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There were no flashes, and it was the third day this week that the paparazzi had camped out in front of the bakery, but I still felt nerves bunched like some tightly wound coil in every muscle in my body.
Ready to snap at any moment.
Poised to shatter my sanity into a million pieces.
A few of the photographers had gotten bold, strutting into the shop and turning the melodic jingle of the bell into my least favorite sound.
Well, a runner up from my least favorite sound. The grand prize winner was the rapid fire clicking of the camera, capturing shots of me trying to cover my face. Trying to live a life that no longer felt like it belonged to me.
Since today was a consultation day, it made it easy enough to keep the intruders on the other side of the glass, but I still clenched and unclenched my fist beneath the table. Their persistence made it hard to remain professional and attentive.
Tamara dashed to the door when one of them tried his luck. Unfortunately for him, Tamara was on door duty—and she was in no mood.
A husky grunt cut through the silence, since my client was currently flipping through my past works. I was struggling to pretend like we weren’t in some sort of zoo, being gawked at, whether we wanted it or not.
The photographer tried to explain himself. “I just have to go to the bath-”
“Fuck you,” Tamara growled, pointing at the door with her rolling pin.
The man’s eyes widened as he tried to gauge just how serious she was. When he held up both pudgy hands and backed out slowly, he’d wisely determined that she’d take him down without batting an eye.
“Go pee on the bushes,” Tamara snarled. “You’re trespassing on private property and I will knock you upside the head.” Just in case someone was recording for some future litigation, she added, “And then I’ll call 911, the police, or a hearse—whatever the situation calls for.”
Once he was back on the sidewalk, he hawked a ball of snot and spat it on the asphalt. “Assault me if you want to, sweetheart. All these cameras are dying for a juicy shot—then I’ll sue your ass and end up owning this joint.”
Even from the table across the room I could see that Tamara wasn’t thinking beyond her desire to clobber him, so I tried to keep my voice level. Pretended I wasn’t debating whether the risk would be worth the bloodshed.
“Tamara!” I said loudly, clearing my throat. “Could you help me with something?”
She let the door close in the man’s face before she used the hand that wasn’t holding the pin to give him the universal ‘I’m watching you’ signal.
She tucked the pin beneath her arm and headed toward us, her face going from that of a warrior to sweet as pie. She even flipped her blonde hair and hiked the key of her tone up a few notches. “How’s it going? Sorry about that.” She winked at the bride-to-be. “I wouldn’t really assault him, just so we’re clear.”
Tamara was definitely lying, but I appreciated her attempt to assure our prospective client that we weren’t the hot mess that we appeared to be.
“I get it. They’re absolute jerks,” the woman said in solidarity, flashing us both a supportive smile that made me relax a little. “I’m just impressed that you’re open. Most people would be laying low.”
I swallowed the knot in my throat and managed to hold the smile on my face even though hiding out had been an option that I considered. Unfortunately, closing shop meant I wasn’t making money. I didn’t have a bottomless bank account like him. I had to carry on; left to fend off the paparazzi. The sexy baker that was standing in the way of true love.
“So as you can see, we’ve done a few events with a similar theme.” I trained my eyes on the pages of my portfolio, pictures of cakes and simpler times making nostalgia swell in my chest. “There was the Clintwood wedding that was an absolute dream. The bride is a huge Twilight fan and the ceremony was held in Forks-”
“Could I ask you a question?”
The prospective client had a bubbly smile and a disarming energy that was as palpable in person as it had been in email. Unlike several of my clients that canceled because of the scandal and drama with Jason, she’d shown up early. She’d marched right past the photographers, essentially ignoring them, diving right into the appointment with questions about flavors and options for height and my experience creating an interactive display.
It was refreshing, the normalcy in the midst of all the crazy. A reprieve from all the questions that filled my head.
Was it all a lie?
Who was this Cassidy?
When would I start trusting my intuition instead of my vagina?
Instead of trusting my heart, which had steered me wrong more times than I could count?
I got back to the task at hand. “So tell me about your-”
“I hope this question isn’t too random, but how is he?” she interrupted, still wearing her megawatt smile.
