Accidental Romeo: A Marriage Mistake Romance Read online

  “Ancient history, Sugar. I was a kid a very long time ago.”

  Satisfied I have one ear right, I start on the other. Then I look him over. It couldn't have been that long ago. He's late thirties or early forties. Hardly a man even deep into middle age.

  “But you can still remember what it was like then, right? Kids are crazy,” I say, wishing I'd had a little more crazy in my own growing years.

  “How’s this?” It's his turn to ignore me.

  I glance at the long form he’d made out of the fondant. Unable not to, I laugh.

  “Um...I said logs, didn't I? Not snakes. Hunter...horses, unicorns, they've got thick, stocky legs. Those legs look more like they'd belong on an ox.”

  His chuckle comes out low, sweeping, and when he looks up, he's beaming like the sun. “You’re right. They do.”

  I smile back. I'm grateful I could make him forget whatever nest of bees I'd stirred up in his memories.

  Carrying both ears, I walk to the cake. “But leave that one as is. I’ll use it to make the horn.”

  “How?”

  I gesture at the long and narrow cone I’ve already put a cake spike in. “I’ll wrap it around that.”

  Then, glancing over his head, I look at the picture of the horse again, trying to decide exactly where to put the ears. Satisfied I've found a good spot, I step forward, doing my thing.

  One ear attachment later, I stand back.

  “Awesome, Wendy. Looks like it wants to jump right off and run. Or fly. Or whatever the hell unicorns do.”

  “Maybe. Thanks,” I tell him, laughing.

  I step forward to put on the other ear. Having him around has actually helped me out, and now I'm feeling guilty about leaving him hanging.

  “Anyway...long time ago or not, you have to remember what it was like being a teenager. That's how you help Ben.”

  “Not exactly a shining example, Sugar, even if I did. An awful lot happened when I was a kid. Bit of a hellraiser with a whole lot of hell going on in the world.” He was rolling out more fondant, this time into a thick roll.

  Far more interested than I should be, I can’t help but ask, “Like what? What hell?”

  “Nine-eleven. War. Everything turned upside down.”

  I blink, suddenly feeling a cold, icy sadness. I was five during the attacks. So I don’t remember much about that day, not like the older kids. I can’t think of anything to say, but I can’t pull my eyes off him, either.

  “My parents were both on Flight 93. The one that crashed in Pennsylvania.”

  Now, I really don’t know what to say. The breath stalls in my lungs. I finally push it out. “Oh, God. How old were you?”

  “Just turned eighteen. Finishing my senior year of high school.”

  My heart swells, and it hits me. I'm starting to feel bad for Hunter Forsythe, dammit.

  Nothing I’ve experienced in my life could compare to his pain, I know.

  I truly can’t imagine what that would've been like and feel more than a bit guilty for any complaints I’ve ever made about my parents, my life. “What did you do? Do you have siblings?”

  “A brother. My aunt moved out to California. Lived with us until we graduated. We both enlisted straight after high school. The Marines.”

  I can understand why, and tongued-tied again, I say, “Thank you for your service.”

  He nods like he's heard it a million times, then shakes his head and points to the fondant. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect.” The log shape was, but even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t say so. Not now.

  “Three more, right?”

  “Yes. No! I mean...you don’t have to keep helping. You’ve done enough already. Surely, you've got more important things to do?” Realizing I’ve been standing in one spot for too long, I move to the table and pick up the cone. “I can handle the rest.”

  He shakes his head. “I'm this far in, aren't I? I'd love to see the finished product, Wendy.”

  “It won’t be done for another hour or so. I have to paint the eyes, nostrils, hooves, and cone, and sculpt out a few more details, then pipe on the mane and tail.”

  “All the more reason for me to keep playing Mrs. Claus' little helper.”

  “No.” It comes out sharply, and he looks up. “Don't remind me how close the Christmas rush is, Hunter. I'm swamped enough.”

  He grins and stays. Despite a few more protests, which are only half-hearted.

  I don't mind him helping. In fact, if not for him, it'd take me at least an hour longer.

  He helps shape all four legs and carries them, one at a time, over to the cake while I'm busy attaching the horn, then painting on the facial features. Last, I add a few more finishes, especially to the jaw.

  I have no illusions about my work of art – it'll probably be attacked and eaten up in no time by a screaming army of little girls looking for a sugar rush. But the adults will appreciate it, I hope, and even if they don't...I do.

  This is for me. My art. My cake. My life. A little piece of my soul in everything, given to the world.

  Hunter and I talk the entire time. This time, it's him fielding questions.

  Considering all he's shared, I answer fairly. Most of them, anyway. About the shop, how long my parents have owned it, and Rochelle’s massive wedding coming up.

  I don't say more than I have to, and he doesn't push. Thankfully.

  I’m hardly one to hang out family dirty laundry, but I could. He's just so easy to talk to.

  Once the legs are attached, and the fondant smoothed to perfection, hiding any and all seams, he watches as I carefully paint the hooves to match the horn. Then he hands me bags full of colorful buttercream frosting as I carefully pipe on the mane and tail, one rainbow strand at a time.

  “Finished?” he asks as I stand back.

  “Not quite.” I’m not sure what it’s missing, but there's something.

  “Looks great,” he says. “Nah, hell with great. If I hadn’t seen till now, Sugar, I wouldn’t believe it’s a cake. More like a statue.”

  “It’s missing something.”

  “I can’t imagine what.”

  I walk over and examine the horse for several minutes before I realize what it is. Picking up the palate of edible paints, I return to it.

  “What's up?” he asks again.

  I don’t answer. Can’t. I need to concentrate.

  Carefully, I use a fine-tipped paint brush, adding long eyelashes to one eye, and then using another paint brush, I add a white dot to the blue iris.

  “Fuck me. Every little thing.”

  He whispers it to himself, but I hear it anyway and smile.

  “There. Exactly what it was missing.” I walk around the edge of the table to do the same to the other eye.

  “This cake needs to be on your website. I looked it up earlier. Pretty bare bones. Doesn't do anything here justice,” he says.

  “That's Rochelle's job, the website,” I say, walking over to set down the paint palate. “And right now, her wedding is all she’s thinking about. Midnight Morning is a million miles away.”

  “Don't care if it's Batman running your site. Take a picture and get it up there now.”

  “I will. Once it’s done.”

  “Done? It is done.” Those magnetic blue eyes of his pop as he does a double take.

  Trying not to laugh, I stretch on my toes to reach into the cupboard above the bulletin board. “Not quite. One more thing.”

  “You’ve already said that once.”

  I don't realize he's moved until he’s right behind me, and my heart skips a beat at the closeness.

  Not a distraction I need, however delicious. We’ve worked together side by side for hours, and now, with the cake almost done, it’s not capturing my full attention. I can't quite put my finger on it.

  “What do you need?” he asks, a head taller than me and easily looking past me into the cupboard.

  “There! That bag of cotton candy.” I see it, step aside, and ta
ke a deep breath, still needing to have my wits about me. “I’ll put puffs of it on the baseboard, around the unicorn.”

  He hands me the bag. “Attach it? How?”

  I open the bag. “With dollops of frosting, silly. The best. Then I’ll sprinkle it with sugar crystals.”

  “Sugar, you really do go all out.”

  I'm not even mad as I flash him a quick smile and turn around to focus. It's disturbing how fast I'm becoming perfectly okay with this stranger calling me Sugar.

  Pulling the tight clumps into loose puffs, I shrug. “That’s what makes my cakes special. Detail.”

  He shakes his head. “Bull. It's you who's making them special. I’ve never seen anyone so dedicated. Or talented.”

  Too much. Too soon.

  My cheeks are in flames. I force myself not to look at him while I add the cotton candy to the cake board. Finally, I step back, fully satisfied with the end result.

  “Now what?”

  “Now, I clean up my mess and leave it sit here until they come to pick it up.”

  “Good. Then I'll get your picture.”

  He’s already pulling out his cell phone. I nod.

  “Stand next to it, Wendy.”

  “Jeez, no! I never...I don't really like having my picture taken with one of my creations. They should shine on their own.” I hold out my hand. “Here's a better idea...I’ll take one with you standing next to it.”

  He’s already snapped several and I expect him to say no, but he just smiles and hands me the camera. He doesn't even flinch at the challenge.

  Who is this guy?

  “Fire away. Good to have somebody in there so people will believe it's actually from this planet.”

  I click a couple of pictures, trying hard not to stare at him. Then trying harder not to blush every time he shifts, all smiles and tall, thick, corded muscle behind badass denim.

  “Thanks again for your help. I really do appreciate it.” Glancing at the clock, which is pushing eleven now, I grab my phone to take a couple last solo pictures of the cake. “I’m not sure I’d have finished in time without you.”

  “My pleasure.” He draws in a breath and looks at the door. “Guess I'd better go talk to your mother now.”

  I stop clicking pictures. “My mother? Why?”

  “To tell her we have a deal. And you're okay with it.”

  Totally confused, I shake my head. Then I remember Ben, and his possible job here. “Okay. I mean, it's not my choice to make. Ben won’t be helping me decorate cakes anyway.”

  “I know.” His grin grows. “We’ve already agreed he’ll be washing dishes.”

  There's a strange flicker of confusion. I don't follow.

  “Then...what deal with my mother are you talking about?”

  The full-blown smile on his face is back, beaming like the sun. “The one where she gives Ben a job. In exchange, I'll be your date for your sister's wedding.”

  It’s a full second before I completely comprehend what he just said.

  My stomach sinks. My world spins. Gravity itself implodes.

  “Oh. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” Anger and panic compete for a full grip on my throat. “Oh, hell no!”

  4

  Coming Clean (Hunter)

  “Come on, Bud, cut the kid some slack.” Sloan claps my shoulder. “I bet you fucked up in school plenty, and look at you now – owner of a billion-dollar company. That’s billion, with a b. Ben doesn’t have to worry about grades. He's got your blood.”

  “Yes, he does,” I say, staring at the report card that's just arrived in the day’s mail. “Just because we have money doesn’t mean he can be a slacker. He needs an education.”

  “Were you an A-student?” Sloan asks with a smirk. He knows the answer, waving the open end of his beer bottle at me. “Hell, those grades are probably Mr. Average. Cs and Ds get degrees. And then if they've got the natural smarts and the cojones like our boy, they go on to do awesome things. You're worrying too much, Hunter.”

  Maybe he's right. But deep down, I suspect he isn't.

  I’d never gotten straight As. Neither had Cory, but our grades had been a hell of a lot better than this.

  “This.” I wave the mid-term report in the air. “Isn't average, Sloan. Cs are average. Ben has one of those.” I glance at the slip of paper and toss it onto the coffee table. “In gym class, dammit!”

  Sloan crosses the room and leans against the massive stone fireplace in the den. Standing there, he could give a medieval knight a good run for his gold. He's big, about my size, former military and always lifting regularly. His long black hair and aviator jackets would disqualify him from most senior corporate positions, if he didn't have an in with me, and he hadn't proven his worth time and time again.

  I think there are seven – no, eight fireplaces – counting the one in my bedroom, in the house, all gas. All with remotes to turn them on and off.

  “Well, then, perhaps Benjamin needs a tutor rather than a job.” Sloan empties his bottle of beer. “I could find one for you. Hire them. Let Uncle Sloan fix everything right up.”

  I take a pull off my dark, thick beer and set it on the side table. “I’m sure you could. Probably one that'd look like those nannies you hired over the years. You know. Little ass and big tits.”

  Sloan waves his empty bottle at me while walking toward the double mahogany doors that hide the bar in the corner. “Some of those women were fine, brother. Mighty fine. Still can’t believe you didn’t appreciate what I’d put in front of you, ripe for the picking.”

  I roll my eyes. It's incredible that this walking party animal is my age, and my official executive support to all of Landmark.

  He's damn good at his job, though. Always focused. Never misses anything.

  “Have you always thought with your dick?” I ask, shaking my head.

  He laughs, drops his empty bottle in the trash bin, and opens the door of the fully stocked fridge.

  I shake my head when he holds up a beer, asking if I'll have another. He closes the fridge door and then the double doors, pops the top off his beer with the underside of his ring, and takes a long swallow.

  “Why didn’t the school call me?” I ask while picking up the slip of paper again. “His old school would've. It's supposed to be the best in the district since the lines changed.”

  “He’s in high school now, bucko. They aren’t gonna call you. Classes are...what? Like forty kids average? Some underpaid teacher sure as shit don't got time to go chasing after everybody.”

  I frown. I'm not liking his attitude, or where this is going. Something tells me Ben's teachers are working plenty hard, and the problem isn't there.

  Sloan walks over and sits in one of the leather recliners flanking the couch I’m sitting on. “Did yours ever call your parents? Mine sure as hell didn’t. Thank Christ. They sure as hell didn’t need to know what me and the librarian did in the janitor’s closet.”

  I shake my head at the way he waggles his eyebrows. “You've always thought with your dick, haven’t you?”

  “Gotta say it’s served me well over the years. Very well.”

  I should laugh. I know he’s trying to help, to lighten the mood as always, but this is different.

  Ben’s grades are nothing to joke about. If I fail at this, fail Ben, it means I’ve failed Cory.

  Failed my only brother all over again.

  “Hey, Bud.” Sloan leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You have your mind stuck in the past again? Is that what’s happening here?”

  I say nothing. I don't need to.

  Sloan knows better than anyone how old tragedies that happened a dozen years ago can get under my skin. Things I haven’t yet come to grips with because I haven’t figured them out. Stuck searching for the same fucking answers, which always seem to be elusive.

  I appreciate how he’s always been here for me during those times.

  Encouraging me to stay focused on the present, on what really matters.

  T
oday, this isn’t one of those times.

  “Bud? Hello? You in there? Ground control to Major Forsythe?” He reaches up and knocks against his own thick forehead several times, then sweeps a lock of hair away.

  “No. This is all about Ben. Honestly.” A shiver pricks the skin on my arms. “He could've been killed yesterday.”

  “Yeah, well, he wasn’t. Wasn’t even hurt, so stop worrying about it. Time to get over it and thank our lucky stars someone was watching over him.”

  Yeah, someone. I'm glad Wendy was there rather than a more reckless driver.

  Of course, I'm thankful Ben wasn’t hurt, but don’t think I’ll get over it so easy.

  How the fuck can I? I’ve agreed to be Wendy’s date for her sister’s wedding.

  A woman I barely know. Set up with a man who hasn't gone on a real, honest-to-God date in over a decade.

  Sure, the look on her face when I told her the big secret was priceless.

  Spending the morning with her assembling the unicorn had been fun, too. I hadn’t meant to be there so long. When I’d knocked on the door of that little back room, I’d only planned on telling her about the deal her mother was offering, willing to let her decide if I should take it or not.

  Her father seems like an understanding enough guy for simple business transactions, but her ma...she's one demanding woman.

  I figured Sugar and Spice might need a little support, if she was ever to decline the deal offered, and figured helping with the cake would be the least I could do.

  But then, I’d seen her again.

  With her maroon Gophers sweatshirt, sleeves off and neck cut open, that mass of blonde hair clipped up in a ponytail. My mouth had gone dry. All my senses transferred to my dick, ready to burst out and mount her right there on the steel counter like a wild animal.

  Until I saw the cake.

  What was a clump of shapeless brown slowly became a majestic unicorn. It was like watching an artist working, how she’d gone on to transform it.

  Maybe I've got a thing for artists. Who the hell knew? Wendy Agnes is certainly an amazing one.