Chapter 1

I’m doing it! I’m actually going to fucking pull this craziness off.

Looking around the grand opening melee of my new bakery, Cake Culture, is the biggest rush I’ve ever had. A dream actually coming to life before my very eyes with frosting, sprinkles, and cute pink awnings edged in chunky glitter to look like sugar.

A dream come true is something a girl like me doesn’t get very damn often, and I’m going to enjoy the moment.

“Charlotte, move your ass!” my best friend, Mia Karakova, barks. Her blonde and blue ponytail flips as she whips her head around to give me a very pointed look. If I’m not careful, she’s going to start cursing in Russian, which is how I know the shit’s really hit the fan.

Apparently, I’ll have to take a celebratory moment later. Instead, I do as she requested and haul out another tray of cookies. It’s the least I can do since she’s helping me out today. She didn’t volunteer, more like I volun-told her to be there to smile and wave at the masses.

I figured her presence would be a goldmine of publicity since she’s all over the society pages now that she’s engaged to Thomas Goldstone. As in, the Thomas Goldstone of Goldstone Inc. and Goldstone Health, and basically the biggest poobah in all of Roseboro. Up to and including being a silent investor in the cakery of my dreams.

So if she wants to boss me around a bit, even though technically, I’m the boss, I’ll jump to it. Because she’s right, we are hopping like mad in here.

Helping the next customer, I tally their purchases, making sure to use the names I came up with. Branding. It’s all about branding. “Okay, so one ‘What Is That, Red Velvet?’, one ‘Crazy for Cocoa-Caramel Swirl’, and a ‘Peanut Butter Bomb Diggity’? That comes to nine dollars even.” The customer hands over a ten, telling me to keep the change with a wink.

He’s cute, but I’m on a no-men kick so I give him my customer service smile and offer, “Have a nice day!”

Trixie Reynolds, my new assistant who’s been a lifesaver as we prepped to open, slithers up next to me. “Ooh, that one was a Mr. Hottie Tottie, girl! Why the Elsa freezing the world routine?”

I raise an eyebrow. Trixie knows I hate that damn movie. “You know the drill. I’m married to my cakes right now. It’s all I have time for as a new business owner. Besides, I’m a redhead, not a blonde.” I flip my slightly Elsa-ish braid over my shoulder, letting it fall down my back.

She tsks, stage whispering, “I think your cake is exactly what needs to get drilled. Maybe yank that cake pop stick outta your ass too.” Ouch, harsh much? But she says it with a smirk and a twinkle in her eyes, and I feel the teasing giggle bubbling up. I can’t help it today.

“No happily ever afters for this chick. I’m work, work, working my way to the top,” I sing-song in my best Rihanna impersonation, which basically sucks because I’m an awful singer.

The fact of the matter is, I used to date. A lot. I kept searching for Mr. Right but settled for Mr. Right Now more times than I probably should’ve. Not in a skanky way—a girl’s got standards, but also, a girl’s got . . . needs. So a ‘friends with benefits’ here, a ‘date who couldn’t carry a conversation but was smoking hot and offering to lick me off’ there, and even some serious relationships that didn’t stand the test of time, all add together to make me disillusioned. Especially after some epically plot-twisting losses. As if I would seriously believe that he was separated from his wife, the one I didn’t even know about? Yeah, guys can be asses.

And I’m not playing those games anymore.

Maybe never again.

Mia interrupts, loudly proclaiming over the crowd, “And you get a cookie, and you get a cookie.” She’s handing out my Grandma’s Secret Recipe Chocolate Chip Cookies like Oprah, and people are literally screaming with outstretched hands to get one of my masterpieces.

It’s almost enough to bring a tear to my eye as I scan the crowd.

But as I do, I see a table by the door that stops my happiness on a dime. Full stop. Errrrrkkk.

A single guy, sitting at a table alone, nursing a cup of coffee and the same muffin I gave him almost three hours ago. Steven.

My damn security guard. Well, you can’t tell he’s my security guard, not with the plain, unassuming polo shirt and jeans he’s wearing. But his skills are just as deadly as his fashion is boring, and he’s the only person in the shop not looking like they’re having fun.

If people really knew what Steven and his compatriots were doing, I’m sure they’d have a simple question. Why would I need security for the grand opening of my cake shop? The answer’s as simple as it is complicated. I need security because of a mental-gymnastics domino effect. I’m friends with Mia, and she’s engaged to Thomas, and Thomas is the biggest rising star in the Pacific Northwest and soon to be the richest man in Roseboro, a fact that pisses off my former boss to no end.

Blackwell. The name so chilling, so powerful, that like Madonna or Hitler, you only need one.

I worked as a receptionist and screener at Blackwell Tower for over two years. Hated every last soul-sucking minute of it, but it’d been a necessary evil to pay the bills even after I’d let go of the hopes of learning about running my own business.

Everything was fine enough, right up to the point Blackwell went batshit crazy and tried to take out Thomas, hitting him from every angle and playing dirty by sending a hitman after Izzy, the third musketeer to Mia and me.

Luckily, she’s a fucking goddess and ended up sweeping her hitman off his feet. Yeah, Mia got the happily ever after with Thomas and Izzy got the happily ever after with Gabe. But now we’re all on edge, wondering what’s next, waiting for that big size-twelve shoe to drop, and jumping at shadows.

So Steven sits, one of my constant guards, my just-in-case insurance. He’s so invisible in his blandness that the man’s damn near a ninja, something I can relate to from my corporate days. But he thrives in his obscurity, whereas I just want to be seen, for a change. For something other than my red hair, which is what always gets attention first.

“Is it natural?”

“Yes, it is.”

And that’s where the often-repeated conversation divulges. Women have been as bold as to ask for a snip to take to their stylist to color-match their own tresses. A bit intrusive, but complimentary in a weird way. Men go straight south and ask if the carpets match the drapes, demanding to see my fire crotch. As if.

And again, why I’m on a no-men kick.

The double-doors to the back swing open, and Izzy steps through, already donning one of my polo shirts with the logo she created for me. It’s pink and black striped to mimic the awnings out front with white bubble lettering that looks like frosting. Totally adorable, and her best graphic design work, if I do say so myself. She’s got a tray of cherry pie tarts in hand, and the crowd oohs and ahhs at her timely entrance. I think I even hear stomachs growling in want.

“I’ve got five mini cherry pies, the perfect mix of Ranier and Black Tartarians so sweet and juicy that we don’t even add sugar to the filling. Better get in line,” she announces.

More than five people instantly stand in front of her, and Gabe points very clearly from beside her while declaring, “Not here. Over there.”

He’s indicating the line at the register, shooing people away from Izzy. Steven is my guard, but Gabe is Izzy’s and he takes his job seriously. Like deadly seriously.

Izzy smiles at him like scaring my customers is the sweetest, most romantic thing he’s ever done, and I force down the bile.

Okay, it’s not disgusting. It’s devoted, dedicated, and maybe I’m jealous. But I’m also really happy for my besties for finding guys who fit them so perfectly. Though who would’ve predicted the geek and the boss, that’s Mia and Thomas. Or the innocent and the monster, that’s Izzy and Gabe. Not sure where that leaves me, the cynic?

That’s right. Busier than an air conditioner repairman in Hell with summertime coming on.

Izzy brings the tray up front, and Gabe goes to take a seat by the door with Steven. The two almost never talk when ‘working’, but they share a comfortable, if intimidating, silence. “They’re gonna scare folks from even coming in the door,” I lament to Izzy. “Seriously.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Uh, not to brag, but have you seen Gabe? He’s like every woman’s wet dream. You’ll have people coming in just to stare at him. Maybe we should put him in a polo and have him hold samples outside?”

She tilts her head like she’s considering that idea, or maybe fantasizing about it, so I tell her no way before she gets too invested. Gabe, who’s got hearing like a dolphin or something, flashes me a dimpled smile from across the room, mouthing, “Thanks for the save.”

I ring up the next customer, who buys all five pies for herself, drawing a groan from the masses. “More on the way!” I promise them and shoot Trixie a look. She salutes then tucks a lock of wavy blonde hair behind her ear like she means business.

“On it, Boss. I know there are two more trays just getting that last bit of browning in the oven. Y’all just hang tight, and we’re gonna have you scooping up cherries and declaring them finger lickin’ good.”

I smile. She’s a bit of a wild child and I never know what’ll come out of her mouth, but Trixie’s a great worker and doesn’t mind if I pay her bonuses in product. Lord knows, I need every shiny dime that rolls in this place to keep it running since I’m at the investment stage, not the profit-turning stage.

Yeah, I’ve got Thomas backing me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to act a damn fool over things. I plan on paying him back every dime, with interest.

But today is going better than I’d possibly hoped, and I’d hoped so big it scared me. That’s what goals are supposed to do, scare the bejesus out of you so you work for them. And now, as long as these customers keep coming back, maybe this venture will be bigger and better than my wildest imaginings. I cross my fingers and knock on the wooden counter by the register for luck.

I’m not superstitious, but it couldn’t hurt.

We work for hours, Mia, Izzy, and Trixie each having my back and stepping in to help almost before I even know where to turn next. It’s awesome and amazing and a solid step in the direction I want my life to go. Customers are happy, deliriously sugar-high and groaning their delight as they head out the door, until finally, it’s closing time.

Trixie heads to the back to start prep work for tomorrow’s hopefully just as big rush, and Izzy and Gabe head out so she can get some studying done. I don’t know how she does it. I’m ready to collapse, but she was rambling on about a test she has in two days and how she has her study time allocated by chapter between now and then. Gabe watched her like she was discussing the cure for cancer, not graphic design.

As Mia and I wipe down tables, she says, “Today was great! How do you feel?”

“I feel like I’m fizzy on the inside, like my skin is too small and I just need to jump out of it for a minute and shake off the energy like a dog.” I grin huge and wide, probably looking more than a bit crazed, but I think she gets it.

She always gets me.

“So, I have an idea I want to run by you.” She drops into her fake Russian accent, which sounds vaguely threatening even when she says nice things. Her father, who is actually Russian, suffers the same affliction except his is pretty permanent. Even when he says, ‘I love you’, it almost sounds like that’s something to fear even though he’s the sweetest man you could ever meet. “And you can say no, but I strongly urge you to say yes.”

“Hit me,” I say, fearing nothing right now because I’m on top of the fucking world.

“You know how Thomas has the gala next weekend?” she says casually, like a big gala is just par for the everyday course.

“Yeah, the charity one, right? To see if that bio-tech company can help with the pro-bono stuff Thomas is doing at the hospital?” I say, not sure where she’s going with this.

Mia had wanted Izzy and me to attend as her friends, but Thomas had squashed that as a needless security risk. Too many out-of-towners, too many unknown ‘plus ones’, he’d said. Mia had argued that Steven could go as my date and Gabe as Izzy’s, and we’d be just as safe as any other time, but I’d taken Thomas’s side, not wanting to hobnob with the rich and fancy, anyway.

I’ve had more than my fair share of that mess, and I’m not looking for a repeat performance if I can get out of it.

“That’s the one! I need you to make a cupcake tower!” she squeals, like it’s the best idea in the history of ever, even clapping and jumping up and down a little bit. Her eyes are big and round, like one of her favorite anime characters, silently begging me to see the brilliance of her idea.

“What?” I ask, not catching on at all. “You want a cupcake tower?”

She settles, clicking into business mode like she wasn’t just a giggly fangirl. Albeit, a fangirl of my cupcakes, so I’ll give her some leeway. “It’s a perfect opportunity to highlight a new business in Roseboro to people who can use you for corporate functions, weddings, their kids’ ten-thousand-dollar birthday parties, and more. Your cupcakes in the hands of the people who move and shake things in the area. It’s perfect.”

“As long as they like them!” I say, shock and doubt worming their way through my veins. Moving and shaking is really close to making or breaking, and my confidence is waning a little in the post-work adrenaline crash.

Mia rolls her eyes like I’ve lost my damn mind. “Duh, of course they’ll love them. Have you tried your spice cake?” She grabs a mini-cupcake off a tray and shoves it in my fish-gaping mouth.

True. It is a good cake. I’d worked that recipe over for almost two weeks straight, batch after batch, to get the perfect balance of spice and sweet. Around the delicious mouthful, I argue, “The gala’s in eight days! You already have caterers that were booked weeks ago. I can’t just waltz in there like that.”

She scoffs, waving off my worries. “Uh, yeah, you can. It’s my party and I’ll have cupcakes if I wanna.” She feigns being a petulant, entitled brat rather well, considering I know how down to earth she truly is. “Look, I’m nervous. This is a big deal for Thomas, and I need a friendly face there. And it really will be good for Cake Culture. Say you’ll do it.”

I consider her proposal long and hard. It’ll be long days and some even longer nights, and... oh, who am I kidding? I don’t think at all. I already knew I was going to say yes as soon as Mia asked and am basically fist-pumping inside my brain while simultaneously trying to decide on which flavors to highlight.

“Okay, on one condition,” I negotiate. “I’m not going as a guest. I’ll go as the baker and stand by the tower to answer any questions, hopefully make good impressions with the cupcakes, and represent the business.” I add a snooty lilt to my voice, tilting my nose into the air. “Not as a fancy-dressed Roseboro elite.”

Mia pushes at my shoulder, grinning. “Hey, that’s me you’re talking about. I’m a designer-dress-wearing boss bitch, but I’m not snobby like that.”

I grin evilly, shaking my head as I look her up and down like a finishing school director. “No, and that’s why you’ll never fully fit in with that crowd.” Her jaw drops at the jab, but then I explain, “You’re way too good for them, and that’s why I love you, honey.”

Eight days later,my face is basically stuck in a smiling expression. My mouth is pretty much stretched wide, teeth flashing, eyes watering with happy tears after the past week.

The grand opening wasn’t a fluke, and I’ve started to notice regulars who are coming in for their morning coffee and muffin, then returning for their afternoon sugary pick-me-up treat.

I’m doing it! I’m actually succeeding with my bakery.

Trixie puffs, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She’s just as meticulous as I am about keeping her hair pulled back when we’re baking, but right now, the baking’s done. Instead, she’s helping me get dressed in my apartment on the second floor above the bakery.

The apartment’s still a bit of a mess, boxes here and there because I’ve spent every waking minute of the last few months downstairs, getting the bakery ready for business. Priorities in order . . . check. Trixie didn’t seem to agree as she sidestepped her way to my bedroom though.

“Is this everything?” she asks. I can see her cringe though she tries to hide it.

I look to Trixie, with her long, permed blonde hair, miniskirt, booties, and layered tank tops. I rarely see her out of uniform, but I’m sensing that her personal style is circa-1994 in a cool way that only the young can pull off. Actually, she’s pretty close to my age, mid-twenties, but I could never pull off her bold style the way she does.

I glance to my closet behind her, where my wardrobe goes from business chic pencil skirts and button-up blouses to casual jeans and T-shirts. There’s virtually nothing in between. I’ve never needed anything else, and my yoga pants are folded in my drawers.

Trixie hums, flipping through the hangers and examining clothes. “Okay, so no Office Barbie attire. Too uptight. No store logo shirt. Too casual. Definitely not jeans.” She gets deeper into my closet, and I can’t even see what she’s looking at anymore.

“Aha!” she exclaims. “Found it!”

She pulls out a pale blue dress from somewhere in the pit on the left side of the generous closet. I don’t remember even buying the dress, but the tags are still dangling off the side. It’s gorgeous, though, and I wonder what was going through my mind when I bought it.

“Put this on,” she orders.

“Shouldn’t I wear black? You know, to blend in like the caterers and wait staff?”

Her eyes narrow, her forehead crinkling in frustration. “Do you want to blend in? Or do you want to make sure everyone remembers the hot ginger who puts the spice in Roseboro’s Cake Culture?”

Decision made, I grab the dress and run into the bathroom to pull it on. I can’t see in the mirror, at least not the full effect, so I step back into my bedroom. Trixie gasps and does a little finger twirl in the air, and I follow her instructions, pirouetting in place.

“Yep, that’s the one. Check you out, Miss Thang.”

Standing in front of the mirror, my jaw drops. I don’t know when or where I got this dress, but I’m reminded now why I bought it. It’s perfect, like it was custom-made to fit me. The cap sleeves make my shoulders look dainty but strong, the waist sits at my narrowest part, and the bottom flares out in a circle to hit a few inches above mid-knee. It’s demure and conservative but stunning on me with my red hair and blue eyes.

“Wow,” I say breathlessly, not feeling the least bit of embarrassment at my own reaction to how amazing I look.

Trixie beams. “Put these on.”

She bends down, lining up a nude wedge heel for me to step into. Once I do, she buckles the straps around my ankles. “Are these comfy enough that you can stand in them for hours on end?”

I nod, cocking my toe, and she grins wider. “Good. You’re wearing them either way, but I wondered if I needed to set you up with a foot soak for when you got home tonight.”

I can’t help but giggle at her craziness, but when I turn back to the mirror, the laugh catches in my throat. The heels are the piece de resistance. I look good. Young and carefree, but also pulled together, like someone who knows their stuff and is damn proud to show off.

I’m gonna be proud to show off my cupcakes, I think happily.

Trixie helps me load the huge plastic storage boxes of cupcakes into my newly purchased used minivan. No one ever wants to drive a minivan, but sometimes, they make the most sense. Like for cake deliveries and as a big, moving billboard for a fledgling company.

Once onsite, I look for Mia, but the caterer tells me that Mia has already come downstairs, issued directives, and disappeared back upstairs to get ready. She happily lends me a worker to unload the boxes, though, and then I get to work putting everything on the tower so that everything is perfect.

It’s huge, five feet tall on top of a table, with five layers, each holding a different flavor.

The overall effect is eye-catching, and the smell of sugary goodness will hopefully draw them close enough to sample my wares.

Tonight, nothing can stop me. I’m ready to let the spotlight shine on Cake Culture, and maybe me too. But only as the baker. I still don’t want to do any of the social Hunger Games that I know will be going on tonight.

After a couple of hours of people milling around and happily sampling the five flavors of cupcakes I brought, a dark shadow falls over the night in the form of my family.

I haven’t had the best of relationships with them, and to be honest, I’m surprised they’re here. Thankfully, I see them before they see me, but it’s not like I can leave my post. These are cupcakes, not canapes.

“Oh, my gracious, these are just divine! What’s your secret?” the lady in front of me implores, and I tick my eyes back to her, though they desperately want to look over her shoulder again and see if my dad, stepmother, and stepsister are making their way over.

“Grandma’s love,” I say quickly, repeating the semi-honest answer to the often-asked question. “And quality ingredients sourced from fair-trade suppliers. The vanilla is from Madagascar, the chocolate from Ghana.”

“Well, wherever you’re getting it from, it’s what you do with the ingredients that truly make it special. Well done. May I take a card?” she asks, already deftly slipping one into her clutch purse.

“Of course. Thank you for the compliment. Cake Culture would be happy to help with any of your bakery needs, personal or professional.” It’s another growth opportunity, a network connection created, a baby step toward future success.

The bubble pops nearly instantly, though, as the woman steps away and another takes her place.

My stepmother. Or stepmonster,as I like to call her, but only in my head because to do so aloud would only enrage her and drive me further from my father, which I don’t want.

I might be his little girl, but we both know that she holds his reins, and she’ll happily snap them tight and try to take him away with nothing but an evil smile.

“Hello, Priscilla,” I greet her. “Lovely to see you.” Ice crystals form on the crisp ends of each word, but she can’t fault me for manners, at least.

“And you as well, darling,” she says, with saccharin twisting through her politeness. She’s sweet-looking on the surface, as always, but I know the truth. She’s as deadly as a coral snake, and her grin’s just a front. Those pearly whites are ceramic-capped knives ready to slice a chunk off anyone who gets in her way.

Pity my father never sees that.

He only sees what she wants him to see–her still-stunning beauty, perfectly-dyed raven-black hair not hinting at the grey I know she has in streaks, cool grey eyes that miss nothing, designer clothing selected by her personal stylist, and a Botoxed mask of pleasantness she can pull on at will. She’s not natural, but she’s still a head turner.

But I’ve seen beneath her fa?ade to the real person. She’s manipulative, opportunistic, narcissistic, and spiteful of my existence as a sign of my father’s former happiness with my mother.

“What brings you to Roseboro? I thought you were sticking to the upper echelon of Portland these days?”

At least that’s what I’d been hoping since I rarely see them out this far from the urban culture centers that Priscilla likes to run in.

As if on cue, my stepsister, Sabrina, glides up next to her mother, eyeing me as if I’m a glob of gum ruining the bottom of her red-soled shoe. “Special circumstances, you see.”

It sounds like a brag, but I’m not sure what she’s boasting about. If anything, at this party in particular, I have a bigger in with the host than she does. I don’t think my family’s ever had business dealings with Thomas Goldstone, while I’m sort of second-level besties with the big man. I just don’t care to use my friends that way, unlike some people.

“Would you like a cupcake? I’ve got red velvet, lemon custard, vanilla, chocolate, and spice cake. Something for everyone.”

I don’t bother giving them the cutesy names I agonized over for each flavor, like ‘What Is That, Red Velvet?’ as an honor to the famous line from Coming to America, or ‘Tell Me What You Want Spice’ as an ode to the Spice Girls. For Priscilla and Sabrina, I stick to the bare-bones basics in the hopes that they’ll shoo away faster.

Priscilla looks down her nose, sniffing a single time. “Well, it does smell nice. I’ll give you that.”

Sabrina looks at the tower longingly, and I can almost see her debating flavors in her mind, but one nudge from her mother and she pastes the smile back on her face.

“No. I’ve been following a strict juice detox plan for the last two months. I’ve never felt better, and my hair and nails are perfect now.” She holds her hands out, inspecting them before she twirls a lock around her finger.

Priscilla clears her throat, and Sabrina pops back into position, hands at her side, no fidgeting, chin lifted, back straight, and shoulders down. It’s the perfect mimicry of Priscilla’s own practiced stance.

“Congratulations,” I say, but the devil in me can’t help but torment her a bit. It’s warranted after living with her and Priscilla for my formative years and putting up with their constant barrage of insults and putdowns. “There is some lemon juice in the lemon custard, though, if you’d like to try that? Fluffy, melt on your tongue sweetness with a bright spot of custard that delights your taste buds and makes you want another bite. The frosting is thick and rich, decadent, and sinful. Would you like?”

As I describe the yummy cake, I swear Sabrina’s eyes have glazed over like I’m whispering sweet nothings in her ear. The best part is that I know she won’t eat one, but she’ll be fantasizing about how good it would’ve been for days.

Evil, I know. But I feel justified. Sabrina was never the worst offender, though. That honor was all Priscilla. Sabrina’s more a clueless socialite, always doing as she’s told and never having to work for anything other than maintaining her beauty.

But that was enough for her to get in a fair share of barbs back in the day as she compared us, and not surprisingly, I always came out the loser in her estimation.

Priscilla steps in front of Sabrina, literally putting herself between her and the cupcakes as if she doesn’t trust her to not stick her tongue out and lick one. “So, Charlotte, tell me about this bakery of yours and why you’re here as the help. I don’t understand why you would choose to leave a stable position with so much opportunity at Blackwell’s. It’s the best place in Roseboro to work, as I understand it.”

I roll my eyes, knowing as soon as I do so that I might as well have waved a red flag in front of a bull. Rookie mistake, but I’m out of practice in dealing with her. Ten years ago, I could have smiled my way through a lie detector test because of her. “Working for Blackwell was fine until it wasn’t. Now I’m chasing a dream and doing quite well with it.”

Fine. That’s an unlikely description. Blackwell Tower is run like a slave shop from the bottom up. The whole monolith is a twenty-first century feudal kingdom, with a king who’s gone mad.

She sneers, obviously not impressed, and I’m not inclined to tell her what a monstrous villain Blackwell is. It’s not like she’d believe me, anyway. Who would believe that he hired a hitman to kill Izzy and placed a spy inside Thomas’s own company to try to maneuver him to a losing position? And she certainly wouldn’t believe that the guy in the black suit leaning casually against the wall and holding a soda water is my guard because we don’t know Blackwell’s next move.

She wouldn’t hear a bad word about a man like Blackwell, whom she practically worships because of the clout he’s carried in the area for decades. It’s power she’s aspired for her entire life and never had. She wouldn’t believe anyone could care about my existence, or lack thereof, enough to warrant protecting my life.

But there’s one man who would. My father.

“Where is Dad? I saw him come in with you,” I ask, focusing our attention on the one thing we have in common. Abraham Dunn.

We scan the crowd and see him at the same time. Priscilla smiles, and while I’d like to light up at the sight of my father like I once did, he doesn’t look well and worry blooms in my belly.

He’s lost weight, going from lean to almost bony. His suit hangs on him, though I know it was custom made for him. I wonder if nearly twenty years of Priscilla’s money grubbing and social ass-kissing have finally worn away at him the way they did me. Once upon a time, we were two peas in a pod, kicking back with a Mr. Pibb and talking about our day.

But Priscilla put a stop to all that, and she’s been driving the wedge between Dad and me deep.

And he doesn’t even see it, sadly.

Suddenly, someone calls Priscilla’s name, and we turn from my father to see a family approaching.

Priscilla steps away from the table, Sabrina following like a dutiful puppy, to greet the newcomers, a pleasant-looking man and his wife.

Suddenly, my heart stops in my chest because next to them, several inches taller than his father and looking like sex in a tuxedo, is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

A tiny part of my brain stores away the idea of calling a chocolate and vanilla cupcake ‘Sex In A Tuxedo’, but the bulk of my grey matter is chanting, ‘hubba, hubba, hubba.’

He stands out, his white jacket pristine as newfallen snow in the sea of blacks and charcoal grays, a shining beacon of light . . . almost like a prince. “Holy shit,” I whisper.

Steven is at my side in an instant, his voice low and insistent. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t look at him, don’t bother scolding him for being intrusive, which is against our I-don’t-see-you deal, instead asking, “Who is that?”

He follows my sightline and answers, “Lance Jacobs, eldest son of Bishop and Miranda Jacobs. Heir apparent to Jacobs Bio-Tech. Are you okay, Miss Dunn?”

I’m about to tell him I’m fine when I see the way Sabrina and Priscilla are eyeing Lance. Like a piece of meat. Like a goldmine. Like a stepping stone to a richer future. And my blood pressure goes up a few notches.

Fuck.

Really, Fate? The one guy who makes my heart race, my body pulse, and my mind think about things, some sweet and some not-so, and he’s already in Sabrina’s clutches?

Well played. Well fucking played.