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“Between you and me, the toast was kinda hilarious,” Scott confessed. “Like something out of a movie.” The smile that danced across his face was wiped away almost instantly, like he was expecting to be struck down, or that whatever tracking device Denise had on him picked up his statement and there would be hell to pay. “If Denise gets over it and you earn back the right to give a toast or speech in her presence, I hope you keep the dirty laundry to yourself.”
I pressed a solemn hand to my chest. “Scout’s honor.”
I’d missed him and was glad I wasn’t alone in this, but the reality that he had someone, that I was so close to having someone myself...it was too much.
“My life is a fucking mess, man.”
Scott nodded sadly. “Pretty sure that was the exact headline on the blogs, in fact.” When I didn’t crack a grin, he slid off the stool, armed with his glass. He held it out like a peace offering. “No judgment.”
I couldn’t manage a smile, but a small chuckle fell from my lips. “Tempting, but I’m trying to sober up. Figure out whose head I want on a stick.”
“Fuck yeah,” he replied, fist bumping as he placed his glass beside mine. “So—the blonde and the baker, what gives?”
I rolled my eyes. “Cassidy Winters is a blast from the past.” I was no stranger to a jilted lover, but I couldn’t deny that this river ran a little deeper. So deep that my stomach dropped from the penthouse to the ground floor when I realized that short of my parents, who referred to her exclusively as ‘that poor girl’ after...
I rolled my shoulders back, not opening that can of worms. Cassidy’s motivations for roaring back into my life would reveal themselves sooner or later. She wasn’t what kept me from getting more than an hour or two of sleep since the story broke.
“The baker-” I shook my head, hating that I was repeating their descriptor of the most incredible woman I’d ever met. “Natalee-” I cut myself off. I felt like my throat was being rubbed raw with sandpaper. Like I was standing in the middle of the town square, tarred and feathered and exposed for everyone to see. I wanted to run from it, but I knew I’d just run in circles—and I’d come back to the irrefutable truth.
“You’re in love.” Even Scott seemed shocked by the words coming out of his mouth, eyeballing me with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “I’m sorry, man.”
In that moment, the two party animals who ran from commitment like the world was burning around us were transformed into something else. And that person didn’t put himself first. He was someone who was willing to walk away from the person he cared about most, if it meant sparing the woman he cared about any more pain.
“Tell me what to do,” I groaned, shaking my head. He was crazy, I was crazy, any man who was foolish enough to fall in love was crazy. Because now that I knew it and accepted it, I was weaker. Broken. Because now that I knew what life was like with her, I knew I didn’t want to go back to a life without her.
I swallowed my pride and navigated through the pity-tinged gaze that had turned my wingman soft. I was left with the angst that made me want to send her flowers, chocolate, hell, I’d carve my heart out and send it to her express mail if she’d just talk to me.
Before Scott could even answer, Delia’s voice whispered in my head.
You have to ask yourself: is this about her, or is this about you?
The pity in Scott’s eyes was almost as bad as the realization that the answer to ‘What now?’ was here all along.
“I have to let her go,” I conceded. “And if it’s meant to be, she’ll come back to me.”
“Bullshit on that.”
I snapped my chin upright and saw my right hand man, my #2, ready to slay paparazzi and whatever else came our way.
“The past, and the things you’ve done...you can’t take them back. But this story, this guy who could propose to some other woman the night before you take another to the one place you never take your conquests—that’s not you. If you love Natalee, you can’t let her go.” He paused and gave me a battle hardened glare, filled with determination. “You have to fight for her.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: NATALEE
I knew my worst fears were realized before the two knocks even sounded at my front door. Fate was a fickle bitch, and apparently my ticket was up and it was my turn to get kicked while I was down.
Case in point: I’d received a notice from the property management company, alerting me to something that was painfully obvious—the presence of the paparazzi was a deterrent to customers.
The spike in sales Madison Creations had enjoyed before this whole mess had flatlined. But the company that dragged its feet on our plumbing problem and a myriad of other maintenance issues that our neighboring shops had complained about was suddenly very invested in making sure things went back to normal.
It was a reality that made my stomach twist into a heart shaped knot. I knew the struggle of being a small business owner. How much money had they lost in revenue because of me?
On top of all of that, my hopes that all of this (being reduced to some baker who used her food and vagina to steal Jason Cox from a woman who, according to my extensive Googling, even looked like a Glamazon fresh from the gym, perspiring glitter and perfection) would blow over once some pop star or actress or celeb did something newsworthy, hadn’t come to fruition. The customers stayed away, but the paparazzi beat me to the shop, balancing cameras and coffee at 6AM.
If it wasn’t for the self appointed doorman, Mr. Jenkins, an elderly man who lived downstairs and poked his head out anytime the main door creaked, I wouldn’t get any relief at home either. It was a small blessing that Mr. Jenkins, a vet with a glare that could make you pee your pants, still buff and formidable at 70, ran anyone off that wasn’t on my approved guest list. Which was an actual thing. After the first cameraman tried to sneak into the building and I’d heard a thud that ripped right through my chest since the point of impact was my front door, I’d raced over to find out what was happening. A man with a camera and genuine fear etched on his pudgy face was slowly easing down the stairs, his voice low and wary as he tried to explain to Mr. Jenkins that he just wanted to talk to me.
The list, unfortunately, did not include my mother.
When I heard her signature pound echo at my door, I knew I should have made a note at the bottom for Mr. Jenkins.
