Page 72 of XOXO

My heart stops. My head spins.

There's no way I heard that right. It must be someone else with the same name. A delirious giggle crawls up my throat. What an unfortunate name to have! This poor dude doesn't even know he's named after the worst fucking human being alive! The man who ruined my life — twice. The man who's evil incarnate. The man who shows up whenever my life seems like it's finally getting back on track. The Wheel of Fortune wouldn't do this to me, not now. It simply must be a mistake. It must—

It's not.

Miles Compton — six feet of evil, with ice blond hair to match his soul — steps onto the stage beside Rick.

And with that, my life is over.

Valentine's Day, One Year Ago

I stand, travel mug in hand, and turn to survey my kingdom. Or queendom. Is kingdom gender-neutral? Either way, I let out a deep breath and give my pastry shop a thorough once-over. I started setting up our Valentine's Day theme in early January, and it shows.

This year, I outdid myself. The bakery's pale pink walls come alive against the loping paper streamers draped across the ceiling. A crisp white cloth covers each table, with a miniature vase of flowers perched on each tabletop. Delectable — and by now, thoroughly inedible — treats call to me from the glass case behind the register; keeping a display stock of deliberately preserved goodies is one of the many tricks of the trade.

I draw a deep breath and sip my coffee. At least the smells in here can't be faked. An aroma of buttery croissants and rich chocolate hangs in the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of rosewater from the macarons. Besides the standard weekend rushes, bakeries (or, if you're feeling pretentious, patisseries) have a handful of super-busy days each year. Since Dylan and I opened this place two years ago, our busiest days have been Valentine's Day, Mother’s Day, and Christmas.

Ah, Dylan.

I sigh down at my left hand, where my diamond ring sparkles against the fairy lights behind the register. He's been better lately. Not perfect, but better. It's only natural for high school sweethearts to bicker and argue, especially when they co-own a bakery. And attended culinary school together. And live together. And are engaged. That last word stirs a wave of bitterness in my stomach. I do my best to ignore it as I stride behind the register and drop my belongings in our tiny office.

The whole "engaged" thing is something we've worked on in couples counseling... a lot.

It's just that after knowing him since high school and co-owning everything from a house to a small business, I kinda expected us to be more than engaged. We're both pushing thirty. But as Dr. Dubrow always says, you can't force someone who's not ready — and I'm far from perfect myself. This year, I'm pleased that Dylan’s taken the lead in a lot of business decisions. When we first opened up shop, I did everything myself. For the past year, he's been in charge of the non-baking side of things. Dylan's now the go-to guy for paperwork and general business operations, including safety and equipment inspections.

I heave another sigh and pull on an apron. There's a whole tray of pan de chocolate that needs to be baked and prepped, so I'll start with that. I’m far from perfect, but what I bake is pretty damn close. I get such unique joy out of transforming basic ingredients into something to share with others; getting paid to do this is just the icing on the cake. I snort at my own terrible joke and turn the ovens on. I'm cheesy and predictable — and I refuse to believe there's anything wrong with either quality.

I work by myself through sunrise. Sarah and Diamond, our two employees, come in around nine o'clock, when their scheduled shifts start. I put them to work pretty quickly. They double-check all the pre-orders and make sure the preserved display items match what we've actually got in stock. Yes, that's a bigger problem than one might think.

The first "layer" of items are usually just for eye candy purposes, which means we need to have a real item either behind it or in the back. After all, our little bakery's in the Central Business District, one of the bougiest places in DC. We've had many Karens complain about "false advertising" when our obviously fake bakery items weren't, in fact, available for purchase.

By the time Dylan finally shows at ten, we're swamped. The line's out the door, with most customers shoulders-to-shoulder in the bakery's tight space. Dylan manages to shuffle past the swarm of pea coats and purses and squeeze his way to the register, where he finally greets me with a lazy wave. "Good morning to you, too," I mutter, setting my jaw as he slides past me, but if Dylan hears this, he disregards it. Fabulous.

I'm impressed with myself for compartmentalizing all of this as I deal with the rush. Distraction helps. The endless stream of thank yous and no, sirs puts my mind at ease. When I'm busy, I'm useful. When I'm busy, I have less time to consider how Dylan's really getting on my damn nerves.

This is the exact thing we've been working on in couples counseling for a full year. As Dylan well knows, I come from a family where I had to handle literally everything myself — bills, rent, maintenance, cooking. Doing everything for everyone is second nature... but during times like this, when I'm really and truly overwhelmed, I wish it didn't have to be.

The little bell on the door jingles with the departure of the final customer, and I slump over against the register, exhausted. I've been up since four am, and it's now... I squint down at my watch. Five thirty in the afternoon?! I let out a low whistle. How the hell is it that late? Guilt surges through me. I haven't even had the chance to let Sarah and Diamond get their lunch breaks, but maybe Dylan took care of it. Then again, says a nagging voice in the back of my head, maybe not. Maybe he—

The door jingles again. Another customer. "Hi!" I greet brightly, fixing my face again. "Welcome to—"

I stop short, my jaw hanging open. Of all the people in the goddamn world, what is Miles Compton, my sworn enemy, doing in my bakery?

His hair's parted in a douchey blond wave as he marches towards the register, hands stuffed in the pockets of his designer jeans. What, no entourage? Maybe the rumors around town aren't quite true. Since graduating from our culinary school class with flying colors (which he couldn't have done, by the way, without screwing me over), word is that Miles has taken the DC food critic scene by storm — and not in a good way.

My personal bias aside, he's known as an unflinching hard-ass. Allegedly, his write-up in The Washingtonian single-handedly closed Mrs. Lovett's, an adorable little pie shop on H Street. Of course, I'm sure Miles' newfound employment is totally unrelated to the fact that his father, Nigel Compton, is literally world famous. Must be nice to have a famous chef daddy who gets paid to scream at strangers for their cooking incompetence...

As he draws closer, I draw a deep breath and try to collect my thoughts. I soon abandon this plan in favor of gripping my hand into a tight fist and pretending his balls are in my palm. That does the trick.

It's amazing, really, how quickly my blinding hatred for everything relates to Miles Compton puts my mild irritation with Dylan into perspective. "Miles!" I clear my throat, my painted-on smile faker than ever. "Didn't expect to see you here. In our bakery!" I fight to keep that smile on my face. "How long's it been?"

His ice-blue eyes flit to mine... and fuck.

I forgot how much I hate those eyes. I've hated them from the second we met in culinary school — a day I'll never forget. We were just starting our unit on meat fabrication, and the professor, Chef Blanco, made us go around the class and introduce ourselves. I felt Miles' piercing eyes on me before I heard him speak — although saying that they were on me doesn't quite describe how thoroughly unnerving that sensation was. It was more like I could feel them burning through my soul. Viewing my darkest secrets.

Undressing me.

Even now, I gulp as he stares at me. His eyes are still that eerie shade, and I hate it.

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