Page 10 of Tasting Sin

“I really don’t know. What if he holds it over my head or something?” I reached around her, turning the mixer she had probably forgotten about off. My stomach flipped, and I tried to ignore the nerves that fluttered there by focusing on scooping spoonfuls of purple frosting into a piping bag.

When I looked at Ava, she had one brow lifted and her arms crossed over her chest. “He looked like he had his shit together. What do you think he’s going to hold over you?”

“I don’t know, Ava. Can you just drop it?” I didn’t want to talk about Ronan Moretti or my brother anymore.

“Fine, but only because we both know you’re going to let him help you when he inevitably comes back.” She shrugged, and I grumbled. She was wrong. I wasn’t going to let Ronan help me. I’d rather lose the bakery than owe him a favor.

Wouldn’t I?

“There’s my best guy,” I said, closing the door to my apartment and locking both deadbolts. My orange tabby cat crawled his way between my feet, chirping like he did every time I got home. I hung my purse on the hook hanging by entryway mirror, squatting down to scratch behind his ears. “Hi Spice, my little sweet pumpkin boy.”

Spice kicked his feet back, meowing loudly and flicking his tail. He stretched, dancing his way between my legs again and then running off toward the kitchen. When I wasn’t directly behind him, he scurried back, circled my legs again, and took off. It was his usual reminder that it was dinner time—as if I’d ever forgotten to feed him.

I grabbed a can of cat food from the cabinet, plucking at the tab and pulling it back. As soon as he heard the quiet hiss that signaled the can being opened, Spice meowed loudly, bumping his head into my leg forcefully. I chuckled. “We’ve talked about this. You have to be patient, Spicy Man.”

He meowed, and I laughed, setting the dish on the floor and watching him dive into it like he was starving. I leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment and taking comfort in the routine.

I adopted Spice the week of my twenty-first birthday, four days after my parents’ car accident. Even though I lived alone before they died, as soon as they were gone, it felt like my apartment was emptier—like I was completely alone. Because I was.

I went to the animal shelter planning to get an older cat, one that didn’t need much house-training. Instead, I left with the little orange kitten with fleas that screeched at me when I walked by his cage. I couldn’t resist his crusty nose or the way his green eyes squinted shut when he meowed at me, and once he crawled up into my arms, there was no putting him back down.

The shelter named him Pumpkin Spice because of his round head that was much too large for his body, and with his sassy attitude, it was fitting. He’d been my favorite Spice, or any number of nicknames, since then. I smiled, making my way out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.

By the time I settled at the foot of my bed with the photo album that normally rested on the top shelf of my closet, Spice was jumping up to join me. He curled up against my leg, resting his head on his paws while I opened the book to the first page. My stomach tightened, and the tears I was already expecting started to sting my eyes.

The first page was the last picture we took as a family—the last picture of my life when it was normal, before it had been riddled with loss. First, my brother, then my parents. I put my hand on Spice’s head before I turned the page.

Warm tears streaked down my face. In the next picture, Dickie had his arm around my shoulder. Next to him was Ronan. He was elbowing Dickie in the side, and both guys were laughing while I pouted. Dickie was red in the face, and his grin emphasized his famous dimples. The lump in my throat started to swell until it got harder to breathe.

Ronan looked almost the same—obviously much younger, but he had the same piercing eyes and the same carefree smile. He and Dickie could’ve been brothers—they certainly acted like it until Dickie died. Then, we never saw Ronan again. A large tear dropped onto the page, and I swiped it off the picture.

The next few pages were full of pictures of us as young children, and then of us as a family of three. We looked less happy in the pictures of the three of us, like there wasn’t the same joy in our eyes. Without Dickie, it seemed like things were darker.

When I turned the page to the news article about my parents’ car accident, a cry broke from my chest. That was the day my prior life ended. I was on my own after that, at least until I got Spice. He looked up at me, unable to nap through my sobs shaking the bed, and he chirped, bumping my leg with his nose. I put my hand on his head, scratching the white spot of fur between his eyes.

“I miss them,” I whimpered, and he meowed like he understood exactly what I was saying. Maybe he did.

Then, I thought about Ronan, his sudden appearance and insistence in helping me, his clear sweet tooth even though he claimed to hate cupcakes. He kept coming back for more. Or for me. “What am I going to do?”

Spice meowed, getting onto his feet and stretching. His back arched and his tail flicked before he meowed again more loudly. I shook my head.

“I can’t just take his help.” I ran my hand over his back and down his tail before scratching behind Spice’s ear again. “That’d be like forgiving him and letting him back in my life like he didn’t leave at the worst time.”

I let my hand rest on Spice’s back while he paced the bed in front of me, meowing loudly like he was lecturing me. When I zoned out, he bumped into me again. “I know, I know. It’s stupid.”

I closed the photo album and tucked it away. When I crawled under the blankets, Spice followed me, and I tucked the edges around us. He purred, pawing at the extra pillow before he laid down and curled into a ball. Once he shut his eyes, it was the end of the discussion. I chuckled.

“Oh, Spice,” I sighed, turning off the light. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Chapter 8

Ronan

Ishould’ve learned to take no for an answer. Instead, I was walking into a bakery for the third time this week. The bell ringing and the familiar scent of vanilla made my mouth water. There was a line of customers separating me from the counter, and I stuffed my hands into my pockets and waited.

Nellie’s friend flitted between the cases, packing boxes with intricately decorated cupcakes and offering each customer an even sweeter smile before they left. I watched some of them take their boxes and walk toward the door with an extra bounce in their step while others found a table, barely waiting until they were seated to dig into the frosting. They all looked excited, like they were familiar, and I couldn’t fathom how the shop wasn’t able to stay afloat.

When it was my turn, I approached the counter. She smiled, starting her spiel before she looked up from the register. “Welcome to Sugar & Spice! Are you here to treat yourself with something—” Then, she saw me. “Oh, it’s you.”

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