Indigo Nights (Nights #3)(69)

“What’s that?” Haven asked.

“Cake.”

“Is that a regular delivery?”

“I guess you could say so.” I stooped to collect the box. “It’s from Dylan.”

“Really? How do you know? Do you get them a lot?”

“Every day.” I put my key in the lock.

“He has them sent every day? Seriously? That’s so sweet.”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side. And he doesn’t send them, he delivers them.” I opened the door and put the box on the console table while I took off my coat. Haven was unusually quiet. She’d come over because she wanted a hand making a birthday cake for Jake. I got the impression it was just an excuse; she wasn’t much of a baker.

Haven dumped the shopping bags she’d been carrying on the counter and started to unpack. “Shall I put these in the fridge?” She held up two blocks of butter.

“No. First rule of baking is that everything has to be at room temperature when you start.”

I set Dylan’s delivery next to the shopping and opened the box. I swear he must be making special requests. There was no way the Langham had such variety.

“Whatcha got?” Haven peered over my shoulder. “Wow, they look good. Does he pick them out himself?”

I shrugged. The Bakewell tart looked delicious. There were a couple of things I didn’t recognize. I resisted the temptation to dig in, closed the lid and put them in the refrigerator.

“So, he’s in London?” Haven asked. “I mean, if he’s delivering you cake every day . . .”

I thought it was a little odd Haven hadn’t focused on that fact. “Yeah, I think so.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. He said . . .” He’d said he’d wait for as long as it took, but he’d have to go back to Chicago soon, wouldn’t he? I should be pleased, but as much as I couldn’t bring myself to have a conversation with him, I was glad he was close. “He said he’d be around a while. I don’t know when he’ll go back.”

“He’s here on business?”

I was pretty sure he hadn’t abandoned his company, but I was equally sure he would be most effective in Chicago. It must be inconvenient being in London. Perhaps I didn’t want to have the final conversation because ultimately I didn’t want him to leave. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to give him up just yet. “I guess.”

“I thought you hadn’t talked since you left Chicago?”

“Grab a wooden spoon,” I said, handing Haven some caster sugar and a mixing bowl. “I ran into him a week or so ago when he was leaving the desserts. That’s how I know he’s delivering them.” I pulled out some scales from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

“Did you talk?”

“When I saw him?” Haven nodded. “Not really. I’m just so scared of ending up someone’s fool again. I feel trapped, like I can’t go back to him because it will mean going back to the old Beth who glossed over so many signs with Louis. But I can’t move forward either, because the thought of Dylan not being in my life is just too painful to contemplate.”

“But Dylan and Louis aren’t the same person. I’ve met Louis. You’re right, he might as well have ‘*’ tattooed on his forehead, but you were young and vulnerable and your mother had just died. You saw what you needed to see.”

Was Haven right? Would Louis have had the same effect on me if I hadn’t been grieving?

I pointed at the sugar and Haven opened it. “You’re one of the wisest people I know, but even you don’t get it right all the time. Are you sure Dylan’s not just human rather than an *?”

I took the bag of sugar from Haven and poured out two hundred and twenty five grams, thinking about what she’d said. Was I making Dylan pay for my previous bad judgment? “I’m not saying I’m perfect. Far from it. I’m saying the opposite.”

“I know. But I wonder if Dylan had been perfect up until then for you. He’d gotten everything right, but that was never going to last. He’s bound to f*ck up, and so are you. That’s just life. You can’t expect him to be perfect any more than you can expect perfection in yourself.”

Did I want to erase the possibility of any f*ck ups in my life, to try to make everything perfect?

I turned on the oven then rounded the counter and took a seat on a stool opposite Haven. “Now add two hundred and twenty five grams of the butter.” I rested my chin on my hand. Since I got sober, I’d existed in a bubble that kept me safe and happy and only allowed people I knew I could count on in. Jake was my constant. He pissed me off at times, but I never doubted his honor or his desire to see me happy. I’d immediately liked Haven, but I didn’t open up to her often. I didn’t want to put myself out there to be judged or rejected. Feelings like that didn’t belong in my bubble. In my world, I was safe and sober and happy. Steady.

As close to perfect as I could get.

“You think I’m trying to make everything too—?”

“It’s like how the pastry on an apple pie is supposed to be flaky, golden and crisp to be good. But sometimes it doesn’t come out that way. But you know what? It’s still delicious.”