Chapter 1
In her lifetime, Daisy had used more than three thousand different knives, but she’d never rammed one into a car tire.
That was a major oversight on her part, she realized.
Maybe she’d been using the kitchen utensil incorrectly all these years.
Slicing into a cake she’d spent three days working on was only half as satisfying as dicing the heavy rubber tire of this Lamborghini into tartar.
Luckily, she’d left the pastry knife behind and opted for a steak knife; the rounded tip of a pastry knife would have only led to a lot of frustration on her end and prolonged suffering on the tires'.
Sure, she was absolutely furious and didn’t know if she’d ever get over her own shortsightedness and stupidity, but she had nothing against cars in general.
As far as modes of transportation went, they held a solid third place behind helicopters (the steady thrum of the rotor soothed her) and go-karts (purely sentimental, since she’d spent the last day with her mother in one).
Ultimately, though, the Lamborghini had done nothing wrong except have a shitty owner who, in his own words, loved the car more than his own mother.
Daisy straightened up, ignoring the ringing phone in her handbag, which was undoubtedly her agent, calling to scream at her again, and brushed the blood and sand from her itchy shins.
Then she placed the tip of the knife right under the side mirror, dug it into the car’s gleaming red paint…
and dragged it, with relish, all the way down the side to the rear.
The piercing shriek of metal on metal shot through her, a satisfying echo of Joe’s high-pitched scream when she’d lunged at him, cake in hand.
If she could, she’d never forget that sound…
Oh, wait. She wouldn’t have to. Gawkers and paparazzi had filmed the whole thing and were, most likely, uploading it to TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube right this second.
She’d be able to watch the end of her career over and over again.
She gritted her teeth, grateful that her rage was masking the panic bubbling up in her stomach.
As soon as the fear won, she’d have to deal with the consequences of her last three decisions of the evening, and that would be a lot less fun than carving a middle finger into Joe’s beloved Lambo, which he’d bought himself for winning the People’s Choice Award for Favorite Movie Actor.
Shit, it would make Daisy’s situation a hell of a lot easier if he weren’t such a brilliant, charming actor. Joe was more popular than free pizza at a frat party, and that was going to be her downfall.
“Fuck!” Daisy yelled, her voice echoing through the piss-stinking parking garage, as if to emphasize just how deep in shit she was.
She should have confronted Joe in private. She shouldn’t have thrown the cake at him. She definitely shouldn’t have gotten physical. Violence, except for the violence against cars now, was never the answer.
But the slimy, lying bastard had made her so angry she couldn’t think straight, and besides, she’d tripped!
She hadn’t meant to tackle him, but she’d never been able to walk in high heels and had only worn the deadly stilettos for Joe’s sake, because her darling fake boyfriend had complained that she didn’t put enough effort into her appearance for public events and…
God, she had never felt as stupid as she did tonight!
Not even when her health teacher explained she was inflating a condom, not a balloon.
Not when her father told her she should focus more on baking cakes than eating them.
Not when she’d cursed loudly during her first live TV appearance after a raspberry fell into her cleavage, leaving an unfortunate stain in a questionable spot.
And not even when the sexy interviewer from Forbes magazine informed her that she owed her success and wealth to her large breasts and not, you know, her talent or hard work.
Worst. Birthday. Ever.
First, she’d had to bake her own birthday cake. Yes, she was a famous pastry chef, but with a net worth of nearly thirty million dollars, couldn’t Joe have bought her one? And she hadn't even had a single bite.
She should have ended the relationship months ago, but her contract stipulated she had to stick it out through the filming of the latest season of Baking with the Stars, and her career always came first, so…
“Shit,” she cursed. “Goddammit.”
She had broken the contract. That was going to be expensive. Once again, she was the problem, not the solution. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.
Furious, she sank to her scraped-up knees, ignoring the sharp pain, and stabbed the knife into tire number two. People were right: once you hit thirty, it was all downhill from…
A bright headlight flashed as a car pulled into the garage, and Daisy froze mid-stab. The black BMW rolled slowly in her direction before turning into the spot right next to her, the one marked by a sign on the wall: Private Parking - O’Leary the photographers from earlier that night would get a hundred times that for a single second.
The man opened his mouth… and closed it again. His brain probably needed all its available resources to process the situation and wonder whether a woman in her emotional state should be holding a knife.
She cleared her throat loudly. “Listen, it’s after midnight. You must be tired and want to go to bed. You look like a hard-working man who takes his beauty sleep very seriously. How else did you get so attractive? So…”
“You realize I have to call the police, no matter how sincerely you’re concerned about my sleep, right?” he interrupted her calmly.
Her mouth went dry. “I also called you attractive. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Well, I’d take the compliment more seriously if you weren’t waving a knife around while you said it.”
“Oh.” She hastily dropped the steak knife, which clattered loudly on the concrete. “Sorry, that wasn’t a threat, I forgot I was still holding it. Better? I’m harmless. Really!”
“Would the Lamborghini say the same thing?” the stranger asked doubtfully, pushing himself off the car and starting to move past her.
Shit. She was an award-winning pastry chef, how the hell could she screw up everything else?
“Okay, okay, wait!” she called, grabbing his arm.