Page 28 of You Cake My Breath Away

Enchanted by the smoky vanilla scents of crisp paper and dust, I run my fingers along the spines of the classics on the shelf and wait to see who my competition is going to be. Will it be a cute old lady, using the last of her pension to keep a dying bookstore alive, or is it a hipster who doesn’t know the difference between a romance and a love story?

The door swings open, and my heart promptly falls to the ground.

Deidre.

Archer’s ex is the last person I thought I’d encounter in a place like this. There’s no way a woman as cold as her owns such a lovely, warm place. Hell, the temperature of the room dropped by at least a cool twenty degrees the moment her eyes locked on me standing with a wide smile at her counter.

She’s always disliked me for some reason, making snarky comments when she thought I wasn’t listening, and she never tried to get to know me when Archer would bring her to family dinners.

“Tilly,” she says, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“Deidre.” I give her a curt smile. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

She nods like a person does when someone is telling them something they couldn’t care less about. “I’ve owned this place for three years.”

I vaguely remember her prattling on about opening a business back when Jessie would force me to go on double dates with her and Archer, but I was so focused on being nice to her that I forgot. A weird feeling snakes its way around my chest, and I spin my ring around my finger to refocus.

Deidre always had this perpetual frown on her face if I entered a room. I thought she’d be the one to lock down Archer. He had a series of women he filtered through, but when he met her, she stuck around. She was always over-the-top touchy feely with him, and a small part of me hated her for it.

Looking back, I wonder if instinctively my brain was picking up on something I’ve yet to even admit to myself. That I knew, even back in college, my life could’ve gone a very different way had a drunken kiss with Archer meant something to him.

“It’s a beautiful bookstore,” I say. “Quaint.”

Her smile is pasted on, stale. “Thanks.”

Awkward tension hangs in the air between us. “Well,” I start to speak but struggle to find words, “I just wanted to introduce myself to some of the shop owners down here.”

“Oh.” She arches a brow. “Why?”

Straight to the point.

“My bakery is going to be on the next street over.”

Her forehead crinkles, a frown forming on her face. “Oh right, I forgot about the little shop Archer’s been working in.”

A stickiness coats my mouth at the mention of Archer. Did everyone but me know Jessie bought this bakery? Has Archer invited her inside my shop?

“Yeah,” I croak, face heating when she doesn’t respond with any questions. I scramble to find a way out of this awkward encounter. “Umm, ok. Well, if you need anything I’m just around the corner.”

She smiles. “I doubt it, but thanks.”

Her words follow me out the door, my footsteps sluggish as I head to the bakery.

The October sun is unusually blistering today, and my pits are already damp from the short walk from Deidre’s storefront to mine. Okay, I started sweating bullets when she walked out from the back room, but that’s beside the point. My bare legs slide against each other, and I curse my mother for my juicy thighs as they rub. In hindsight, wearing a skort to work in wasn’t my brightest idea, but I’ll be climbing up ladders today and tight denim was an even worse option.

Music blares through the thin wooden door. I knew he’d be here, but it still takes my heart a moment to catch up to my quickened breath. Yesterday felt like a turning point for us, a kind of truce. But with eachnew day, I wonder how long it’ll be until we’re back at each other’s throats.

“Hey.” I skirt through the door.

He doesn’t look up from the table he’s hunched over, a level and a pencil in hand. “One moment,” he says, drawing a line down the two by four he’s about to cut. The table saw blares to life, screeching as he splits the wood. Now covered in dust, Archer turns to me, a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth. Dressed in a tight black t-shirt that clings to his abs and denim jeans, Archer is the epitome of a bad boy. A regular James Dean. If only he drove a muscle car instead of a larger-than-life truck.

“Did you bring your camera?” he asks.

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“A picture lasts longer.”

My stomach riots and a wave of shame flows over my face after being caught checking him out. I fight the urge to look guilty, embarrassed. He’d love to see me flinch away, but I’m in the mood to challenge today.

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