Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ONE YEAR EARLIER

When I was a little girl, my mother would always say, “Remember, Charlotte, a smile is a lady’s most enchanting accessory.” It was an antiquated thought, from a soon-to-be-forgotten time when women were seen as accessories to men and not individuals in their own right. But to my mother, it was important. So much so, that if I didn’t have a smile plastered on my face, she would reach over and pinch the soft flesh on the back of my tiny right arm. When the bruises grew too dark, she’d switch to the left.

So, I learned to smile, a lot.

I must admit, that lesson has been quite useful in my daily life. Maintaining a constant smile on your face is the perfect disguise for hiding your true emotions, a skill I almost constantly employ. So, as Tucker pulls the car to a stop in front of the small bakery on Main Street, I keep an unwavering smile on my face, even though the shop is shabbier than I anticipated. The storefront appears tiny, with a handmade pink and white awning fluttering in the wind. Elsa, the expensive wedding planner my mother insisted we hire for the big day, raved about this place as the next “big thing.” She wanted to create something extravagant and innovative for our nuptials and position me as a trendsetter in the South.

My mother practically salivated at the idea of my wedding setting new trends. I nearly roll my eyes at the thought. Mother, the epitome of old-fashioned tradition and manners, suddenly fancies herself a trendsetter. It’s like watching a grandparent trying to navigate TikTok. But of course, Mother adores Elsa. Her over-the-top ideas are the perfect vehicle to flaunt her wealth and dazzle the country club ladies.

Tucker opens the car door and takes my hand as I step out. I give myself a moment and smooth out the white linen jumpsuit, flicking off a few pieces of lint. I adjust my pale blue Birkin bag on my arm just so, wrapping the silk scarf around the handle. Tucker waits patiently as I throw my shoulders back, sending my long blonde hair over my shoulder.

As I take his arm, my mind drifts to the early days with Tucker. Of course he checks all the boxes—gorgeous, wealthy, respectable family—but it was his kindness that truly won me over. The way he listened intently when I spoke, his gentle touches, the thoughtful gestures—all so different from the cold criticism I’d grown up with. For once, I felt seen, appreciated. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being valued for who I was, not just how I looked or what I achieved. It was easy to fall madly in love with him.

Of course, that was a few years ago. Now things are different.

“Ready?” he says, attempting a smile to conceal his impatience.

I give him a nod of my chin, and we walk toward the bakery. It’s been a year since the engagement, and things have changed between us. I don’t know if it’s the wedding or my overbearing mother or something else. He’s been…distant.

In fact, last night, when I slipped under the covers naked next to him, he was already asleep. Or he was pretending to be asleep. It’s been an all-too-common occurrence lately—he works late, stumbles home, and drifts off before I can even attempt to snuggle up next to him. It’s as if he’s become a stranger, his mind constantly preoccupied. And whenever I dare to bring up our impending nuptials, he responds with an exasperated roll of his eyes and a litany of complaints about the mounting expenses.

We step up to the small but brightly painted front door. Well, at the very least, he should be happy with the choice of bakery. Anything this tiny can’t cost much more than a dime.

A tacky little silver bell rings as we step inside the front door. The overwhelming scent of sugar permeates the air. I gave up sugar years ago because, as Mother says, a Southern woman must always watch her figure. Surveying the hodgepodge of mismatched furniture in a kaleidoscope of pastels, I can’t help but think that this place is little more than a fancy cupcake stand. But I keep my thoughts to myself, not wanting to ruffle any feathers. After all, Elsa is the best wedding planner on the East Coast, and if she says this is our place, then it is.

“Welcome to Couture Cakes!” a voice chimes from behind the counter. I turn to see a petite redhead with a flour-dusted apron and a bright smile. It’s the first time we’ve met in person and I’m slightly taken aback by her appearance. She’s gorgeous.

“Reese, darling, it’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you in person,” I say, stepping forward and grasping her hands.

“Likewise, Miss Spencer,” she replies.

Well, aren’t you just a stereotypical baker, I think, taking in her perky demeanor and girl-next-door good looks. My eyes wander to a framed photo on the wall—a younger version of her, grinning widely next to an elderly woman. Ten bucks says that’s Grandma, and they spent every weekend elbow-deep in cookie dough. But again, I bite my tongue, instead letting my eyes dance around the room for show.

“Oh my goodness, Reese! This place is an absolute dream,” I say.

Reese’s cheeks flush with pride. “Thank you so much, Miss Spencer,” she says. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into every inch of this place. It means the world to hear you say that.”

I hold back a skeptical look. “Please, call me Charlotte. We’re practically family now, aren’t we?”

“Of course, Charlotte,” she replies, gesturing for us to follow her into a small room. A table has been laid out with cake samples, more mismatched china, and a few teacups. “I’ve prepared a special selection of cakes for you to sample, each one a labor of love.”

Labor of love? I nearly gag, wondering if the green juice I had for breakfast might make its way up my throat. As we take our seats, I notice the way Tucker’s eyes linger on Reese, his gaze traveling over her slender arms and red hair. My stomach turns into knots. With the divide widening between us, the last thing I need right now is for someone to turn his head.

As the tasting progresses, things only get worse. He laughs at her jokes, leans in close to whisper in her ear, even reaches out to brush a stray bit of frosting from her cheek.

What the hell is going on here?

Maybe I’m overreacting. And why shouldn’t I? Tucker and I haven’t had sex in weeks, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s getting cold feet about the wedding. The thought sends a jolt of panic down my spine. No, that would be a nightmare . If he called off the wedding, I’d never recover from the heartbreak, the shame, and most especially, my mother’s disappointment.

I force myself to keep my composure, to play the role of the blushing bride-to-be even as my blood boils beneath the surface. I make a show of ooh ing and aah ing over each cake, pretending to savor every bite even as the sweetness turns to ash on my tongue.

“Oh, Tucker, darling, what do you think of the lemon chiffon?” I ask, my voice syrupy sweet. “Isn’t it just divine?”

But Tucker barely glances in my direction, his eyes still glued to Reese’s face. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, it’s great,” he says distractedly, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. “What do you think, Reese? You’re the expert here.”

Reese just laughs, her eyes sparkling. “Well, I may be biased, but I think the lemon chiffon is one of our bestsellers,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s light and airy, with just the right amount of tartness to balance out the sweetness.”

Just as I’m about to lose my temper over their overt flirtation, the doorbell chimes again with that irritating ding. I turn to look over my shoulder and see none other than Mother gliding through the door. My jaw clenches as I recognize the suit she’s wearing—the exact Chanel ensemble I splurged on last month. Of course she’d swoop in wearing it today, a subtle reminder that whatever I have, she can take and wear better.

I jump up from my seat and smooth my white linen jumpsuit, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Tucker stands as well, his jaw slightly agape. Reese looks between the two of us, her face a mask of confusion. And then she sees my mother sashaying toward us, her designer heels barely making a sound on the hardwood floor, and she stands as well.

Leave it to Mother—her timing is always impeccable.