Chapter Eleven
I’ve barely seen King the last few days. It’s not exactly a surprise—he warned me he would be busy—but my disappointment is definitely concerning. We both agreed that we can’t get attached to each other. But when a girl watches a man physically heft an animal as large as a water-laden llama out of a pool, her mind starts to get ideas. I had been annoyed that my sleepwalking pulled me out of the house in the middle of the night until King dove into the pool and gave me a show.
If I’m being honest, that morning was just a cherry on top of the ice cream sundae that is Royal Kingston. During the moments when I have seen him the last couple days—like when I dropped off some fresh croissants at the surf shack and watched him teach three little kids how to balance on their miniature surfboards, all four of them with broad smiles—I felt like I was getting a front row seat to the man he has become.
I liked him when we were younger. Maybe even loved him. But I never looked at him back then like I’ve been doing since we tied the knot.
It’s dangerous.
“Mrs. Vanderman just came in,” Emily says, poking her head into the kitchen.
Now that school is out, she and Meg have started switching shifts. The seventeen-year-old is not especially skilled at baking and has a lot to learn, but I haven’t minded the change in company. Meg’s unveiled glares were getting tiresome. I’ve been able to handle the morning baking on my own just fine, glad to have a chance to roam the kitchen freely without worrying about getting in someone else’s way, and Meg has been helpful with prepping for the next day before she locks up in the afternoons.
It’s a relief to have found a sort of rhythm together, though she still seems sad that I stole what chances she had with King, however small they were.
“Are the sticky buns ready?” Emily asks.
As I carefully fold almond flour into my egg whites for a batch of macarons, I glance at the one oven that isn’t finicky, which is currently baking the sticky buns that Mrs. Vanderman is particularly fond of. “Five minutes,” I tell Emily. I would have liked them to be done already, but I’m not about to serve the woman a subpar bun the morning before I convince her husband to transfer the bakery to me. Our appointment is in an hour or so, and I’ve been dreading it since leaving the courthouse.
Especially because Mrs. Vanderman has been here every day. King says that’s normal, but the stern-looking attorney’s wife seems to watch me more closely than what is socially acceptable. If I had to put money on it, she doesn’t seem to think our marriage is a real one. That makes me worried to learn of her husband’s opinion on the matter.
With King too busy to make appearances at the bakery, I’m using the only weapon I’ve got to combat Mrs. Vanderman’s skepticism: exceptional sticky buns.
The bell above the front door jingles merrily as Emily heads back to the lobby, hopefully to tell Mrs. Vanderman that her breakfast will be out momentarily. We’ve had a pretty constant stream of customers now that summer is officially here, and I hope it continues. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow with a local contractor, Beck Billingsley, to see how much it will cost to do some refurbishments, and I’ll need as many profits as I can get to pay for them.
I haven’t had many moments of missing my life with Lane, but they tend to happen when I look at my bank account.
“Georgie?” The voice that calls from the lobby is familiar, but I can’t quite place who it belongs to because I’ve reacquainted with a lot of people over the last few days—too many to keep track of. It never ceases to amaze me how many people remember me from all those years ago, given I was only ever here in the summers and didn’t interact with many people outside of King and his friends. I guess my days spent at the bakery were more memorable than I thought.
Emily pushes through the swinging door again, a frown on her lips. “There’s someone here who says she’s your best friend,” she says.
I can’t help but grin at the way she seems to be trying to defend me. Yes, Emily is a definite step up from Meg, at least when it comes to company. “I don’t really have friends in Willow Cove. Or at all,” I add under my breath. Just Cecily, who is…
My grin drops as recognition sets in. Why is Cecily in South Carolina?
Setting aside my batter, I brush my hands on my apron and hurry to follow Emily out to the front. Sure enough, my best friend is standing on the other side of the counter, her arms folded and a look of unadulterated frustration on her face.
As soon as she sees me, however, her scowl shifts into a wide grin. “You’re alive!”
I skirt around the counter and attack her with a fierce hug. “I talked to you last night.” The words come out tinged with emotion. Apparently I missed my friend more than I realized. Video chats aren’t the same as seeing her in person. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Cecily snorts. “I only missed your wedding because you neglected to tell me about it beforehand. Otherwise I would have been here sooner.”
I glance at Mrs. Vanderman, who narrows her eyes at me, and then I take hold of Cecily’s hand so I can tug her into the kitchen. It’s not completely private, but it’s better than having a conversation like this in the middle of the busy lobby.
“You’d better keep your voice down,” I warn her. “We’re meeting with the estate attorney this afternoon, and his wife is out there.”
Cecily raises an eyebrow. “Okay?” I filled her in on the whole situation the night after I married King, but she’s clearly not grasping my warning.
I sigh and grab a pastry bag so I can start piping the macarons, though I fill the bag half-heartedly. I’m worried this batch is going to fail like the last one; Willow Cove is more humid than Manhattan was, and the little cookies are finicky to begin with. I need to play with them more and adjust my ratios, but they feel like a metaphor for how much I’ve been failing at life lately.
“I think she suspects there’s something fishy about my marriage to King,” I mutter.
Cecily hops onto an empty spot of counter and sticks her finger in a bowl of cookie dough, taking a swipe and sticking it in her mouth. I resist the urge to groan now that that batch is unusable. “In case you’ve forgotten, there is something fishy about your marriage. When do I get to meet this questionable husband of yours, anyway?”
I keep my eyes on the baking sheet I’m piping onto. “Hopefully never?”
She gasps. “Rude! And to think I came all this way to help make sure the two of you are a solid couple.” She sounds too put out for her disappointment to be real, but I glare at her anyway, in part because she’s wrong and because she’s really struggling with keeping her voice down.
Glancing around the kitchen, I turn on the mixer that I used to whip my egg whites, hoping the whirring will cover our conversation so no one up front hears. “We’re not solid,” I argue. “And that’s a good thing.”
“Not if you want your marriage to last.”
“Which I don’t,” I remind her. I went on a whole rant about it last night, telling her about my plan to use the profits to start something new somewhere else.
Cecily eats more cookie dough, humming with pleasure as she licks her fingers. “You know, most couples go into a marriage wanting it to last forever.”
I glance at the door, as if I might be able to see Mrs. Vanderman peering through the window. “This isn’t a ‘most couples’ situation, Cece.”
“So you’ve said.”
“King and I have history that makes this complicated.”
I glance up when she doesn’t say anything else and cringe when I realize she’s giving me her therapist stare. I’ve never regretted befriending a marriage counselor more than I do right now. “What?”
She cocks her head, examining me. “Nothing.”
“What?” I demand again.
“You didn’t say much about how you and King became a couple.”
I roll my eyes and finish off the last macaron, and then I tap the cookie sheet a few times to get rid of any bubbles before stashing the tray on a cart to rest. “What more is there to say? He can’t give me the bakery unless I’m—”
“I mean before. Before you came to New York. It still baffles me that you kept him a secret all these years.”
I can’t help but wince. When I discovered the room Cecily was subleasing in her apartment when I first moved to New York, her friendship was a godsend. I was completely out of my element and already homesick, and her warm welcome gave me the courage to stick around and really try to make a life for myself in the city. We became fast friends while she went through school and I found work in a bakery, and I opened up to her in a way I haven’t with anyone else.
I told her everything. Except when it came to King. The only person I’ve ever talked to about our past relationship is Bill, and he always seemed to understand why I left, which helped me feel like I could move on.
Sighing, I lean against the counter and keep my eyes on the floor. “I was heartbroken when I left Willow Cove. Not exactly something I wanted to revisit.”
“You’re the one who ended things,” she reminds me.
“I know. But we were kids when he asked me to marry him. What was I supposed to do?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Georgie?” Emily is back again. “Are the sticky buns ready?”
I let out a curse and dash toward the oven. The buns are a little overdone, but not unsalvageable. I dish one up and hand it to Emily. “On the house,” I tell her and practically shove her back into the lobby.
Cecily snickers. “I haven’t heard you use language like that since before you started dating Lane. I haven’t seen you this relaxed either.”
I let out a laugh that feels like it’s on the verge of being maniacal. “I am not remotely relaxed,” I argue, lowering my voice. “This meeting with the attorney is freaking me out.”
“Why?”
I know she’s doing her therapist thing and trying to dig, but I’m too nervous to resist. “Because if he doesn’t think we’re really married, then the bakery—”
“Why will it be so difficult to convince him? You already said you’re attracted to King.”
I wish I hadn’t told her that part. “That doesn’t mean I can pretend to be his loving wife.”
Cecily shrugs. “All you have to do is bat your eyes at him and be all lovey dovey. If he was repulsive, I would understand the difficulty, but you had heart eyes when you were telling me about this hunky husband of yours.”
I point a finger at her. “I never called him hunky.”
“Not with your words, no. But your facial expressions?” She lets out a deep sigh, like she’s about to swoon from the romance of it all. Sometimes I wonder how her husband puts up with her romantic heart, but then I remember he proposed to her in front of the Eiffel Tower. They’re the most sickeningly adorable couple I know. “I’ll reserve judgment until I meet the man, but I have a good feeling about you two.”
I roll my eyes. “I feel like your opinions on love should disqualify you from being a marriage counselor. Real life isn’t the same as fairy tales.”
“I know that! It’s so much better. And I know you only recently got dumped in the worst possible way, so you’re allowed to be a little cynical.”
“Thank you.”
“For now.”
I sigh. “I’m glad you’re here, Cece, but you are incredibly annoying sometimes, you know that?”
She grins. “I know. But Georgie, you’re acting like you can control everything that’s happening here, and you can’t. This isn’t just about you, and you’re going to worry yourself into a mess if you keep living so scared of what other people might do. Not everyone is like Lane.”
“Georgie!” Emily pokes her head back yet again, this time with a sparkle in her eyes. “King is here.” Giving me a wide smile, she returns to the counter.
“Yay!” Cecily leaps to her feet and looks way too excited for me to feel comfortable about what might happen next. I haven’t even had a chance to process what she said before Emily interrupted. “I get to meet the pretend husband!”
“The husband part is very real,” I argue right as King steps into the kitchen.
Like it does every time I see King, my heart throbs in my chest in a way that makes me think I should get it looked at. That can’t be healthy.
He takes only a couple of steps into the kitchen before he sees Cecily, and then he stops dead, eyes taking her in before darting to me with a clear question in his gaze. Beyond that, there isn’t much to his expression, so it’s hard to know what he might be thinking.
I turn off the mixer and grip the edges of my apron, wishing I could have avoided this interaction entirely. “King, this is my friend, Cecily. Cecily, this is, uh…”
“The hunky husband,” she finishes for me.
The smallest of smiles tugs on King’s lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Cecily.” His voice is deep and rumbly, and I’m cursing the fact that he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days because that dark scruff on his jaw is tantalizing, begging to be stroked. He takes another step toward us and folds his arms, offering plenty of distractions from his face. “Did she really call me hunky?”
Cecily’s grin is far too wicked for me to be comfortable right now. “More or less. And what’s your opinion of your new wife?”
King’s eyes jump to me again, only long enough to leave a searing trail from my head to my toes. I don’t know how he manages to leave a physical sensation like that without touching me, but he does. I’m blaming the fact that I’ve only seen him in passing this week and therefore haven’t had a chance to become immune to his gaze.
“Don’t answer that,” Cecily says. There’s laughter behind the words. “Are you here to bake with Georgie?”
“Nobody wants that,” King says before I can find an excuse to get him out of my kitchen. Technically it’s still his kitchen, but considering he hasn’t been here in days, I’m claiming it as mine now. “Besides, Coop reminded me we should probably get some rings before our meeting today.”
I look down at my bare fingers. I don’t usually wear jewelry while working—getting dough out of the nooks and crannies of a ring is a nightmare—but I get a sudden and potent memory of Lane asking if I would wear a ring on the show if he gave it to me. It was an off-hand comment during one of the episodes, but it led to all sorts of speculation from our viewers. Some people even predicted Lane was going to propose to me, which started a run several episodes long that felt more like scripted reality TV than a baking show.
That was months ago. Right around the time Bill died.
“Georgie?” King says. “How are things looking here? We don’t have a ton of time before our meeting, so we’d need to go now.”
“Yeah,” I breathe and tug my apron loose. “Yeah, we should do that while we can.”
“I’ll come with you!” Cecily says brightly.
I nearly groan. I really don’t want her analyzing my every interaction with King, but if I tell her not to come with us, she’ll read too much into that too. If I thought Cecily wouldn’t come to all the wrong conclusions, I wouldn’t have told her this marriage was fake in the first place.
Not that I could have lied to my best friend. The only reason I’ve been able to do any of this is because King and I are, technically, married, so I haven’t had to lie to anyone. Technically.
King doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about my friend inviting herself on our ring-buying excursion, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to say as much, so I speak first. “That’s a good idea, Cece. You’ll be able to help me find a good one. Who’s driving?”
“Your car scares me,” King says without hesitation. “I’m driving.”
Cecily laughs out loud as she tucks her arm through mine and follows King out to the front. “I’m glad it’s not just me! I almost didn’t let her drive away in that thing.”
“My car is fine,” I complain, even if they’re probably right. I didn’t need a car in New York, but when Lane broke up with me and kicked me out of the company, I needed something to run away in. I bought the first car I came across, which in hindsight wasn’t the best idea.
“Honey.” Cecily doesn’t say anything else until we’re halfway through the lobby, probably because she’s too busy taking everything in as we walk. “I think you’d better let your husband spoil you and get you something that won’t fall apart if you drive it over thirty miles per hour.”
King glances back when he reaches the door but doesn’t respond.
I jab my elbow into Cecily’s side. “I know what you’re doing,” I hiss, even if that’s a lie. She’s the sort of person who likes to think she knows what’s best for people, which in turn leads to her making decisions for those people. She didn’t put up this much of a fuss about my car back in New York, no matter what she says, and she’s talking far louder than necessary.
Something in the lobby sparked her comment, and my money is on Mrs. Vanderman.
When we step outside onto the boardwalk, King pauses and folds his arms without a word. Before I can ask why, someone else speaks up.
“Nice to see you’re both still alive and unharmed.”
I grit my teeth. “Coop.”
He nods his head once, leaning against the side of the bakery and looking for all the world like a man without a care. He has the classic California surfer-boy look, with his wavy blond hair and board shorts, and from what I’ve heard from people coming into the bakery, he’s every bit the devil-may-care guy I remember. He flies tourists around to the nearby islands, but beyond that I get the sense that he doesn’t do much with his life.
Coop’s eyes are full of laughter as he glances between King and me, and then he looks over at Cecily. Interest sparks to life in his expression. “Who do we have here?”
“A happily married woman,” Cecily replies easily. “So keep your eyes to yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Coop is coming with us,” King says on a sigh.
“I thought you might need a buffer,” Coop says. “Though, looks like you found one yourself.”
Cecily extricates herself from my arm, somehow managing to push me into King’s side at the same time she steps closer to Coop. I have to grab King’s arm to keep from falling over. “What’s your take on this little marriage?” she asks Coop.
He frowns and looks around to make sure there’s no one to overhear our conversation. It’s still early enough in the day that the boardwalk isn’t overflowing with people yet. “I give it another week,” he says with a chuckle.
Cecily hums thoughtfully. “Interesting.”
“Can we go?” I ask, but my words falter when I realize I’m no longer holding King’s arm but his hand. When did that happen?
King looks as concerned as I am, though he’s smart enough to keep a hold of me now that we’re holding hands. There are probably people watching us through the bakery windows, Mrs. Vanderman included, and there’s no telling who else may be noticing our little conversation on the boardwalk. “Yes, we can go,” he says and leads me toward the parking lot.
Neither of us look back to see if our friends are following us.