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SWEET PROMISES (DEXTER)
Months Later
If you’d asked me nine months ago where I’d be, I probably would have talked about Higher Ends and its profit reports.
I might’ve mentioned my cardio goals, my supplement plan, or my golf score on the green after striking a massive deal with Forrest Haute (fucking cringe).
I definitely wouldnothave said anything about aprons, kitchens, and cakes.
“There’s flour on you,” Mother fusses, twisting me around so she can flick it off my arm with her long jade nails. I tried explaining fake nails don’t have any place in a kitchen, but she made some comment about acrylics and brushed me off.
So here we are.
Here I am, living a life I never expected.
“Aprons are supposed to get flour on them, you know,” I tell her.
“Oh, hush. You’ll spoil the effect.”
“For God’s sake. I don’t need you fussing over me. I’m not ten years old.”
She purses her lips as she looks at me, her freshly dyed hair hanging over her shoulder in gentle waves. It’s the first time I’ve seen her with red highlights.
She hasn’t said it, no, but I think she views Junie a bit like a new muse for her fashion.
“You look so handsome.” Her eyes glitter as she gushes praise. “I can’t believe the day has finally come.”
“Like I can?” Although I’ve spent a hilariously long time planning today in every painstaking detail.
Given its simplicity, Junie would laugh herself blue in the face if she knew how much I’ve been fretting over this.
Planning is my forte, sure, but this is too much. I’m embarrassed by it.
Also, I never should have involved my mother.
The minute you turn Delly Rory loose, anything might happen.
She stands in the middle of the kitchen now, hands on her hips as she surveys the mess we’ve made like it’s an old friend. When she decides to cook at home, she leaves behind astonishing chaos as she tries to recreate family favorites from memory.
These days, she mostly lets the hired chef do the work.Mostly.
“So she spends all her time in here? Even when she’s not baking?” she asks.
“Notallthe time.” I hold the piping bag over the cake with both hands. Baking it was one thing, but icing this beast is something else.
I don’t know how Junie does this day in and day out without losing her shit.
“And she makes all those delicious things by scratch?” Mother asks.
“Yes.”
The cake has my total attention now. Small dabs of icing around the side, her name in the middle.
Why is it so fucking difficult?
I’m a grown man with three degrees and almost ten years’ experience running a successful company. I should be more capable.
“I can’t even imagine.” She runs a critical eye over my icing attempt. “The left side’s a little uneven, dear.”
