Page 6 of Merry Fake Bride

After emptying my breakfast of black coffee and painkillers, I drown briefly in handfuls of water to shake off the sickly sweat that creeps over the back of my neck.

I drank far too much last night.

Not only that, but I also somehow let a drop-dead gorgeous man fuck me in the bathroom.

The entire night was like some kind of crazy dream, and I almost didn’t believe it was real until I woke up to my alarm screaming in my ear and my thighs sticky and achy.

I really did that.

I really drank myself silly, threw caution to the wind, and fucked the first man to touch me in six months.

I can’t decide if I’m more embarrassed by that or by how quickly I came on his cock.

Thinking of either one makes my stomach curl and my chest tighten with shame.

It’s not me.

It’s not who I am.

I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps with people so quickly, especially not in public restrooms.

But something about that flirtatious game of pretending we’re both someone else was the most exciting thing to me, and I got so caught up in being that woman in my fantasy that I briefly forgot who I really am.

I forgot how dangerous touch can be.

Forgot that every drink was a reward for surviving six months away from the monster who took five years from me.

Most importantly, I forgot to be on my guard and in that man’s presence, I was someone else. Someone fun and light with nothing wearing her down.

But that’s not me.

Not a hotshot fancy lawyer with more money than sense.

I’m just Devon Miller, a quiet accountant turned baker hiding from the world while trying to stop corporate overlords from swallowing up my family’s bakery.

Groaning softly, my pale face stares back at me from the mirror as I gently dab at the corners of my mouth.

I’m never drinking again.

I’m never going to the city again.

From now on, my butt is firmly planted on the outskirts where no one looks at each other twice.

Despite my resolve, the handsome face of my mystery man pops into my head while I swirl cold water around my mouth and spit it into the sink.

A stunning man like that going for a woman like me definitely feels like a dream.

If I compare us to the cakes sitting in the refrigerator waiting for me to put them on display, he’s the elegant, three-tier gateau covered in ice sugar stars and edible glitter.

I’m the dumpy cupcake at the end of the row, smushed into the corner of the tray because there wasn’t enough space yesterday while I was closing.

That cupcake gets set aside for our little bargain basket where all cakes and tarts that fail the aesthetic test get discounted.

Just like my life.

I’m halfway through setting up the displays when knuckles rap on the front door, making me jump in alarm.

Another cupcake escapes the tray when my arms jolt, and it splats on the blue-tiled floor, icing down.