Page 13 of Sweet Surrender

“Sounds so romantic.”

“Since when are you into romance, brother?”

“Let me guess, one’s a wannabe model, another’s trying to get her big break in the music industry, and the other is . . . let’s finish out the trifecta . . . is sick of sleeping on directors’ couches—to put it politely—and might benefit from changing things up.” I stand and shake my head. “No. No. And no.”

“We’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Of course you will.” I move toward the door. “And you’re insane if you think it won’t get out. If you think for a fucking second that she’ll keep her mouth shut and the truth won’t be posted somewhere before all is said and done, you’re fooling yourself.”

“That’s why there are legal ramifications. A large payment with incentives. Benefits for her. A deal so sweet and damning that no one would ever think of breaking it. Plus she gets you for a few months.”

“I’m sure you can tell by my lack of expression how thrilled I am about this,” I say drolly.

“It’ll work. I know it will. Like I said, we’ve vetted the women—”

“Easy to say when it’s my life and not yours.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and make the one decision I can still make in this whole situation. “This is fucking fucked. I’m not meeting with those ‘candidates’ tomorrow.”

“Jase.” It’s a warning that has me stopping and looking back at my brother.

“No. If I have to play this charade, then I want there to be no mistake with the judge that whoever I’m with is real.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I have an idea.” I throw up my middle finger as a means of goodbye and then keep walking through the lobby and out the door.

An idea . . . that is brash and ridiculous and definitely not well-thought-out.

Sounds on-brand for me.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hendrix

The music is loud and my muse is flowing for the first time in days as I swing my hips and pipe yet another sample design on the top of the cookie.

I hum as I decorate, the defiant screw you lyrics of my favorite artist like an anthem I can relate to more than anything else in my life right now.

I’ve shut out life. Paul and his indiscretions. Paul’s unabashed theft of my savings. My landlord informing me that my rent will be increasing in two months. The crippling pang of heartbreak that hits out of nowhere every once in a while when I think I’ve already gotten over it.

So I sing.

I decorate.

I shimmy like no one is watching.

And when the phone rings and it blasts through my Bluetooth speaker, my yelp can probably be heard down the street.

A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s after eight in the evening, long past closing time, and so I don’t owe it to whoever it is to pick up their call.

But a customer is a customer, so I lower the volume and answer, “Cookie Cutter, this is Hendrix, how may I help you?”

And then in that beat of silence when no one responds, I wage an internal debate over whether I should have said can instead of may and which one is actually right.

Ridiculous, but a way to fill the fleeting silence.

“Is it true what you said, Hendrix?” The honey-coated-over-gravel voice says my name and I know who it is instantly.

“Jase? How did you . . . never mind.” A simple internet search would tell him my phone number since he knew the business name. I’m flustered by the unexpected call, and it takes me a second to gather my thoughts. “Is it true that I said what?”