The Crush (16)

I smiled. “You’re not coming to see me, but no, I’m not going to skip my visit home because you’re there.”

“Good.”

“Good.” I smacked my face because of how dopey I sounded.

“Sweet dreams, Adaline,” he said.

I swear to high heaven, if he kept saying my name like that, I’d have to walk with my thighs taped together because a girl could not be held accountable.

Because I couldn’t manage much more than a mumbled goodbye, I disconnected the call before any more damage could be done to my pride. For a few moments, I flopped down on the bed and wondered how the hell this had happened.

Wondered what the hell I should do about it. If anything.

It was one weekend. Just a few days where I’d have to face someone from my past who’d done little more than not see me the way I saw him.

No big deal.

It was no big deal.

And in the vein of that no-big-deal weekend that I was going to embark upon, I calmly picked up my phone again and tapped out a message to my youngest stepbrother, Parker.

Me: When I get home tomorrow, you will not be able to run fast enough, you little shit. I am going to SMOTHER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

The following morning dawned bright and clear, and as I started my drive back home to Sisters, my head was clear too. Somewhere overhead, Emmett was on his way to my parents’ house, sitting in those buttery leather seats, looking like a fucking GQ cover.

And I knew that whatever happened this weekend wouldn’t change what came after it.

Emmett was my past—butterflies and everything.

But I’d already given enough of my future to an athlete who’d been unwilling to do the same. I wasn’t about to jump in with another one, no matter who he was.





Adaline



“How can you be so calm right now?”

Good question.

The screaming in the background was jarring, to be sure, so I lowered the volume on the Bluetooth in my car. My eardrums did not fancy the decibel that a dozen eight-year-old girls could reach. “Kendall, if the baker got in a car accident en route, then we have no choice but to pivot. It’s okay.”

See how calm I sounded? Apparently, I could handle surprises in very, very select circumstances.

At work, I was a pro at handling whatever came my way. It’s how I’d built my event planning business over the last four years. Business was good enough that I had four employees and could finally allow myself some weekends away from Seattle.

There was a burst of loud giggling, followed by another round of exuberant screams, and when my newest hire whimpered, I took a slow, deep breath.

“There’s no cake, Adaline,” she hissed.

“The girls have plenty of activities to keep them busy. Have they eaten yet?”

“No, servers are setting out the food in about an hour.”

I did a few mental calculations. “Okay, have them push that back about twenty minutes to buy you some time. Call Mimi at Sweet Dough Bakery. We’ve sent a million customers her way since she opened last year, and she owes us. Tell her we need mermaid cupcakes in the shape of an eight, at least two dozen. Whatever decorations she can scrounge, the colors matter more than anything. Light blue, light purple, light pink. Pearls, mermaid tails, starfish, she’ll know what to do. She should have some vanilla and chocolate on hand, and as long as those kids get something sugary, they won’t care what it is. But no strawberry flavors, okay? One of the girls at the party has an allergy.”

Kendall let out a relieved sigh. “I saw it on the info sheet, and I double-checked everything in the kitchen. What else?”

The turn to my parents’ driveway appeared up ahead, hidden between towering fir trees. “Call the office and tell them you need Rice Krispies treats cut into stars and dipped halfway in chocolate. We should have light pink and light purple in the pantry. They can use the leftover cake pop sticks.”

“I can do that,” she said. “That’s enough, right?”

Given her parents had paid us a small fortune to pull off the mermaid party of their only daughter’s fantasy? No.

The baker and their car accident left us short a stunning three-tier cake and three dozen macarons.

“Donuts,” I said. “Call the manager at the Krispy Kreme we always use and tell him the colors we need for frosting. When you get the Rice Krispies treats, have them bring the little decorative pearls and pastel sprinkles. You can toss those on right before you set them out. Two dozen of those, too.”

Kendall paused. “You want … six dozen desserts for twelve eight-year-old girls?”

I rubbed my forehead at her incredulous tone. She’d learn, and she’d learn quickly in this job. “Yes. Because the amount is not the issue. It’s about the experience, Kendall. The parents want their daughter’s friends running home and talking about how amazing and fun it was and how cute the food was and telling their mom and dad, ‘I want a mermaid party too.’ The extra will go home with those friends. The pictures they post on social media will be better than any ad I can run trying to get new customers.”

“Right. Got it.”

Kendall didn’t sound like she got it, and I yanked the steering wheel just a bit too hard as I turned down the long, tree-lined drive that would take me back to the main house.