Sweet Cheeks(2)

And then he’ll start his spiel. How I need to be more active on social media. How Internet orders are huge these days and where the bakery can find longevity and success. Get enough online orders, up the demand for my product in surrounding cities, sell franchise opportunities to service those demands, then sit back and reap the rewards.

Doesn’t he see I’m doing everything I can? That I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my dream since breaking up with Mitch? Not only to prove to myself that it was the right decision, but probably more so to prove to everyone else that it was. That I can make it on my own. Without him or his family name or their bank accounts full of money. That none of that defines me.

And so I keep my head down, add the pearl lacing around the edge of the cupcake I’m decorating (for a wedding no less) while intermittently glancing to the foot traffic outside, hoping they’ll stop in and buy a cupcake.

Or several dozen.

Because his groan is only going to get louder the deeper he gets into the mess I’ve made of the spreadsheet his number-crunching brain deems easy. His columns, rows, and formulas with symbols that make no sense to me. I’ve got more important things to do than stress over adding numbers into the sheet.

Like running all aspects of the business he’s currently—and deservedly—bitching about.

“Saylor?”

The change in his tone has me lifting my head to look through the open doorway where he stands watching me. The look in his aqua-blue eyes is full of confusion and what I think is anger. There’s something in his hand I can’t quite see.

Crap. What did I do now?

“Did that * seriously have the audacity to invite you to his wedding?”

I slowly set the piping tube down and brace my hands on the butcher block in front of me in preparation for Ryder’s protective older-brother gene to kick in. For the anger to come out on my behalf when he should be the one pissed off after what Mitch’s family did to him because of me. And due to my own stupidity for not tearing up the invitation in the first place.

I’d completely forgotten about it.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I look at the champagne cardstock in his hand and remember the RSVP card I filled out in haste last month. More as an act of “screw you” than of real intent. Regardless, the dread I felt was more than real when my assistant, DeeDee, told me she mailed out the envelope I’d left on my desk. The one I’d meant to throw out but had become distracted by a customer and had forgotten all about.

My smile is tight as I pretend to be perfectly fine with having been invited. Because it’s easier to pretend than to let the tears of guilt burn bright over the fallout that has affected him as well. My sweet, gruff, overprotective brother who loaned me the money to start this business and then found out his largest account—Layton Industries—withdrew their business, his top source of dependable income over the past eight years.

I see the stress in the lines on his face. Know he’s trying to help me as much as he can and at the same time chase new clients to keep his consulting business afloat. Be the mom, dad, and big brother to me all in one fell swoop. But I know he hates when I thank him for it, so I focus on answering his question instead. I recognized the did that f*cker Mitch really invite you? in his tone despite the polite way he phrased it.

“It appears so,” I murmur and worry my bottom lip between my teeth, attempting to divert the topic at hand. “How bad did I mess up the spreadsheet?”

“Screw the spreadsheet, Say. Does that prick really think that—?”

“I left him, Ryder.” My voice is quiet when I speak. A mixture of uncertainty tingeing its edges. “Not the other way around.”

“And for good reason.” He grimaces when he realizes his tone is harsher than he’d intended, his own anger at Mitch shining through. “Look. I know it’s been hard for you. You basically had to start all over. A new place to live, your friends all siding with him and treating you like you never existed, working endless hours in the bakery, being lonely . . . all of it. But you’re doing it. You’re starting a new life. Have a business up and running and—”

“Barely,” I mutter as I scrub away the frustration on my face with my hands and in the process smear icing all over my cheeks.

“It’s a lot more than most people would be doing seven months after a long-term breakup.”

I inhale deeply and nod my head as I pull up my proverbial bootstraps. This was my doing. My choice. Walking away when I could have stayed. Realizing that even though Mitch and I had been together for six years, the spark had died long before. Sure there is more to a relationship than just the want to throw him up against the wall the minute he gets home and have wild reckless sex with him, but then again, that spark was never there to begin with.

Growing up with parents who had loved so fiercely, yet constantly referred to the numerous goals, dreams, and wants they gave up because Ryder and I took precedence, gave me pause to what I’d be giving up by marrying into Mitch’s family. Because the compromise would have been solely on my part. Not his.

Regardless of my reasons, no one on the outside can fathom why I chose to walk away. I mean, he was Mitch Layton, perfect in every way imaginable—polite, successful, Ralph Lauren-handsome—and even with all that perfection, I can still recall looking in the mirror in the weeks before our wedding and thinking while all that was nice, I didn’t want to live a life always wondering if nice was enough.