mixing bowl off the shelf and tosses it onto the worktop. “The coffee shop? Where Mason isn’t waiting for me? Or maybe I could go to that park he took me to with the water fountain. Or the campsite. That seems like a nice break spot.” She goes about retying her apron, although I’m not sure she needs to. It seems pretty damn secure. “Or maybe I’ll just march across the street and take my break over there? See if he looks as bad as I do. See if he’s feeling anything even close to what I’m feeling, because he fucking should! He should be the one crying, and losing sleep, and,” she gives up on the trying to tie the apron and rips it off, tossing it on the floor. “And heartbroken. He should feel like he’s dying, because that’s how I feel!”

Oh shit.

She huffs out a breath and wipes at her face. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t even want this!”

I watch Brooke turn away from me, her shoulders hunched forward, her hands coming up to cradle her face as she cries and cries and cries.

Fuck! I can’t take this! I can’t take anymore more of this. It’s killing me. I love Brooke. Wild, crazy, fun to be around, Brooke. This isn’t her. This isn’t even a dulled out version of her. I have no idea who the shattered woman is in front of me, but I know who’s responsible for it.

And that asshole is about to get a little visit from yours truly.

I pick up her apron and lay it across the stool. “Take a minute to get yourself together. I’m going to turn the sign on the door and step out to get something to drink. You’re amazing. I love you. Remember that.”

Spinning around, not giving her a chance to argue or me a chance to see any more of her devastation, I move into the front of the shop and flip the sign on the door, push it open to get outside, and cross the street, sprinting to avoid traffic.

I pull on the door handle.

Locked.

“Really? No classes today, Mister Hemsworth?”

Cupping my hand on the glass, I peer inside the dark studio.

I know Mason lives upstairs. Brooke told me his set-up is similar to Dylan’s. There’s a chance he isn’t here.

There’s also a chance he is.

I dig into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, fishing through for the bobby pin I keep inside.

Billy likes to cuff me. I like to get out of them without him knowing and pounce unexpectedly like a tiger in heat.

I always get off first. Those are the rules my baby likes to forget.

Straightening the pin, I slide it inside the lock and work the mechanism. It takes less than a minute until I’m rewarded with the soft click. The swift glide of metal. I pull the door open and lock it behind me, crossing the room and bounding up the stairs. I’m ready to use the pin again when I test the knob of the next door.

Surprisingly, it turns without any resistance.

I step out into the loft. The room is darkened, courtesy of the drawn curtains, but I can make out the large figure on the bed.

Face down, breathing heavily and clutching a bottle of what looks to be tequila, Mason seems to be out cold, fully clothed and still wearing his shoes. I’m willing to bet he’s going to be waking up with the hangover of his life.

Perfect.

I flip the switch on the wall. Light bathes the room, but the man on the bed remains motionless. Stepping over dirty clothes and other shit on the floor, beer bottles, a few books, and what looks to be camping gear, I move into the kitchen and grab two saucepans from a cabinet.

And then I bang the fucking shit out of them.

Mason’s head snaps up. He blinks fast, alarm and confusion in his dimmed gaze as he attempts to focus on me. The bottle in his hand rolls off the bed and onto the floor, spilling amber liquid. He covers his one ear and buries his face into the pillow, groaning.

I toss the pans in the sink and brush off my hands.

Ah, that felt good.

“What the hell? What are you doing?” Mason grunts.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I got so hungry on my walk over here I thought about making something, and then I remembered that I don’t really cook. My boo does. Thought I’d make some music instead. Did you enjoy that?”

He grumbles something I don’t make out. He slides his hand off his ear and turns his head to look at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Afternoon,” I sing, smiling as I move closer. “I gotta say, you know, I am a bit disappointed in you, Mason. I mean, for years I have been let down by American men doing dumbass shit, but you have managed to prove to me on an international level that the majority of the male race are complete fucking idiots. Way to represent your country there. Bravo.”