Chapter 18
My thumb reaches my mouth, and I chew absently at the cuticle. When I glance at the clock on the dash of Parker’s truck, I instantly wish I hadn’t.
“Remind me again why we couldn’t call this person?” My knee bobs up and down as I dwell on how much time we’ll have wasted if this doesn’t work.
“She doesn’t keep her cell phone on her when she’s working,” Parker explains.
“Good thing we’re just going to show up unannounced, then,” I deadpan. “Much less disruptive.”
“It’s barely four o’clock. It’ll be quiet at this time of day, I promise. And we won’t be long.”
The clock ticks forward another minute, mocking me.
“How do you know her, again?”
His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. “Old friend.”
Oh-kay. Once we got in the car, Parker clammed up.
I’m not sure if this is a sore subject or his way of boundary setting.
Fair, I guess. How he knows this person is none of my business.
But I can’t ignore the feeling that I’ve been reprimanded for asking.
Weren’t Parker and I becoming friends? Judging by his tight grip on the wheel and his sudden, glaring silence, maybe I’m overreaching. Again.
Mercifully, we arrive at our destination. Parker guides the truck into a spot at the curb outside The Cabin, the same bar we came to with Sam the other night. In the middle of the day, we don’t have to compete for a spot.
He throws the truck into park and climbs out, with me following his lead.
He hesitates at the bar's door, a thick, solid wood with no window to peek through. A flicker of something like worry passes over his face, twitching his jaw beneath the faint smattering of brown stubble. Before I can ask him if everything’s okay, he grips the handle and jerks it open, holding it for me to go ahead of him.
I duck under his arm, blinking as my eyes adjust from the bright October sunlight to the dim interior of the stuffy bar.
Something sticky grabs at my shoes with every step on the dark, diamond-patterned floor, which I’m afraid to look too closely at in the light of day.
A few day drinkers sit around the room, mostly alone.
One of them lifts his glass at us, and Parker gives him a stiff nod of acknowledgment.
Thankfully, he doesn’t stop to chat. The man, with a long, thick beard and sallow skin, turns his glassy eyes on me next, and my step falters as he sizes me up with an unabashed leer.
Parker puts his hand on the small of my back and I let him tug me closer to his side and steer me forward.
As we approach, the sharp eyes of a tall, striking brunette behind the bar lock on Parker from the other side of the bar.
I recognize her instantly as the bartender from the other night, the one Parker seemed familiar with.
Cass, I think Sam said her name was. She’s wearing a buffalo plaid shirt unbuttoned over a tightly fitting black tank top, the bottom tied at her midriff.
Her long, sleek hair trails down her back like she’s freaking Rapunzel.
I can’t help my sinking feeling as I realize how Parker must know her.
Old friend? My ass. As if any straight male would be just friends with a bombshell like her.
“Checking up on me again?” she asks as Parker approaches the bar. She sets a glass down and dries another.
Parker’s hand drops from my back. At the loss of contact, I have the irrational urge to loop my arm through his to stake some claim—of which, of course, I have none.
“We both know you don’t need checking up on,” he answers stiffly. “I need a favor.”
The woman’s eyebrow quirks up over one of her heavily lined eyes. I stay back, one hand resting on my elbow as I wait for an introduction.
“A favor? That’s a new one. You sure you want to be in my debt? I can think of a few ways you could repay me,” she says with a wink.
Parker pulls the baseball hat off his head, runs a hand through his hair, and puts it back. He’s uncomfortable, though, whether it’s because of Cass’s blatant flirting or because I’m standing right next to him while she does, I can’t be sure.
“Uh … not so much, but we’re in a pinch.”
She acknowledges me for the first time, her wary eyes grating over me with no reservations whatsoever. Suddenly, her smile doesn’t seem so friendly.
“Hi, I’m Sloan,” I say, stepping forward so I’m standing next to Parker on this side of the tall counter.
“Tibby’s niece,” Parker clarifies.
Huh. I try not to dwell on the fact that he hasn’t included that we are also friends. Kind of. The way she’s eyeing him, she clearly suspects he’s leaving something out as well.
“Uh-huh. What do you need, trouble?”
Parker gives her the quick version of the situation before asking the question we came here for.
“You want me to make a birthday cake?” she asks.
Parker rubs the back of his neck and looks at me for help. As hard as he’s trying, he still doesn’t get exactly what I’m trying to accomplish. He’s gotten us as far as he can, and now it’s my turn to jump in.
“I was hoping for cupcakes. And it’s for a bachelorette party?”
I’m not sure why I phrase it as a question.
I cringe at how stupid it sounds. For a second, I’m back to doubting this whole thing.
But then I remember what Lyla could do, and I know the word cupcake doesn’t do it justice.
Her decadent creations are unique and elaborate, they’re more than desserts; they’re a full experience.
Shoving my doubt as far back in my mind as it will go, I shake my shoulders and lift my chin to reset my confidence.
“You can’t make a cake from a box yourself?” Cass hasn’t stopped working the whole time we’ve been here, and now starts deftly slicing limes into small wedges, filling a stainless-steel bucket in preparation for the evening rush.
I bristle at her implication. She seems to have a similar opinion of me to Parker's when we first met. But I’m no princess. And I’m suddenly more determined than ever to give Veronica the best damn party she’s ever thrown. Even if that means taking shit from Parker’s ‘friend.’
I bite back the correction I want to give her about wanting cupcakes instead of cake and instead address the most important issue, schooling my voice into something more confident.
“It’s a little more involved than that. It’s meant to be a classy, elevated experience.
And it doesn’t have to be cupcakes. Parker said you’re an amazing cook.
It could be an assortment of tarts, squares, that kind of thing.
Whatever you can do. As long as it’s not store-bought, I’ll be happy,” I try for a joke to find some way to connect with her.
Instead, her face closes off even more. “What’s the pay?”
The bluntness of her question surprises me, but I’ve done this before and recover quickly, sharing what I think is a fair rate for the number of people I’m expecting.
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m on firm ground.
This is familiar. This is doable. I’ve been so focused on the parts of the business that I wouldn’t be able to do without help that I’d glossed over everything Lyla used to lean on me for.
A flicker of confidence and something like hope sparks inside me.
When Cass asks when the party is, though, I stumble.
Sensing my hesitation, Parker jumps in again. “That’s where the favor comes in. It’s on Saturday.”
She scoffs. Towards me, she’s been angry. When she turns her attention back to Parker though, there’s worry on her features. “How did you get roped into calling in favors for this?” she asks, a reluctant softness creeping into her tone.
Parker lets out a long breath. “It’s important to Tibby.”
I drop my eyes to the sticky floor. Right. Tibby. Of course, he isn’t doing any of this for me. I tell myself that doesn’t bother me.
Cass shakes her head, going back to her task of slicing limes. “So, once again, a fire that has nothing to do with you is up to you to put out.”
Parker rests the heel of his hand against the bar. “It’s not like that, Cass. I’m just helping out a friend.”
“It is like that, though, Parker.” She sets down the knife, her hands braced on the counter as she fires a hard look at him. “When will you stop letting other people’s problems drag you down?”
“That’s not—look, I thought you could use the money. That’s it. Okay?”
Her eyes cut to me, and I’m feeling like she’d rather I wasn’t privy to this amount of detail about her personal life.
“I could,” she answers. “But tomorrow’s Friday; I’m working a double.”
“Right, and tonight’s Thursday. You never close on Thursdays.”
She shoots him an annoyed look. “What am I supposed to do about Mason, huh? The sitter already bailed on me this afternoon, so it’s not like that’s even an option—”
“Wait, what?” he asks.
“I said the sitter canceled on me today. I missed three shifts this month when Mason was home sick with the flu, and I have rent to pay. I’ve got enough to deal with without taking on other people’s problems.”
“So, Mason is …”
She waves her hand towards a door to what I presume is an office, maybe a kitchen. “He’s in the back, coloring.”
Parker’s shoulders slump, and the look on his face is one I can only describe as tired. It screams we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Her hands drop as she braces herself on the bar top to stare him down. “Because you have a job too, and it’s not taking care of a six-year-old.”
“Cass,” he says, a small amount of pleading in his voice. “Hanging out with Mason isn’t work. I’m happy to do it.”