CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hendrix
T he scent of cinnamon and vanilla clings to my skin, seeping into my clothes, my hair, probably my damn soul at this point. The industrial mixer hums in the background, a steady rhythm that should be soothing but isn’t, only because I’m drowning in icing and the long wait between when one color dries so I can do the next.
Time is not my friend right now. Not when another order just came in and I’m determined to get the dog birthday cookies done and take on this new order.
I may have money being deposited in my bank account, but I learned in the past few months that “rainy days” are a real thing and I need to prepare for them accordingly. Slacking off now isn’t an option.
The bell above the bakery door jingles.
A little thrill shoots through me. Customers aren’t exactly chomping at the bit to come buy my cookies and so any chance I get to possibly gain a new one is exciting.
And that statement alone shows how new I am at this whole thing.
I wipe my hands on my apron and peek over the counter. A woman stands near the front case. I can’t tell whether she’s more interested in the cookies or scrolling through her phone—which is a common thing these days—so I stand there politely and wait so I don’t distract her.
But as she scrolls, she keeps glancing up at the menu above my head and then quickly back down every few seconds in a way that has me taking notice.
Then it dawns on me. She’s not looking at the menu. She’s looking at me .
Another jingle at the door. Another shuffle of feet into Cookie Cutter.
Then another.
What the hell is going on?
Sammy meets my eyes through the front glass window, almost as if to ask if I’m okay. I nod to which he does the same in kind.
They’re customers. Why would I ever need help with that? It’s exciting. Exhilarating. It’s income.
“May I help you?” I ask the first woman in line who’s still standing there with a flush in her cheeks and her phone angled up as if she’s taking a picture of the menu.
But before she can answer, another group of women in their late teens or early twenties file in. The five of them huddle together, whispering loudly. Are you sure? Do you think? I don’t understand how she did it?
They murmur to each other, their gazes flicking in my direction before snapping away when I catch them.
My stomach twists.
I know.
I know before I even reach for my phone, before my fingers start fumbling to unlock the screen.
The photos have leaked.
My fake wedding. My fake husband. My private moments.
The world knows.
My hand trembles as I scroll to find the pictures, but it doesn’t take long.
They. Are. Everywhere.
Jase’s hand on mine. His lips ghosting just above my skin. The stupidly intimate way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear like he’s been doing it for years. It’s all been captured, frozen in time, and sold to the world like a goddamn blockbuster premiere. A perfectly crafted moment, staged just right, and yet with so many good, personal memories behind them for me.
It’s fake. It’s nothing.
And yet, the tightness in my chest tells me I’m lying to myself.
But now, it’s out there for the world to devour. To criticize. To question.
For a second, an electric thrill zips through me.
It’s real now. We are real. Even if it’s just in headlines, in speculation, in tabloid gossip. It feels big. Overwhelming. I am officially Hendrix Gizmodo to the world.
Then the panic sets in.
I am not ready for this. Will I ever be ?
But definitely not today. Not when my entire counter is covered in half-finished cookies already earmarked for an order and not enough cookies made for an influx of customers.
Customers? Not really. More like looky-loos.
A bead of sweat drips down my back.
“Can I help anyone?” I ask as if nothing has changed when inside I’m absolutely panicking. They just keep staring as if I’m going to suddenly break out into song and confess all my deepest, darkest secrets. Or how big Jase’s cock is. I have a feeling they’d want one more than the other. I force a polite smile as I fight the nervous bout of laughter threatening to bubble up. “We have all different types of cookies. We have coffee and tea.”
“Is it true?” someone shouts out, getting a murmured consent from the rest of the crowd as the door jingles for a third time in as many minutes.
I don’t have to ask what she means. Is it true you’re married to Gizmo ?
I smile and purposely run my hand through my hair so that the diamond shoots prisms of light all over the room. The subtle gasps that ring out are all the answers I need to know that they caught the subtle hint.
There might even be a muffled sob mixed somewhere in there.
I fight the smile that threatens to break through. But that smile lasts only a few seconds as some of the women file out, muttering.
“Total bullshit.”
“I’m prettier than her. What the fuck does she have that I don’t?”
“Talk about average. Like... what the fuck, Giz?”
I can’t do this right now. And I sure as shit am not going to let their cruel, jealous words ruin the incredible high from sex with Jase last night. Or the myriad of feelings that sex has created this morning.
And while I recognize their cattiness for what it is, that doesn’t mean each time another group of women come in, another set of comments is spouted off, that it doesn’t erode that joy a little more.
Bit by bit.
Hour by hour.
I force my attention back to my work, trying to ignore the whispers, the way I feel people watching me, like I’m a caged animal at the zoo.
By the time the day ends, I’m wrecked.
Not only am I wrecked, but halfway through the day, I put a sign on the front case that if they’re going to stay longer than five minutes, they have to purchase something.
Despite the sign, I greet everyone with a sugary-sweet tone that would make my buttercream jealous, aware of how my every action and words can be twisted on social media or posted if someone might secretly be recording me while doing so.
But those purchases used up all my inventory for the day and had me siphoning some from the order I’m working on in the back so that I have items to sell.
And that makes me even further behind with my order schedule and with trying to figure out how I’m going to bake extra cookies for the store tomorrow because no doubt, the news will spread and more people will come.
It’s not necessarily a bad problem to have. It’s great actually. I just need to look at it as a little bonus to this whole prelude because when we divorce, no doubt I’ll be dubbed as having the worst cookies in town or some juvenile shit like that.
But by closing time, I’m spent. My hands ache, my back is stiff, and my hair—what’s left of it after I stress-yanked my ponytail loose about a hundred times—is coated in a fine layer of powdered sugar. Or is that flour?
Who knows?
Who cares?
No doubt there will be some pictures of me hitting the internet today and I’ll be far from glamorous in them. The thought bugs me, but then again, isn’t that part of my appeal to Jase? That I’m normal, everyday-ish?
The best part of the day is when I lock the doors and focus on what I need to do without distraction. Finish the damn dog cookies. And maybe drink a glass of wine while doing it.