Page 10 of Sugar Coated Secrets

She grabs a tablet. “Name?”

My eyes run over her slowly. Unapologetically. The tension rides thick as I take in every inch of her, trying to see a flicker of recognition in her gaze, but there’s nothing.

She doesn’t recognize me.

4

DULCE

Iignore the way my stomach flips at the sight of him as I stare at the iPad, playing it off like I don’t know him. Like his name wasn’t on the cover ofSports Illustrated, in commercials, and on every sports racing channel in the world. Seeing his face is unavoidable just doing everyday things like watching TV, using social media, or even glancing at the magazines in the checkout lane at the supermarket.

“Ford Keller,” he says, with a fire in his blue gaze.

My fingers tingle as I scroll to his order like I didn’t know it was the batch of chocolate chip raisin cookies I made cooling on the rack behind me.

“It’ll be just a minute.”

I turn around and put together a box and tissue paper, placing the cookies carefully in neat rows, trying to calm my shaking hands. Letting out a small breath, I calm my racing heart, ignoring the memories of that night when I was ready to share a part of me with him.

“Dulce?” he says softly. My name rolls off his lips like a caress, like he knows me intimately.

My throat feels like I swallowed a large pill.

I close the box, seal it with tape, and turn around. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Dulce?” he repeats gently.

My fingers tremble as I avoid his gaze. I tear the yellow copy of the invoice and place it on top of the box.

“Dul—”

“You can place orders online.” I interrupt. “We ship internationally to you.”

“Why are you pretending you don’t remember me?”

The memory claws its way back, intense and sharp. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck.

The trickle and heat of blood feels thick, trickling down my thighs.The sensation lingers like a black stain.

“Why wouldn’t I? Is there something memorable I missed?” I reply.

Of course I’m pretending because I could never forget him. But I’m not giving him any part of myself, not even recognition. Never again.

He pauses, looks at the coffee machine, and then scans the menu above with a furrowed brow. “Are you open for breakfast?”

“That’s what it says,” I say monotonously. My face remains expressionless.

He digs in his pocket and places a wad of cash in the tip jar. “What time?”

“Eight to eleven.”

“Every day?”

“Monday through Saturday. We’re closed on Sundays.”

“I want to place an order for the same cookies every week. Is there a way it can be a recurring order?”

“Of course.” I unlock the iPad to set a calendar reminder and pull up the menu. Knowing he will be around makes my heart race. “How many?”

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