Page 9 of Sugar Dusted Dad Bod

Today, though, as Cady crosses to the sink and scrubs her hands in hot, soapy water, the knot inside me winds tighter. Ihavemessed up. My sweet assistant baker won’t look at me, not even as she replies, addressing her hands instead. Her shoulders are hunched up around her ears.

“Good, thanks. I vacuumed up those needles too. The whole apartment looks way better.”

“Good. That’s good.”

I wait, but there’s nothing else incoming. Normally, Cady chats with me, the conversation flowing as easy as breathing. Today, though, she dries off her hands in silence then walks to the list pinned to the refrigerator, scanning to see the next orders we need to bake.

“Chocolate fudge brownies,” Cady says. “Shall I do those?”

“Sure. And Cady…” I begin, but then I trail off. What the hell can I say?

She shoots me a dead-eyed smile. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

* * *

Everything isnotfine. It’s bad enough to feel this awful gulf between us; bad enough to tiptoe around each other in the kitchen, making sure to give each other a wide berth at all times, only speaking in short, polite sentences about today’s orders. Believe me, that alone is enough to make me want to slam my head against the wall.

Then I notice other things. Like Cady’s shaky hands, and thegray tinge to her skin, and the dark shadows under her eyes. The way she keeps gripping the edge of the counter for balance and sucking in slow, steady breaths, and the quiet groan she lets slip when I open the oven and the scent of pumpkin pies sweeps out.

I’m so worried about her, I nearly drop the pies. Then a suspicion tickles the back of my brain.

“Are you hungover?” I ask.

Cady flinches, then bows her head in shame. She keeps mixing cake batter in a bowl, but she’s swaying on her feet, completely defeated.

“You are, aren’t you?” The pie tray goes down with a clatter, the oven swings shut, and then I’m circling behind my assistant baker to sniff her neck. The scent of whiskey coming out of her pores—it’s enough to make my eyes sting. I reel back, half amused, half horrified. “Jesus Christ, Cady!”

Her head droops even further over the cake bowl. “I—I know. I’m sorry.”

Don’t know whether to laugh or tell her off. More than anything, though, I want to wrap my girl up in a warm blanket, give her some painkillers, and set her somewhere to hydrate.

“Wait there.”

Silence rings through the kitchen as I go to the break room. The chairs in here are basic, made of metal, but I squeeze one through the door anyway and set it in the corner of the kitchen. When I nod at the seat, Cady sighs, her shoulders slumping. Then she sets the cake bowl on the counter and walks to the chair like a convicted criminal walking to the gallows.

“If you’re going to fire me,” she says, “you can just do it fast. Get it over with, Jasper.”

“Shut up.” My voice is too fond to sound angry. When Cady sits in the chair, I fetch my coat from the wall hook and drape it around her shoulders. It’s the closest thing we have here to a blanket. “Have you taken painkillers?”

Cady’s eyes drift closed, and she holds my coat close beneath her chin. “Uh-huh.”

“They haven’t helped?”

“Not yet.”

My chest aches, but hey—at least she’s talking to me now. At least that weird frosty silence has thawed.

“I can’t believe I’ve done this,” Cady mutters, her forehead creasing with frustration and self-loathing. “This is the busiest time of year, you’re already working double shifts, and then I’ve come in hungover like a complete jerk. All because of… well. Youshouldfire me.”

“Never.” I fetch Cady a glass of water. Her fingers are cold when I nudge it into her hand. “Drink up.”

All because of… well.

Because of what?

“I’m going to make this up to you, I promise.” Cady rests her forehead against the cool glass of water, her eyes still closed. “I’m going to come in early for the rest of the week. I’ll work the weekend too. And I will never, ever drink a whole bottle of whiskey again, I swear. God, I feel like roadkill.”

“I’ll take that last promise.” The pies look good as I check them one by one, then ferry them over to the cooling rack. I risk a glance over at the sad, huddled little mound in my coat when I add, “Whydidyou drink the whole thing?”

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