Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cam
I throw tampons into my suitcase as I try to remember what I might have forgotten.
Tonight I get whisked away to the filming location for the bake-off.
The network has decided it wants to make this a bigger deal than it was previously.
So now, I’m calling in Phyllis to run the café while I film and I hired Amber’s cousin, Stacey, to help out while Amber films with me.
It’s not ideal but it’s only for three weeks.
As if I’m not already dealing with anxiety and nerves, my body had to throw in my period. Freaking fantastic.
I look around the room and then remember the missing saltshaker.
I run into the kitchen and start tearing things apart.
I want my good-luck saltshaker with me. It’s my good-luck charm.
Every time I’ve nailed a recipe, I’ve had it sitting on the counter.
I don’t know if it’s because it’s so entwined with my first memory of baking or if I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession, but either way, I want it with me.
My phone pings with a text from my brother. I realize we haven’t talked in days.
Winston: Good luck! I’m sure you’ll win.
Me: Thanks! Fingers crossed.
I soon get good-luck texts from both my parents. I swear the three of them have some group chat about me.
Then I see a message from Max.
Max: Didn’t you say you had some big thing for work this week? If so, best of luck and I hope it turns out well.
He remembered. I smile goofily at his message. God, I wish he was dating material. He’s a really good person.
Me: Thanks! I do and I’m super nervous.
I haven’t given Max details because that violates our conversation rules but it’s sweet of him to remember something important was happening.
Max: Just be yourself.
Me: LOL!
Max: I am serious.
Me: Uh, OK. But being myself can be…a lot.
Max: The world deserves to see the real E.
Me: Thanks (blushing emoji)
I toss my phone on the counter and rifle through the cabinets. I start pulling things out as anxiety creeps in. What am I doing?
I sit back against a cupboard door and close my eyes, willing the threatening tears away but they come anyhow. I feel them, big and fat, rolling down my cheeks. What if I fail? What if all of these past years’ hard work was for nothing?
I want to make my family proud. I want to prove I can do this, that I’m not a little girl who speaks before she thinks, not anymore.
I wish my grandmother was here. I’m sure she’d have something brilliant to say.
I let the tears come harder as I sob under the pressure of it all. I have employees who need me to be strong and here I am crying on my kitchen floor.
I pull my knees to my chest and let my forehead fall to them as I wrap my arms around my legs. I don’t know how long I’m here for, but suddenly I hear my front door open.
Shit. Drew.
I swipe at the tears on my cheeks as I start shoving things back into the cupboards.
“I’m just grabbing a few more things and then I’m heading out,” I say loudly hoping my voice doesn’t give away the complete breakdown I just had.
“Camryn?” a very familiar deep voice says as its owner rounds the corner.
My head whips around to look at none other than Mr. Fletcher McDowell.
What. In. The. Fuck?
He takes one look at me and then steps into the kitchen in half the strides it should take. He glances around us, his eyes looking me up and down. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice surprisingly soft, a look of concern on his face.
I swallow a lump that just re-formed in the back of my throat. Why is he suddenly being so kind? I can deal with asshole Fletcher. I can deal with businessman Fletcher. I can even deal with annoying, spying Fletcher. But this…kind and concerned Fletcher. Nope. I can’t do it.
“Nothing,” I mutter as I turn and take the pepper shaker from my counter. It’s not the same, but it will have to do. “I’m almost packed.”
I step around him but he grabs my upper arm.
“Are you OK?” he asks.
I rip my arm from his grasp. “Of course, I am.” I pause as I head to my bedroom. “How’d you get in here?”
“Al let me in. I saw him in the hallway and said I was picking you up for the competition. I knocked but you didn’t answer.
” Great. I probably couldn’t hear it over my sobbing.
Fuck. I am such a mess. “He had the master key on him. So he let me in to make sure you were alright. I’ll let him know you are.
” He pulls out his phone and types a message, presumably to Al.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I state as I practically run into my room and finish packing in record time.
I hear a knock at my window and I look out to see…a donkey on a stick? The donkey is tapping at my window. I rub my eyes. Clearly, I’ve reached the state where I am just hallucinating. Yep, that’s it.
What the hell is happening?
I walk to my window and open it, looking forward at the donkey and then down.
“Oh, good. It reached your window,” Ava says.
I frown. “Ava, what the hell are you doing?”
“Sending you Mr. Pickles,” she says as she pushes the…long pole further out of her window, or should I say her mother’s window.
“Ava,” I hiss. “You are going to fall. Stop. And what is happening here?”
“Bray won’t let me leave to give you Mr. Pickles, so I borrowed this lightbulb changer thing that Mr. Troy left in the hallway. It’s how he changes the lightbulbs in the ceiling,” she explains.
I slap my forehead. For the love of God.
“Ava! Will you stop hanging out of windows? It’s dangerous,” I state, my sadness of several minutes ago quickly evaporating as fears for this child’s safety take center stage in my brain.
“Why does everyone always say that?” she asks, her face twisted up in true puzzlement.
“And this is why I don’t have kids,” I mutter to myself.
“Huh?” she asks.
“Nothing. I think you should keep Mr. Pickles,” I announce.
“Oh come on. You can put him on TV and he’ll be famous!” she says excitedly.
“Won’t you miss him? I’ll be gone for three weeks,” I explain and I feel a presence in my room.
I turn to see Fletcher standing in the doorway.
His gaze darts between me and the stuffed donkey hanging in front of me.
Great. My room is in its normal messy state.
I’m sure discarded underwear lies somewhere around here.
But I don’t have time to process my mortification as Ava speaks again.
“Nope. I’m a big kid now. I don’t need stuffed animals,” she explains proudly.
“Fine. But if you get upset about him being gone for so long, I don’t want to hear about it,” I grumble.
“I won’t,” she assures me with a big grin.
I reach out to grab the donkey and my foot slips on a T-shirt I may have left on my floor. I grip the window ledge but start to double over and I feel my feet leave the ground.
Suddenly, strong arms wrap around my middle.
“Whoa,” Fletcher says into my ear. He tightens his grip on me as he sets me back down. Then he reaches past me and un-tapes the donkey from the stick, and hands it to me. His front is flush with my back, his hands are on either side of me and I feel his breath against my hair.
“Who are you?” Ava asks.
“I’m going to be your worst nightmare if you don’t stick yourself back into your apartment,” he growls.
I lean over a little and see Ava’s eyes widen. “Ava, we got Mr. Pickles. Mr. Fletcher here is my…uh…work colleague. We have to go. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Please, behave.”
Ava giggles. “I always behave, silly goose.” I hear Bray’s voice and Ava quickly pulls the long pole down. “Gotta go. Bye,” she says quickly and disappears.
I realize Fletcher is gripping my hip as if afraid I’ll tumble over the window ledge. I have nowhere to step, so I lean back into him and hold up the donkey.
“I think we have a mascot,” I say dryly.
“Uh, can we wash him?” he asks.
I tilt my head to look up at him and he looks down at me. “Do you think he’d survive that?”
Fletcher grimaces. “Probably not.”
“Then, no. Mr. Pickles is coming as is,” I say as I look back at the stuffed animal. My phone pings in my pocket and I pull it out to see a message from Al.
Al: I hope you don’t mind. I let Fletcher in.
I sigh and I feel Fletcher’s neck crane to read my text. I don’t have to turn to know the jackass is smirking.
Me: It’s fine.
I lie. What was Al thinking? I decide to yell at him over drinks when I get back. I don’t have time right now.
The front door opens and Fletcher steps away from me.
“Honey! I’m home,” Drew’s voice echoes throughout the apartment.
I turn to see Fletcher raising one eyebrow.
Drew appears in my doorway and the look of surprise is so good, I almost want to take a photo.
“Oh, I, uh, didn’t know you had company,” he says and his facial features start morphing into a knowing look. Fuck my life.
“I don’t. I mean, he’s not my guest. I mean, we’re just leaving,” I stammer as I try to form a sentence.
Fletcher suddenly finds his manners and walks over to Drew, holding out his hand. “Fletcher,” he introduces himself.
Drew shakes it and then glances over Fletcher’s shoulder at me. I roll my eyes and he smirks.
“So, how’s it feel to be the neighborhood jackass?” he asks Fletcher.
Fletcher’s moving arm stops and Drew steps back.
“I didn’t know such a title existed,” Fletcher grumbles.
“Oh, it does and you are it. Best of luck opening your store,” he says and looks back at me. “Good luck, Camelot. You got this,” he adds with a wink. I groan. I hate it when he uses old nicknames.
Fletcher turns and I can tell he loves that Drew just let slip a nickname. I want to murder both of them but I don’t have time.
“OK, then, let’s go,” I urge as I stuff Mr. Pickles into a bag I find lying on a chair and then grab my suitcase and oversized purse.
“You’re wearing that?” Fletcher asks as he looks at me. I’m in jean shorts and a T-shirt because I was planning to change for the opening meeting after we get settled at this place where we’re staying.
“Yep,” I state not explaining anymore because I’m annoyed and also want Fletcher to sweat a little.
He sighs and takes my suitcase from me. “Fine. Let’s go. Nice meeting you…Darryl?” he says to Drew.
Drew glares at him. “Drew,” he corrects.
“Right. Nice meeting you, Drew,” Fletcher says, drawing out Drew’s name. I watch the two of them do some sort of male testosterone standoff and I roll my eyes.
I grab Fletcher’s forearm and yank on it. “Let’s go.”
He starts moving and I give Drew a pointed look. Drew gives me a look that says, “What is going on?”
I shrug because honestly, I am still processing Mr. Pickles, Ava, and Fletcher saving my life.
I walk out the door and start down the stairs.
“Are we not taking the elevator?” he asks as he motions to it.
“Do you value your life?” I reply.
“Oh, not working?” he says.
“Let’s just say it breaks down enough that unless I’m forced to take it, I don’t,” I explain as I walk down the stairs, careful to hold on to the railing because I don’t need Fletcher rescuing me again. It feels like I owe him something and I don’t like owing people anything.
I hear Margie in the entryway as we round the staircase.
“And then he said everyone is doing it and I couldn’t believe that. When was the last time you did it in the ass?” she asks someone.
“Oh? Really?” Her voice is so loud that I’m fairly certain she is talking to someone on the phone who is hard of hearing.
“Wow. OK. I’ll pass that on to Cornelia too. Good to know,” she says as she comes into my view. She’s at the mailboxes and on the phone. She has her cell phone up to her ear.
“Great. We’ll have to grab coffee next week. Yep. Talk to you later,” she says as she turns and smiles at me. “Off to the competition?”
I nod. “Yep. Heading there now.”
She walks over and hugs me. “Well, good luck,” she says, completely oblivious to the fact that we just overhead her ass discussion.
“Thanks,” I manage as I fight back a laugh.
“Who’s this fine young man?” she asks as she steps back.
Oh dear God! Can the earth swallow me up now?
“This would be Fletcher McDowell,” I state. “Fletcher, this is my neighbor Margie.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, offering his free hand.
She shakes it while narrowing her eyes and then pulls back her hand and points it at his chest. “You better watch it, young man. Our Camryn will be winning that competition and her café is the best in the city. Everyone knows it. Your little store doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Right. Thanks for the warning?” he says but it comes out as a question.
“Consider yourself warned,” she adds. And then waves and smiles as she goes into the elevator.
“I thought you said…” He trails off as he points to the elevator.
I groan. “Let’s just pretend we didn’t hear any of that and Margie doesn’t care about getting stuck. She’s retired and has more time than sense.”
“Oh,” is all he says as we walk out the door to a waiting limo. His hand goes to the small of my back as we approach the car. It’s a little thing. I’m sure he’d do it out of politeness for any woman as she gets in a car but something about it feels…intimate.
I take a deep breath as the driver opens the door for us and takes the luggage. Here goes nothing.