Page 32 of Merry Fake Bride

Somehow, that stings more than I’m willing to accept and as I stumble down the single step and into the street, my heart pounds.

“Devon. I’m really sorry. I swear I didn’t know.”

“Fuck off!”

“I’m sorry, I am. This… this bakery won’t be yours for much longer. I’m really sorry.”

She slams the door shut in my face and the last glimpse I get of her is her eyes filling with tears as she drags down the blinds on the window.

The cold November wind chases away the last lingering warmth from that kitchen, and I stare at the door, desperate to recapture even a second of the heat I felt in her presence.

Closing my eyes, the ghost of her pulse radiates from my fingertips and the cinnamon and cream scent radiating off her still exists in my lungs.

Just barely.

“So.” Martin’s voice appears in my ear. “How did it go?”

Opening my eyes, I turn to face him and grimace. “Take me home.”

Back in New York, rain pounds against the windows like a stampede of a thousand tiny elephants and wind batters so ferociously, it’s a wonder the building doesn’t sway.

The gloomy storm matches my souring mood as I replay the change on Devon’s face in my mind over and over again.

All her defenses slammed up, and I can’t blame her.

While I had no idea she was connected to the bakery, I should have told her the moment I realized but I was selfish.

I got caught up in spending time with her rather than going there to talk business with the owners, like I’d intended to do a few days ago before the accident.

Drumming my fingers on my wooden desk, I stare down at the ice melting in my bourbon until my eyes blur.

This damn land deal is the last noose attached to my father’s memory.

There’s so much riding on it for so many people, and all I need to do is close down the bakery, sign on the dotted line, and I’ll be free to live my own life, build my own reputation and be my own, real person rather than my father’s son.

But the bakery is no longer four words on a page.

It’s Devon.

Her smile.

Her laugh.

Her sparkling eyes.

The soft uncertainty whenever I’m too close.

The lilt in her words when she laughs before she finishes speaking.

Shaking my head, I set my glass aside and pull the keyboard closer.

After typing in the name of her bakery,Just A Sweet Thing, I pore over all the new information that pops up.

Pages upon pages that’s not included in the business report because anything even remotely humane is purposefully redacted.

That bakery has been in her family for generations and not only that, but it’s also won countless awards at shows all across the country.

There are medals dating back to Devon’s grandparents’ era, as well as awards for everything from taste and timing to decoration.