Chapter 15

It’s amazing how things can return to some surreal sense of normalcy after such an earth-shaking event.

The morning after we fell into bed, Lance and I went downstairs together to start the morning baking and found Trixie already hard at work in the kitchen. Well, she’d been taking selfies in the kitchen, but she’d had the ovens pre-heated, at least, with a mixer of cupcake base mixing on the stand.

I couldn’t even give her any shit for a photo break either when she’d been so shocked at seeing Lance and me obviously post-hookup that her screech had brought the security guards running.

But after some teasing questions that I dodged as much as possible, we got to work in the kitchen, the guards went back outside with apology muffins, and Lance sat down at his table in the front.

And that’s been our normal for three days. Bakery work for me and Trixie, laptop work for Lance, cleanup, and then back upstairs for some cupcake fun that has zero to do with flour and sugar.

But our phones have been blowing up, both our families texting us and calling like mad.

Lance got pretty lucky. His parents were aghast at his lack of manners but basically agreed to disagree on what would make him happy. It seems their desire to have him home and coming into the fold at Jacobs Bio-Tech is the main priority. His mom had just thought that a good woman would be another way to keep him here. But as long as he’s giving daily reports on his assessments of that day’s spreadsheets and making headway on analyzing current and proposed projects, they’re mostly copacetic, or so he says.

I know Lance is worried about his brother. Not that Cody gives a shit about us or whatever we’re doing here, but Lance shared that he thinks Cody isn’t getting the recognition he deserves at work and that it’s driving a huge-ass wedge in the whole family.

My family, on the other hand? Basically, I started World War III, with me on one side, Priscilla and Sabrina on the other, and Dad staying as neutral as Switzerland.

According to Priscilla, I’ve always been selfish but now my need to be the center of attention is physically harming Sabrina, who has taken to her bed in a state of depression over my betrayal of our sisterhood. It was hard keeping my eyes from rolling with that one. Sabrina and I are about as far from sisterly as we can be.

Sabrina’s texts started out angry, blaming me for everything from her lost Barbie when she was ten to resigning her to a life of spinsterhood, but they’ve gotten more desperate, basically pleading with me to let her have Lance. I want to explain to her that her whole issue is treating Lance like some sort of toy when he’s a man. He’s not like her Barbie . . . which I will secretly admit I stole.

But I can’t really hide Lance in the flowerbed like a Princess Diana Barbie, although the thought of getting a little dirty with him sounds like fun. I bet he’d look great with a few streaks of mud on his washboard abs to highlight just how deep those ridges are.

“Ooh, do tell what naughty thoughts are running through your head,” Trixie teases, breaking me out of my thoughts. She would catch me the second they turn dirty, not in the previous thirty minutes I’ve been on auto-pilot thinking about how to make things up with Dad. I could care less about Priscilla and Sabrina, but I want him to understand.

“My family drama and trauma,” I reply, and she winces like she sucked on a lemon. I did tell her that dinner was awful, and she’s seen some of the texts coming in, calling me a bitch and worse. She’s put two and two together.

“Ugh, leave their drama to your stepmama. I know the dreamy look and red cheeks didn’t have a thing to do with that. I want to hear the sexy thoughts about Lance, or the dirty details from last night, if you’re feeling generous.” She clasps her hands beneath her chin, eyelashes blinking heavily.

“I told you that what happens between Lance and me stays between us,” I remind her for the billionth time. She’s been hounding me like crazy for anything I’ll spill, which isn’t much. It feels too personal and private, and honestly, as close as Trixie and I are, this feels beyond big, and the only people I’ll share that type of thing with are Mia and Izzy.

“Come on, Char,” she pleads with an exaggeratedly fake pout. “It’s not like I can’t tell that you’re walking like you rode in the Kentucky Derby last night. How many times did you ride that stallion . . . two? Three? Did you even get any sleep at all? I’m living vicariously through you. Help me out or I’ll be forced to imagine him licking icing off every inch of your skin, you sucking that Twinkie dry, and sweat glazing every bit of his skin.” She looks over at Lance, who’s typing away as per usual, and my eyes follow hers, hungry to look at him every chance I get. “He’s hung like an eggplant, right? And a six-pack better than Miller Light too?”

I shake my head, even though she’s right. “Is everything about food to you?”

“Food porn is a thing,” she deadpans. “Have you seen that video where they make chicken cordon bleu? They butterfly the chicken breast so that it totally looks like a spread-open vajeen, stuff it full of ham, then pour white, creamy béchamel sauce over it. I damn near had an orgasm just from the chef slicing into all that creamy, meaty goodness. I couldn’t decide if I was hungry or horny.”

She pauses like she’s thinking, but we finish her sentence together. “Both.”

We giggle loud enough that Steven and Lance both look our way. Lance gives me an I know what you’re laughing about wink and his cocky smirk promises to fulfill whatever dirty ideas Trixie and I are discussing.

I turn back to Trixie, calming down a little. “Everything’s great there. But I’m just worried about my Dad. I just know that whatever Priscilla and Sabrina can’t unleash on me, they’re probably doing to him. He doesn’t deserve being stuck like that.”

Trixie places her hand on my shoulder. “He’s not stuck, honey. He’s choosing to be there. I know that hurts and sucks eggs, but it’s the truth. Has he called or texted?”

I nod, biting my lip. “He did.” I pull my phone out of my apron pocket, pulling up the text Dad sent the afternoon after Lance and I stomped out of dinner, and show it to Trixie.

It seems your focus was not as you’d led me to believe. I do hope that you can be successful, both with the bakery and Lance.

It almost sounds like a dismissal or a goodbye, which slices into my heart deeply. My apologetic response has gone unanswered so I’m not sure whether he’s angry and giving us both some time to cool off or if he’s written me off completely.

Trixie coughs. “Damn, that’s . . . hard. Sorry, babe.”

“I know. Can you, uhm . . . I need a minute,” I blurt, making a dive for the kitchen and praying Trixie can handle things up front for a second.

God, everything is such a mess. Not with my pristine baking space, but with my life outside these walls. Here, I’m safe and I know what I’m doing, the recipe for success so easy to follow. Add ingredients, mix, bake, and voila . . . happiness in every delicious bite. But out there, in the rest of the world, I’m falling flat.

I’ve got a business I’m only just beginning that requires all the time a newborn baby does. A family who’s angry at me. Friends who are in danger from a madman. Hell, it’s possible that I could be in danger, a real enough risk to warrant guards.

The oven dings, and I pull out a tray of cupcakes, ironically dubbed ‘Sinful Secrets’ because of their decadently dark chocolate cake that surrounds a rich pocket of chocolate-flavored liqueur. The frosting is an ooey-gooey ganache.

Sinful Secrets.

As of late, it seems like I have more than my fair share. I’ve been hiding Lance from my family, hiding the reasons I need security from everyone, and hiding the fabulous details of Lance’s lovemaking from my friends. That one can probably stay hidden, but the rest, I need to come clean about. As much as I can.

I take the tray of cupcakes out to the front, their presence mocking me every step of the way. “Hey, Trixie. Do you think you can handle closing duties tonight? I need to” —I look over at Lance, who is staring at me intently— “deal with some things.”

Trixie doesn’t tease like I expect her to, reading that I’m not taking Lance upstairs for more fun and games. “Go ahead, I’ve got this. Steven will hang out with me, right?” she flirts over at the quiet man by the door.

He lifts his chin in agreement, and Lance is already at my side, his laptop stowed away in his bag.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes worried.

I shake my head, taking him by the arm. “Nothing, not really. I just need to check out for a bit. Can you stay?”

His smile warms the cold pit in my stomach and his voice is quietly reassuring. “Char, I’m not going anywhere.”

Upstairs, I move into the kitchen to make spaghetti for dinner. It’s one of the first things Grandma Winnie taught me to make as a little girl. It was fun because she would let me literally throw the cooked pasta against the wall to check for doneness, though I’m not sure that really works. But it was fun and I love the memory of us both flinging pasta and giggling when it would fall to the floor.

Lance sits at the counter, watching me move around the small space. “What’s up?”

“The fallout’s just gotten to me a bit. Trixie asked about my dad.” His brows lift in question because he already knows what my dad’s text said. “He hasn’t responded.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re close to him or want to be close to him. But I still wouldn’t change what happened at dinner. They were talking about us like chess pieces to be used, but I’m not a player in anyone’s game but my own. And you are so much better than anything that was being said about you that night. I just couldn’t stand by any longer.”

It’s basically a repeat of the same conversation we’d had the morning after and several times since then. We’ve shared a lot about our families in the aftermath of that night, from his desire to make his own way in the world to my feeling like I didn’t have a place in my own family. In a twisted way, both of us have made life choices for the same reason, in an attempt to make our fathers proud of us but also not to live under their thumbs.

“I know. I wouldn’t change it either,” I say softly.

Lance swears under his breath and starts pacing around the living room and fluffing the pillows on the overstuffed couch. He’s a neat freak from his time in the military and can’t help but set things right when he sees them out of place, even if they’re barely mussed.

It’s cute and lets me know that he’s anxious too.

He strides to the window, peeking through the blinds. “What about them?” he says. I don’t have to look myself to know what he’s talking about. The bakery closes in thirty minutes so the overnight guard is likely getting into place and getting an update from Steven. “I thought you had guards because of your family. It’s not unusual in a certain tax bracket, but your dad doesn’t quite seem the type to pay for round-the-clock skilled coverage for you. No offense.”

I stir the pasta, coating the strands with the sauce I jarred myself. He doesn’t know it, but what he’s asking is a test, a barometer of how deep I’m in with him.

The cynical side of me, the one that wants to focus on the bakery and not on another relationship that will likely burst into flames like every one before it, says to dodge and redirect.

The tiniest seed of hope in my center, the one that still hopes Dad will come around, wants to confide in Lance, wants him to know and accept the craziness my life truly is.

He’s taken my resolution to focus on the bakery in stride, backing off when I needed to work but being right there, ready to catch me when I couldn’t help but fall for him.

He’s handled the outrageous behavior of my family, and his own, in a way I’d only dreamed of doing, my knight in camo armor who threw down the gauntlet when I was ready to retreat. Lance won’t let me hide behind that reflex. He wants me to shine like a diamond.

But can I tell him this? It’s not only my secret. That’s the biggest risk of all. Not that I’m putting my life into his hands, but my friends’ as well.

I take a steadying breath, praying to the gods of pasta as I sprinkle parmesan on top of the spaghetti that this is the right thing to do. “Thomas pays for them, the security.”

Lance lets go of the blinds, looking back at me. “Your best friend’s soon-to-be husband pays for you to have that type of security? Why?”

He’s already standing taller, recognizing that if this isn’t some familial show of wealth through guards, there must be an actual threat being monitored.

I set the plates on the table. “Sit down and I’ll explain.”

He does, his eyes steady as he looks into my soul. “Tell me what’s going on, Charlotte. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

As we eat, I tell him everything. About Mia finding a saboteur implanted in Thomas’s company and how they sent him to prison. About Izzy helping catch the spy, which resulted in a hitman contract on her head. But Izzy being Izzy, she made the hitman fall in love with her instead.

“You know Gabe? Who sits with Steven sometimes?” I say, trying to help him place everyone in the huge web of a story I’m weaving.

“The scary dark-haired guy?” Lance says, thinking.

“Well, he is scary, really scary, in fact, but usually people think he’s more boy-next-door charming,” I say with a shrug.

Lance leans close. “I’m a soldier, Char. I can see the wolf in sheep’s clothing. That guy might have a panty-melting grin, but he’s stone-cold.”

I wipe at my mouth. “Never melted my panties, that’s for sure.”

“Good. So does Thomas think you’re the next target?” Lance asks, his mind making the important jump.

He looks ready to go to battle for me, and I can’t explain, even to myself, how secure that makes me feel. I’ve never been one to depend on a guy, but something tells me Lance is someone I can count on.

“It’s precautionary,” I explain. “We just don’t know what Blackwell is going to do, but now that we know he’s got some big grudge against Thomas and went as far as going after Izzy, Thomas wanted me to be safe. And the bakery, too, since he’s a silent investor. Mia’s got guards, Thomas has guards, Izzy has Gabe, Gabe has himself, and five days a week, I’ve got Steven and Larry and Curly.”

Lance laughs at my list, lifting an eyebrow. “Larry and Curly?”

For the first time in a long hour, I laugh too. “That’s what Trixie calls them. She used to call Steven ‘Moe’ but that ended about the time she started thinking he was hotter than a fresh-baked apple pie.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Lance says after a moment. “I don’t think he’d know what to do with her in full-on Trixie mode.”

“I don’t know . . . he might be good for her. The calm waters to her craziness.”

Lance nods, and I can see the thoughts swirling in his head. Have I given him too much?