Her head isn’t in this. That’s the problem. It’s across the street.
“Hey. You need me to help with anything back here?” I ask, picking up the stool and righting it. I brush some flour off the wood and scoop it into my hand, dumping it in the nearby trash bin.
Brooke shakes her head. She lowers her hands to her lap and looks down. “How are we doing on treats? Do I need to make more?”
“Not right now. We’re good.”
“And they’re . . . people are buying them? They want what I made?”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.”
She slowly looks up at me.
Sighing, I move around the worktop and stand beside her. “Everything out there is fabulous. Including me. We are selling as good as we always sell, because you are an exceptional baker. In fact, don’t tell Dylan this, but I actually think your red velvet icing tastes a little better than hers.”
I quickly glance behind me. The stairs are vacant. Good. She isn’t disobeying doctor’s orders and hearing my blasphemy.
“Yeah, right.” Brooke gazes up at me skeptically. Shadowy smudges line her eyes, which appear dull and lifeless. Her face is pale and a bit puffy.
How much has she cried today? Too much, I’m guessing. It’s all she’s been doing. Here. At the condo. In her bed. In mine.
She isn’t the only one running on minimal sleep. Three people to a queen bed isn’t the most comfortable arrangement.
I’ve suggested a king to Billy. He seems to think Brooke won’t be spooning with us for much longer.
I’m doubtful.
“Do I look as shitty as I feel?” Brooke asks, her chin trembling and tears threatening to fall, her hair a mess all around her, some of it tied back haphazardly while chunks tangle together along her back.
Does she look a hot mess? Yes, absolutely. But having two women as my best friends has taught me a very valuable lesson over the past decade.
Lie when you need to. And lie good. The truth is not worth the headache sometimes.
I rub her back. “You look amazing, as do I. I was actually thinking of taking a few selfies later if you want in. Capturing our first day together as a dynamic duo running this shit like we were born to do it.”
“If you put a phone in my face, I will smash it against the wall,” Brooke growls. “And then I will stab you with something for suggesting we capture this god awful moment.”
Inhaling slowly, I slide my hand off her back. “Noted. And for the record, you are definitely becoming more and more like my little cupcake upstairs.”
For fuck’s sake. How many times have I been threatened in this shop?
“Actually, I’m not. That’s the problem.” Brooke stands from her stool and picks up the sheet tray. “You see, Dylan would be able to construct these stupid fucking flowers with no problem. I can’t. I’ve tried, and I’ve tried.” She drops the tray on the wood. “And I’ve tried. None of mine are turning out right. That bride is going to be getting a cake with no flowers on it on Saturday because of me. Her cake will end up being the most boring looking wedding cake in the history of wedding cakes, because of me. And bonus, it could also taste like shit. Happy fucking wedding day.”
I walk over and grab her shoulders. “I think it’s time for a little break.”
She shrugs away from me. “A break? And where would I go on this break, Joey?” Brooke grabs a large mixing bowl off the shelf and tosses it onto the worktop. “The coffee shop? Where Mason isn’t waiting for me? Or maybe I could go to that park he took me to with the water fountain. Or the campsite. That seems like a nice break spot.” She goes about retying her apron, although I’m not sure she needs to. It seems pretty damn secure. “Or maybe I’ll just march across the street and take my break over there? See if he looks as bad as I do. See if he’s feeling anything even close to what I’m feeling, because he fucking should! He should be the one crying, and losing sleep, and,” she gives up on the trying to tie the apron and rips it off, tossing it on the floor. “And heartbroken. He should feel like he’s dying, because that’s how I feel!”
Oh shit.
She huffs out a breath and wipes at her face. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t even want this!”
I watch Brooke turn away from me, her shoulders hunched forward, her hands coming up to cradle her face as she cries and cries and cries.
Fuck! I can’t take this! I can’t take anymore more of this. It’s killing me. I love Brooke. Wild, crazy, fun to be around, Brooke. This isn’t her. This isn’t even a dulled out version of her. I have no idea who the shattered woman is in front of me, but I know who’s responsible for it.
And that asshole is about to get a little visit from yours truly.
I pick up her apron and lay it across the stool. “Take a minute to get yourself together. I’m going to turn the sign on the door and step out to get something to drink. You’re amazing. I love you. Remember that.”
Spinning around, not giving her a chance to argue or me a chance to see any more of her devastation, I move into the front of the shop and flip the sign on the door, push it open to get outside, and cross the street, sprinting to avoid traffic.
I pull on the door handle.
Locked.
“Really? No classes today, Mister Hemsworth?”
Cupping my hand on the glass, I peer inside the dark studio.
I know Mason lives upstairs. Brooke told me his set-up is similar to Dylan’s. There’s a chance he isn’t here.
There’s also a chance he is.
I dig into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, fishing through for the bobby pin I keep inside.
Billy likes to cuff me. I like to get out of them without him knowing and pounce unexpectedly like a tiger in heat.
I always get off first. Those are the rules my baby likes to forget.
Straightening the pin, I slide it inside the lock and work the mechanism. It takes less than a minute until I’m rewarded with the soft click. The swift glide of metal. I pull the door open and lock it behind me, crossing the room and bounding up the stairs. I’m ready to use the pin again when I test the knob of the next door.
Surprisingly, it turns without any resistance.
I step out into the loft. The room is darkened, courtesy of the drawn curtains, but I can make out the large figure on the bed.
Face down, breathing heavily and clutching a bottle of what looks to be tequila, Mason seems to be out cold, fully clothed and still wearing his shoes. I’m willing to bet he’s going to be waking up with the hangover of his life.
Perfect.
I flip the switch on the wall. Light bathes the room, but the man on the bed remains motionless. Stepping over dirty clothes and other shit on the floor, beer bottles, a few books, and what looks to be camping gear, I move into the kitchen and grab two saucepans from a cabinet.
And then I bang the fucking shit out of them.
Mason’s head snaps up. He blinks fast, alarm and confusion in his dimmed gaze as he attempts to focus on me. The bottle in his hand rolls off the bed and onto the floor, spilling amber liquid. He covers his one ear and buries his face into the pillow, groaning.
I toss the pans in the sink and brush off my hands.
Ah, that felt good.
“What the hell? What are you doing?” Mason grunts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I got so hungry on my walk over here I thought about making something, and then I remembered that I don’t really cook. My boo does. Thought I’d make some music instead. Did you enjoy that?”
He grumbles something I don’t make out. He slides his hand off his ear and turns his head to look at me through half-lidded eyes.
“Afternoon,” I sing, smiling as I move closer. “I gotta say, you know, I am a bit disappointed in you, Mason. I mean, for years I have been let down by American men doing dumbass shit, but you have managed to prove to me on an international level that the majority of the male race are complete fucking idiots. Way to represent your country there. Bravo.”
“What . . . how did you get in here?” he asks, still looking just as disordered, trying to sit up and then moaning, collapsing back onto his stomach. “Fuck. My head. Can you switch that light off?”