Chapter 17
Reese
"Martha Booker ordered a wedding cake from us?" Vivian's voice booms into the kitchen and the click of her three-inch pumps echoes through the room.
"Uh-huh..." is all I offer as I squeeze the peanut butter frosting over the top of the jelly-filled cupcake sitting on the counter in front of me.
"Martha Booker is getting married?" I hear the very distinct waiver in her voice.
Struggling not to roll my eyes, I carefully set the cupcake on the serving tray and move on to the next one. "Yup, she's getting married. That's why she ordered a wedding cake," I quip.
That ticks my sister off. "Okay, you really need to not be snarky right now, Theresa!"
Vivian’s biological clock ticks louder than the water-resistant analog watch on my wrist informing me that it’s 7:45 in the morning. The bakery opens in fifteen minutes. I’m running behind and I don’t have time for this conversation. And more importantly, I shouldn’t have to deal with my older sister yet. She doesn’t need to be here until 11:00, right before the lunch rush. But, as usual, she’s here several hours early to be a pain in the butt. Viv makes the bakery the center of her universe…when she isn’t obsessing over the fact that she’s still not married.
Today, her pestering is particularly unwelcome because I’m still thinking about Leo. Ever since he kissed me, this crush has morphed into a monster.
The taste of his lips still lingers in my mind. The feel of his large hands is imprinted on my skin. And yesterday, I opened up my big, stupid mouth and told him that I don’t want him.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
I want him. More than I’ve ever wanted any man. I want to taste those lips again. I want to taste every tight, tanned, paint-speckled inch of his skin. But I know that’d only be trouble. That’s why I brushed him off yesterday.
My sister is still glaring at the side of my head.
Ugh! Not today. Please.
Vivian falls apart every time she learns that one of the girls she went to school with is engaged or having a baby. Her 30th birthday is peaking its head around the corner, and every now and then, it jumps out and spooks her.
"Martha Booker used to pick her pimples to the point that they were bleeding. In the middle of Geography class! And she's getting married..." My sister's voice trails off and I hear her ask the silent question that's always on the tip of her tongue; What's wrong with me?
I set down the icing tube and turn to face her. She stands in front of me with glassy eyes, wearing her pearl earrings and pale pink floral dress, cinched tight at the waist. She looks like the ultimate 1950s housewife, as usual. "Viv, it's not a contest," I say softly. "You'll meet someone. When the time is right."
She huffs. "I'm not jealous. Please! I feel sorry for whoever would marry Martha Booker. The guy must be a real lemon." Before I can respond, she changes the topic. “Did you work on that sales report I asked you for?”
“I haven’t had time,” I say. My mind immediately swerves to what I ended up doing the last time I sat down to prepare that report. The memory of Leo’s kiss invades my senses. I feel light-headed.
“Well, did you at least read the Bakery Customer Trend Research Paper that I emailed to you last week?” Her tone is decidedly judgy.
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “No time.”
She folds her arms across her chest and exhales heavily. “Reese, if you want to be a partner in this business, you’re gonna have to start acting like one.”
Am I really your partner, Vivian? ‘Cause you kinda sorta act like I’m your little bitch.
She throws her arms up exasperatedly. “Man—I ask you to do the most basic thing and you have to drag your feet.”
I sigh roughly and glance at my watch. 7:52. She’s really killing my vibe right now. “Viv, let’s not do this…”
"I need you to step up, Theresa. I have a lot on my plate and sometimes, you're no help."
"That's not fair—"
She won’t hear me out. Instead, she starts counting off items on her fingers. "The health inspector’s coming by for a kitchen inspection next week. The fire department sent a letter claiming we're not up to code. The permit office is holding up our terrace permit for some reason. There’s a lot on my plate."
“Viv, I understand that you have a lot on your plate. But so do I. I start work at 4 in the morning. I’m on my feet all day. Then, I have to rush out of here to get Brenton from school and he usually wants to go to the park for a few minutes. Then, I take him home, cook for him, bathe him—"
Vivian interrupts me. “Wait—who’s Brenton?”
“The kid who lives next door to me. It’s just him and his dad, Charlie’s friend, Leo.” I say it matter-of-factly. Total indifference. Nonchalance. No big deal.
She looks utterly baffled. “Why are you babysitting the kid who lives next door to you? Do you have the hots for his dad?” She plants one hand on her hip and watches me suspiciously.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Viv. I do not have the hots for Leo.” My stomach tightens on the lie. “I’m just being a good neighbor. Lending a helping hand. The guy is going through a divorce and he’s obviously overwhelmed so I’m helping out.”
Her disbelieving expression deepens. “Seems like a big responsibility to take on out of the goodness of your heart.”
“Well, Charlie thinks it’s a good idea.” My voice is all high-pitched and defensive.
She rolls her eyes. “Then maybe you should ask Charlie to do the sales report since his opinions are getting in the way of you doing your job.”
I throw my head back and groan. My sister is infuriating. “Look—Viv, I’ll do the damn report, okay? If that’s what it takes to get you off my back. But I really, really think we should hire some help.”
“We can’t afford to hire help.”
“I’m sure if we looked at our budget, we could squeeze it in somehow. We’re burning ourselves out.”
She gives me a hard look but instead of arguing, she twirls around causing the full skirt of her dress to twirl like a petulant ballerina. She stomps in the direction of the office. Her steps halt in the doorway and she glances at me over her shoulder. “You sure nothing’s going on between you and your neighbor?”
I lie again. “Nothing’s going on.”
She inspects my face for a solid ten seconds. Then her eyes go round and panicked eyebrows lift high on her forehead. “I swear to god—if I find out you’re getting married before me, I’m going to murder you.”
I wince hard as she continues her procession into the office and slams the door behind her.