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Accidentally his. Fun fact: Fate is a four letter word.
A perfect stranger just kissed away the worst day of my life.
Brace for everything to go hilariously wrong.
Then I find out what – and who – put him up to this insanity.
Dream dates, family dinners, and soul-branding nights.
From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Nicole Snow – a tale of pretend love turned way too real. See the sparks fly when tight wound alpha protector gets a taste of his ultimate Sugar and Spice. Full length romance novel with a Happily Ever After roller coaster!
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Special Delivery (Wendy)
Of course, I’ll deliver the cake.
Why not? It’s not like anyone – ANYONE – would possibly remember that Blake Paumer stood me up for junior prom. Or how embarrassed I was to go back to school that following Monday, after everyone had already heard about it.
Of course, no one remembers.
That’s because it didn’t happen to Rochelle. If my sis was ever stood up for prom, the entire world would remember how crushed she’d been and who’d done the smooshing.
Just like today, when no one would ever make the golden daughter deliver a cake to the very person who’d left her waiting at the front door for hours all those years ago.
I wrap my fingers tighter around the steering wheel as a sense of self-reproach strikes.
Fine. So the cake isn’t technically for Blake, but it’s for his father. And Blake will be at the retirement party, guaranteed.
I glance up, glaring at the red light that hasn’t changed in the last century.
“C’mon! There’s no one coming in any direction!” I moan to myself, turning up the radio.
It doesn’t help. The light doesn’t change, neither does my mood.
How could it? I have nothing else to think about.
There’s a hulking marble sheet cake with Congrats on your retirement! written in buttercream frosting sitting on the seat beside me, and this red light perched on a chilly Saint Paul street just might be the longest in history.
The party hasn’t started yet, and whether it starts hours from now or not, Blake will be there, helping with the prep work. Along with his wife, Heather.
My best friend, once upon a time. She hadn’t even had the guts to tell me she’d convinced Blake to take her to the prom instead of me. When she did finally fess up, she’d had the nerve to say she didn’t think it would bother me because I wasn’t in love with Blake like she was.
“Finally!” I hit the gas as the light turns green and cross the intersection carefully because I don’t want the cake hitting the floor.
Heather was right.
I hadn’t been in love with Blake. But I had wanted to go to prom. Rochelle was at college then, so it had been my turn to shine. The mousy little sister. Who wasn’t nearly as pretty or smart as her older protégée.
To this day, it burns.
No, I don’t care if it’s a little irrational.
I don’t care if it was eight years ago, and that I was just sixteen. Missing that prom still pisses me off.
Almost as much as it pissed me off four months ago, when Heather asked me to bake her wedding cake because nobody could possibly do a better job than our small family-run bakeshop.
We did our job too well. That’s why she’s hit us up again for her father-in-law’s party.
I glance at the cake on the passenger seat of my mother’s ancient mini-van and wonder once again, as I did while baking Heather and Blake’s cake, if I should have sabotaged it.
A cup of salt in place of sugar, or maybe just one egg, or a couple strategic tablespoons of cayenne pepper…
No, I’m not that bad a bitch. No matter how incredibly tempting it had been.
Wendy Agnes doesn’t do passive-aggressive vengeance.
I shake my head as I focus on the road again, taking the corner slowly, and let out a thankful sigh that the road ahead is clear of traffic.
The day isn’t all bad. I’ll arrive in plenty of time with an immaculate cake. I’d never do something like that.
Plus, acting on my revenge fantasies would hurt Midnight Morning far more than it would anyone else. The coffee shop and bakery will be mine someday.
And I’ve gotten over the whole prom ordeal, too. Mostly.
I wasn’t truly psycho upset over baking Heather’s wedding cake, either. I love baking.
It’s weddings I’m sick of.
So sick I could yak up my lunch in my own purse. That’s thanks to Rochelle becoming the ultimate bridezilla, which shouldn’t shock anyone.
Especially not me. I’ve lived in her wake my whole life.
Too bad her wedding is only two weeks away, and just like her prom, I’m dateless. Again.
I close my eyes, trying not to hear the inevitable pecking at my future wedding-trial.
“Poor little Wendy!” Aunt Charlotte will say. “She’s still never had a real boyfriend, has she?”
Mother will just shake her head. “No. She hasn’t. Poor thing.”
No excuses, no rational, no offense taken. Just agreement so mortifying it already makes me want to shrink into the ground until I wind up on the other side of the Earth.
I hear Australia’s nice. At least the kangaroos there will be friendlier than my relatives.
That’s how it goes, though. And always has.
No one will point out my other accomplishments, like the two years I spent in Europe in culinary school, or that I baked pastries in Buckingham Palace. For the Queen’s birthday celebration, no less.