Page 74 of XOXO

"Of course!" Miles grins — and goddamn, this asshole can be charming when he wants. "I was actually planning to do a full review in a few weeks, but I was in the area and saw the lines coming out the door." He pulls back to flash me a saucy grin. The fucking audacity. "I figured I'd stop by and see my old classmate, Willa, and get a taste of her famous chocolate mousse cake!"

"Oh..." Sarah bites her lip. "We sold out of those around noon. I'm sorry! I didn't know we—"

"No, not to worry!" Miles attempts to playfully elbow me in the side, but I step out of the way; his resulting gesture looks like a solo Irish jig. "Willa here has so kindly volunteered to make one, right in front of me, from scratch!"

"Oh!" Sarah's eyes get big again. "Well, don't let me stop you!" She nods out the back door. "Inventory's about to come in. I'm here til six, so I'm gonna help Dylan sort it out."

Ah... that explains where Dylan is. Guilt threatens to overtake me. Here I was, assuming the worst, and he's actually doing a crucial part of the job! "Thanks!" I smile. "He'll appreciate the help."

Sarah leaves with a wave, and I take that as my cue to get started.

It's been thirty minutes, and I've never felt so... disoriented.

If someone had told me this morning that Miles Compton would not only come to my bakery to demand a chocolate mousse cake with an enormous markup, but would offer polite encouragement as he watched me work, I'd have called them a liar. I'm still stunned as I move the flour to the mixing bowl.

How the hell is it possible that a man with eyes the color of a White Walker's is so... supportive? I'd never admit it, but his running commentary has been... kind? And helpful?! ("Oh, good call with the baking soda beforehand." "You chop the chocolate? Fascinating!").

All of this has got to be further proof that I'm living in a simulation.

I grab the bubbling chocolate from the stove and incorporate it into the ganache mixture. I'm at about the halfway mark, which is usually when I get started with the raspberry coulis. It's easier to get it prepped while the cake is in the oven. The additional warmth from beneath helps speed up the incorporation process.

"Hey!" I call over my shoulder, still whipping the ganache, "would you mind popping into the back to see if we've got raspberries in stock? Dylan was—" I bite my tongue, cutting myself off. No.

I can hear the smile in his voice; it's infuriating. "Dylan was... what?"

He was supposed to put in a double-order, but seeing as how his brain isn't screwed on right, I'm not sure it went through. "Nothing." I face him. "I need two quart containers of raspberries. I'd be much obliged if you got them for me, please and thanks."

Based on the look on his face, that all came out harsher than I intended. Shit. The stress of the day is piling on; I haven't eaten since the coffee I had instead of breakfast. But none of that matters when I need to keep Miles Compton happy. "Sorry," I mutter, staring at my flour-covered hands. "It's uh... been a long week."

"No," he says stiffly, pushing off from the counter. "It's fine. I'll be right back, okay?"

I reach for the sugar and another pot as he exits through the backdoor. All that's left, really, is the baking, mousse, and decorating. This is almost the home stretch! I reach for the cake rounds. Almost there, Willa. Almost.

"WHAT. THE. HELL?"

The bellow — louder than a freight train — crashes through the backdoor. I scream, the cake round in my hand clattering to the floor, but he's not done screaming. "You IDIOTS!" Miles roars, his voice carrying loudly enough for the whole block to hear. "What the FUCK were you thinking?!"

No... I'm fucking done.

Rage flares in my chest as I toss the cake round into the sink. What gives him the nerve to scream at Dylan and Sarah like that?! My nostrils flare as I wipe my hands on my apron and storm into the back alley. This is not Nigel Compton's cooking show. This is my shop. No one, and I mean no one, can treat my employees like —

Oh.

My breath freezes in my throat. Time slows to a crawl.

Because there is no way, none, that what I'm staring at in the back alley is real.

There is no way that Dylan — my high school sweetheart, my fiance, the love of my life — is shoving his dick back into his jeans.

There is no way that Sarah — the cute would-be undergrad I took a chance on, despite her lack of baking experience — is naked from the waist down, searching for her panties on her hands and knees on the gravel.

And then there's Miles, who's standing maybe five feet in front of me, and clutching two cartons of raspberries in his gigantic hands.

It takes several long, miserable seconds for the world to right itself again… and when the events in front of me begin to unfold, they seem to move more quickly. Too quickly.

Everything happens so fast I can't keep track of it. Miles is even more furious than I am, but for entirely different reasons. I'm detached, removed from my body as he rants about food safety. He points out something about how they’ve now contaminated everything in the alley, about how people can't just fuck on food carts and expect to stay in business.

Then Dylan is saying something, maybe, but there's a buzzing in my ears. I'm numb. Detached. I sink to the floor, my head in my hands. Dylan's begging now — that much I recognize, but Miles is having none of it. He screams back that he's a goddamn food critic... a mandated reporter for health and safety. That he'd lose his job if he didn't report such an egregious violation of food safety regulations.

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