CHAPTER TEN
Hendrix
“W hat do you mean, just know everything is okay ?” my mom asks in that searching tone of hers that says she’s about to jump on a plane to make sure I am, in fact, okay.
And that’s exactly why I’m telling her this. I know if she hears reports about Jase and me, or gets calls from the nosy neighbor across the street, Natalia, who sits on her front porch scanning the gossip sites all day, she’ll be standing on my doorstep.
“There’s a lot going on here, and I just wanted you to know that everything is okay.”
“That fucktard Paul isn’t messing with you, is he?” she asks. She went from one hundred percent Team Paul to Fucktard Paul in a matter of a month. Gotta love moms who have your back.
“No. Yes.” I sigh and scrunch my nose. “He’s being the prick I’ve learned that he is.”
“You’re okay though, right? You don’t need any money or help or—”
“I’m fine,” I lie. The woman lives paycheck to paycheck but would send the whole amount to me if I asked. “It’s just... I have a few celebrity clients right now so you might hear a few mentions of me or the bakery, and I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Why would I worry?” she screeches. “That’s fabulous, honey. Wonderful. Maybe it’ll get you seen by the right people, and the bakery will take off through the stratosphere.”
“Perhaps.” If I feel this sick to my stomach lying to her, how am I going to feel lying to the world? “Just... whatever you hear, just know that everything is okay.”
She pauses, and I sure as hell hope that mother’s intuition isn’t hitting right now. “Okay.” She draws the word out. “But that doesn’t make me feel any better about whatever it is you’re not telling me. I know you, Hendrix.”
I clear my throat. “I know. Oh, look. I have some customers coming in. I have to go.”
“You’re lying.”
“No. I’m serious. I have to go.”
She makes a noncommittal sound that says she doesn’t believe me, but I’m grateful that she lets it go. “Okay. Fine. Make sure to tell them that your mom says you have the best cookies in the world.”
I chuckle. “I will.”
But when the door chimes, alerting that a customer is here, it’s not some random person off the street, it’s Josie . Today she’s wearing polka dots on the top and stripes on the bottom and despite the fact that they should be nowhere near each other, it works perfectly for her.
“Hi,” she says as she pushes the door open and then hooks a thumb over her shoulder to the large, hulking man standing outside. “Who’s that? I’m thinking I should be alarmed that there’s a man standing at your door with a gun on his hip.” She glances over her shoulder again. “Right?”
“No. It’s—he’s—it’s just a security guard,” I say.
The security guard that Nathaniel said would be sent—though I kind of forgot about him—until I came downstairs this morning from my studio above to find him posted outside with a big smile and a scary-looking weapon holstered on his hip.
“A security guard?” She chews over the words.
“Yes.” I act like it’s just another day when it’s anything but. “His name is Sammy.”
“And why is Sammy here? Is Paul stalking you? Does some crazed, hot man want you as his goddess sex slave? Do we need to whisk you away for safety?” she asks with a dramatic flair that only she can. Her face falls. “I’m serious though. Are you okay? Why’s he here?”
“No. He’s—” What’s the lie going to be now, Hendrix ? “The landlord said the alarm was tripped a few times over the past few days. He thinks someone might be trying to break into one of the units. When he told us, one of the other tenants complained they were scared so he hired a security guard for a bit.”
She eyes me with curiosity. “So he hired a gun-toting security guard versus a pretend rent-a-cop? I think there’s more to the story that he’s not telling you.”
“There’s not. It’s fine.”
“Sounds like there is to me.”
“Sammy’s temporary. So far he seems to be a pretty cool guy. Besides, I don’t mind him being there,” I say. “So what’s up?”
Now that look of curiosity turns to pure concern. “I came to pick up my order.”
“Shit. Yes.” I scrub a hand over my face and grimace. I never miss an order—especially not for Josie who was my first and only customer for a while. “I—it’s been a crazy few days. I just lost track of—”
“Apparently.” She takes a step closer and waves her hand. “The order doesn’t matter. Skip it for all I care but, Hendrix, honey, you never forget things when it comes to your bakery. Are you sure—”
“Yes. I’m all right. I’m fine.” I chuckle and point to my cell. “I just got off the phone with my mother who asked me the same thing like twenty times. I’m just tired. I stayed up all night working on the dog party designs—I’m presenting them to the client for approval tomorrow—and somehow an entire day slipped away from me.” I laugh to cover up my embarrassment. “How about I run them over to you at the café in about an hour?”
She eyes me again. “You sure?”
“About the cookies or about being okay? How about yes, I’m sure to both?”
Josie reaches out and squeezes my forearm. “Today. Tomorrow. I don’t care when you deliver the cookies.” She smiles. “But I do care about you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.”
And I do. This life I created here with Paul has only ever included his friends, his work acquaintances, his everything... save for Josie. And I lost all those friends of his when we broke up. Not one of them has reached out since.
Yet Josie is here every day like clockwork. Checking in on me. Making me laugh. Commiserating with me about owning a small business. Caring about me.
That’s a lot in the City of Angels where everyone is from somewhere else and most can’t see beyond their own ambition to give a shit.
I don’t have a huge army of people in my corner for support, but she’s been there since the first day I moved in and it’s just how it’s been. Her, me, our businesses, and our gossip.
And now she’s standing before me with squinted eyes as she studies me. “I’m letting you off the hook right now, but I know there’s more you’re not telling me. We’ll revisit this again.”
I let the comment be. It might serve me well once I show up married to Jase as a justification as to why I’m flustered.
After more small talk and non-answers on my part, Josie heads to the café while I slink down into a chair and draw in a deep breath.
The last forty-eight hours have been a doozy. I’ve packed and unpacked my things about ten times. They’re sitting in the trunk of my car while I debate pulling them out and going through them again. What exactly does one bring to move in with her soon-to-be pretend husband when she doesn’t even know what’s expected of her?
Do you bring books to read because there will be bouts of awkward silence? What about pajamas? Do you bring onesies so there’s no temptation to unzip anything to save face from you liking him more than he likes you? Will there be food or does he have a private chef who cooks for him every night?
Then there’s the whole fact that I’m going to be married in less than two days. I’ve been sent a plane ticket, been told where to meet the car and go once I get there... but everything else feels... “ Ugh ,” I say into the silence.
There’s no manual on how to prepare for a fake marriage, nor for the unknown of the next few months.