Kiss My Cupcake(42)

“And your dress makes you look like you belong in the red light district,” Blaire says through gritted teeth and a brittle smile.

“That’s exactly where I got it!” She turns to me. “And who might your delicious friend be?”

Blaire introduces me tonelessly to Skylar, the cousin on the rebound everyone seems to think is going to try to steal me. Based on the way she presses her entire body against mine and kisses me on both cheeks, I’m inclined to believe it wasn’t a joke.

The last person I’m introduced to is Blaire’s Gran-Gran. I’m relieved when all she does is shake my hand and tell Blaire she’s so happy she could make it for dinner and that they need to schedule a proper lunch date so she can whup Blaire’s ass at gin rummy—those are her exact words.

I’m offered a drink and Blaire mutters that I should definitely take it, even though she declines the alcohol, citing that she’ll have to drive home later.

“You two can always stay the night.” Skylar dons an apron, grabs me by the arm, leads me over to the kitchen island, and pushes me onto one of the high-back stools. “Let’s all get to know each other!” She picks up a knife and starts chopping carrots into thin discs without even looking at what she’s doing.

“How’s your little bakeshop doing, Blaire?” her uncle asks as he stirs some kind of sauce. Blaire is drinking ginger ale and whisking something in a bowl—at least two people suggested sparkling water or a diet variety of soda. I want to punch everyone in the room out, apart from Gran-Gran, who hasn’t said anything mean. Yet.

“My little bakeshop is doing fine, thanks for asking.”

I glance over at her—she’s standing on my right, keeping an eye on Skylar, whose arm keeps bumping mine she’s so freaking close.

“It’s actually doing amazing,” I interject.

I stretch my arm across the back of the stool and angle my body toward Blaire and away from Skylar. Whatever the reason I’m here—whether as a distraction for her crazy-ass family or because she honestly felt bad that my day was shot and I would be spending Thanksgiving alone—I decide I’m going to play the role of the boyfriend everyone thinks I am tonight, if for no other reason than to keep Skylar from humping my leg while her family watches.

“Awww, isn’t that so lovely to hear.” Her mother’s tone is patronizing at best. “Well, you know that there’s always a place for you back here if you get tired of the grueling hours. It must be hard to make a living on five-dollar cupcakes.”

“People buy them by the dozen. You’ve all been by to see it, haven’t you?” I ask, which gets me a swift elbow to the ribs.

“Oh no, Blaire made it seem like it wasn’t a trip we needed to make with our busy schedules.” Her mother smiles, but I can’t quite read the emotion behind it. Indulgent? Hurt? Accusatory?

“Really, Blaire?” I can’t bring myself to add Care in front of it. It’s the worst fucking nickname in the history of the universe. It’s condescending and it doesn’t fit her at all. Alice, which is terrible in its own right considering the implications, is still a million times better. “I can’t believe you haven’t invited your family down for the full Buttercream and Booze experience.”

“They’re busy,” she says through clenched teeth.

I should probably back off, but I’m pretty pissed off at how little regard her family seems to have for her and what she’s accomplished, apparently all on her own. I also don’t like that the strong, in your face, demanding, combative woman who I thoroughly enjoy riling up is just…taking their shit.

I reach out and pull Blaire into my side and make a show of pressing my lips to her temple. Neither of us expects the static-like shock that accompanies what should be a very innocent display of affection—were we actually dating. She grabs my thigh and I breathe “Sorry” in her ear.

Even though I’m not. And that becomes even more obvious when I say, “But not too busy to celebrate their daughter’s accomplishments.”

“Of course not,” her father jumps in, sending a hard look my way. “We didn’t want to push ourselves on Blaire. She has her own way of doing things and we don’t want to step on her toes.”

Gran-Gran Calloway, who reminds me of a younger Betty White during the Golden Girls era and is clearly senile, jumps into the conversation to ask when Blaire’s due. I decide I need a break from the crazy before I tell someone off on Blaire’s behalf.

“Sweetheart, can you show me where the bathroom is?”

“I can show you!” Skylar’s knife clatters on the counter and she grabs my free arm.

I don’t even look in Skylar’s direction when I respond. “Thanks, but Blaire can take care of me.” Yes, I mean for it to sound 100 percent suggestive.

I stand up and extend my hand. Blaire has no choice but to take it, unless she wants to make more of a scene. She leads me out of the kitchen, down a hallway, passing three doors before she finally stops. I push it open and take the opportunity for what it is by pulling her inside and closing her in with me.

The light isn’t on, though, so we’re submerged in darkness.

“What’re you doing?” Her voice is all pitchy.

“What are you doing?” I slap around on the wall, trying to find a switch.