Accidental Romeo: A Marriage Mistake Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  I’d just been trying to make it right by the little hothead, but she’d made everything go wrong.

  The right kind of wrong.

  Something I can't remember ever happening for years. Sure, I probably should've told her exactly what Mary said.

  The endorsement surprised me. She’s owned Top Notch for over a decade, won awards across the country for their food just as long.

  And she’d laid it on the line. Said that if someone ordered one of Wendy’s cakes, and ended up with one from Top Notch, they’d be sadly disappointed.

  Wendy. Don’t think I’ve ever known a Wendy. The name fits her.

  All sugary innocence, with just enough smart-mouthed spice to make her interesting.

  Not that I've got time to be really, truly interested beyond fantasies that leave me sporting a hard-on in my goddamn truck.

  Raising Ben is a full-time job. That leaves little time for leisure, or much else. I’ve had my share of women and know how time consuming keeping them happy can be. Hell, happy isn’t even the word.

  I open the door and climb out, my mood souring again by the second.

  What the fuck do I know about happy? Not much. Not recently.

  Dedicating years to raising Ben is the least I can do. I spent too many building my company and trying to find out what really happened that horrific night both our lives changed forever.

  I couldn't have gotten this far without Sloan's help. Three years ago, when I’d had enough nanny issues, and Ben was getting too old for one, I retired in slow-motion. Turned a large portion of running Landmark Defense over to Sloan so I could focus on Ben growing up.

  We’d moved to Saint Paul after Cory died, figuring it'd be best for everyone. It was what he'd wanted, too, as the new secondary location for the company.

  It was a chance to start over. Put down roots. Figure shit out.

  Except life got in the way. Business and bad memories and getting so wrapped up in running a world class company and trying to raise a son right.

  That’s why I bought this place and had it refurbished. A huge house built in the early twentieth century and fully restored to it’s original grandeur, the complete opposite of the sleek, soulless modern homes we'd lived in out in California a small lifetime ago.

  I enter the house, walking past what used to be the maid quarters and into the fully modernized, yet charmingly old kitchen.

  The silence is deafening.

  All ten-thousand square feet of it, making me wonder if I should've gone smaller.

  I’d wanted this for Ben, though. Something with history since his own roots are so damn complicated.

  I pause near the arched alcove that holds the stove hosting two sets of four burners on each of the open grills and three ovens. Wendy comes to mind again.

  Sugar and spice. Everything I don't need on my mind, but can't shrug off.

  I might have to try one of her cakes someday. Find a good reason to. Never had much of a sweet tooth, but a man can learn.

  I’ve used these ovens often enough on my own, learning to cook for Ben’s sake. A full-time chef is one thing I never hired out for, even though it'd barely put a dust dent in my bank account.

  Dinner, breakfast, even the occasional lunch...it's too important to family. My son deserves better, a hearty meal made by a father with enough time to put it together with his bare hands.

  Before Ben, my specialty was frozen pizza.

  Maybe ordering in tonight wouldn't be so bad after the kind of day we've had.

  With that on my mind – a fat, gooey Chicago style pizza – I take the back stairway off the kitchen to the third floor. Ben’s floor.

  Every room is his up there, right down to a fully stocked kitchenette. A hard knot forms in my stomach.

  It’s her again, gnawing at my brain like some strange madness, Sugar and Spice.

  The insults she’d thrown out about money hadn’t affected me, but now I'm wondering if they’d been insults at all.

  There's some truth in what she’d said. I’ve given Ben everything I can imagine him needing, but hell...is that teaching him anything?

  “Ben!” I yell, walking past open door after open door. His game room, music room, theater room, all empty. Arriving at his bedroom door, the only one that’s closed, I knock. “Ben? You up?”

  I listen for movement. A second later, he opens the door slowly but doesn’t say anything, just walks back toward his bed, leaving it hanging open.

  I stay in the doorway. “I’m ordering pizza for supper. Chicago style. What kind sounds good?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Not hungry? You?” That’s like saying a shark hates the waves. “What's wrong?”

  He drops onto his bed and picks up a set of headphones. “I’m just not hungry, Dad. Do I need a reason for everything?”

  “Because of what happened today?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes and sits up, his shoulders going straight. “Look, yeah. I know I fucked up, all right? Do you have to hound me?”

  I shoot him a glare that says language, son.

  And hound him? This kid doesn’t know what hounding is. I clamp my back teeth together to keep from pointing that out.

  “You've made your point. I read you loud and clear. What happened today...the skateboarding...it won’t happen again,” he says, pulling on his headphones. “Can we just forget this now?”

  Fuck if I know. Can we?

  I want to march over and tug the damn things off his head.

  And then what? Ground him? I’ve rarely ever had to do anything like that to him.

  He’s been a good kid at heart. Still is.

  I need to keep this in perspective. Maybe some time alone to think about what happened is exactly what he needs. Let him process. Hell, let me.

  No one was hurt, but they could've been. He needs to chew on that, and I’ll let him.

  I’ll process, too. He caused damage, all right, and we'll still have to make that right.

  That’s what Sugar and Spice was hinting – throwing money around doesn’t always make everything right.

  A bruised ego and teenage angst are impossible to fix with a few payments, unlike a twisted street sign and a busted up delivery van.

  Fine. Leave him be.

  He's got food in his kitchenette down the hall if he gets hungry later, so leaving the door open, I exit, heading downstairs to the main floor.

  Jingles is in my office, sleeping in his usual spot, the windowsill of a massive stained-glass window. We'd gotten the British Blue cat years ago on a trip to California, one from a litter originally brought up by my old buddy Landon's great aunt. Ironically, his aunt passed away later, and he ended up inheriting a few of the rascals himself.

  Jingles lifts his head as I cross the room, and then slowly rises to his feet and stretches before jumping off the sill and onto the back of the sofa.

  “I suppose you’re hungry,” I say to the cat, wishing it was so simple with Ben.

  Sleek and slate gray, his fur shines in the fading sunlight as he walks along the back of the black leather sofa and then jumps onto the arm, where he sits down and starts washing his face.

  Just my luck to get the cold shoulder from everybody today.

  “Well, tell me when you're ready for your grub.” I sit down at my desk and log on to the computer, pulling up the spreadsheets I’d been reviewing before going to look for Ben.

  His school’s only a few blocks away, so I figured I’d find him. I could've just called him, but I'd been hoping I’d see him throwing snowballs or something with new friends.

  That’s what he needs.

  He's made a few new bonds this year, sure, but they're not the best crowd. Too many kids who spend their days chugging Mountain Dew and spending every last waking second on the latest shooter game. Too many kids who don't make good grades, and wind up swiping pot or smokes off their older brothers.

  I know them too well. Because I used to hang with those kids, and if I hadn't g
otten a few big wake-up calls in life, they easily could've led me down a path to nowhere.

  Maybe I should tell him to call his friends from last year, ask them to come over, again. I’ve told him that several times, but he’s declined. Saying there’s no reason since they can’t see each other at school anymore with the district carving out arbitrary boundaries.

  Damn if parenting isn't hard.

  Slowly, I glance at the built-in filing cabinets, especially one specific bottom drawer that's always locked. My own personal fucking elephant sealed inside.

  Everything about where it all began is there.

  Everything about the fire.

  Everything about Cory and Juno. And about Ben. His birth certificate and baptismal papers that list his godparents.

  Pushing away from the desk, I cross to the other side of the room and pour myself a drink. Whiskey, nothing fancy, a habit I've kept from my days overseas.

  I toss back the amber liquid against the back of my throat, swallowing without tasting. It’s smooth, so there’s minimal burning, but it hits my guts like an avalanche.

  “I’m trying, Cory,” I whisper, damn near choking on my own words. “I’m trying, but I’m not you.”

  I also know this will get me nowhere. So I walk back over to the desk and sit, staring at the screen for several minutes.

  Empty-ass minutes where I have no idea what I’m looking at.

  Or, rather, no interest in what I’m seeing.

  Once, Landmark Defense Systems was my life. I built it from the ground up with Cory and Sloan, and it's the whole reason I can give myself and Ben a good life. It's a smooth ship; there haven’t been any critical issues for years.

  Progress, yes. Growth. Eight more figures added year over year to my personal net worth.

  Our latest innovations in combined arms weaponry are being very well received.

  Sloan's done one hell of a job working the sales teams that land us our contracts with the Pentagon.

  I’m still active in the company, checking over the executive reports, making the occasional appearance. I moved the headquarters here when we relocated to Minnesota, but Sloan oversees most of the day to day operations, letting me know when and where I'm needed.

  I minimize the spreadsheets and click over to Google the name of the bakery from Sugar and Spice’s van.

  Midnight Morning.

  I recognize the street name with the address but can’t say I’ve ever noticed the building that's pictured on its web entry.

  The reviews are good. Hundreds of them.

  All praise for Wendy’s cakes, taking precedence over all of their other products.

  Then I check the hours. Open daily from six a.m. to three p.m. Six or seven days a week. Closed on select Sundays.

  I click through the other pages of the website. The menu, the catering options, the prices. No meals, just good old fashioned coffee shop pastries. Their photos are good, at least, because the pictures are making my stomach growl like a wolf.

  “Come on, Cat,” I say, standing up. “You and I might as well eat together.”

  Jingles follows me into the kitchen, licking his chops. I open a can of cat food, dump it in his dish, and then fill his water bowl before going to the fridge.

  Looks like left over stir fry and homemade eggrolls are what I'm having tonight. I had to stay on Ben to clear his plate yesterday, and now I've got more chicken chow mein than I can ever finish.

  Maybe I should hire a part-time cook after all. Only, that would mean someone being in this house too much. Someone new. One more variable I can't keep up with.

  One more drama bomb waiting to happen, maybe, just like the nannies.

  I don’t need anyone getting too close to Ben or me in our own home.

  More than a couple nannies, besides the bedroom surprise, had gotten too curious for comfort, and I’d let them go. So far, I’ve been lucky with the cleaning lady. She comes in, does her job, and leaves. She respects boundaries.

  Besides, I enjoy cooking too much for more hired help. And I'll never shake the belief that our family dinners give us some connection, even if they're like pulling teeth lately.

  I nuke the leftovers and shovel the food into my mouth without even taking a seat.

  Maybe it's not just melancholy that's got me thinking of cooks I don't need. It's Sugar and Spice.

  The comments she made about a job. Ben’s only fourteen, but I had a job at his age.

  Mowing lawns. Fast food. Bike shop. So did Cory.

  I rinse off my plate and fork, put them in the dishwasher, and head back to my office with time on my hands. Some nights, I'm still able to pull Ben into watching a movie or playing a game or just shooting the breeze. Usually when Sloan's around.

  Tonight, I'm not so lucky. I consider going up to his room again, but the idea fades as I sit down.

  The Midnight Morning website appears the second I wake up the computer, and then I click on the only tab I hadn’t. What’s New?

  The instant I see the next two words, written in big cartoony letters with purple frosting outlining them, I smile.

  We’re Hiring!

  I lean back, absently tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair.

  Ben doesn’t get out of school until two thirty, but he's free on Saturdays. It's almost too easy. Too enticing.

  This is a chance for him to pay off the damage to her van and teach him a valuable lesson or two. He doesn’t have any work experience, though, so I might have to see if I can pull a few strings.

  Then there's the thought of seeing her again.

  Sugar and Spice, in all her sexy, ragey, steam-shooting-out-her-ears glory.

  Enticing doesn't begin to describe that. Neither does easy, and for some fucked up, indescribable, wonderful reason, I love it.

  3

  Believe in Unicorns (Wendy)

  I stand back and stretch my arms while taking a long look at the body of the cake.

  It’s only a little after seven, but I’ve already been at this for two hours. Sculpted cakes are intense and time consuming, even if I love making them. There isn’t a single part of the process that doesn’t thrill me.

  So far, this little girl's birthday cake is a masterpiece.

  The body of the unicorn is three layers of delicious fluff cake, with buttercream frosting sandwiched between for stability. I crumbled the cake trimmings with more buttercream to form the rump and shoulder swells.

  I look up and nod. Comparing it to the photo of a horse I blew up and pinned to the bulletin board over the table, I know I've done the job.

  I'm satisfied, if not even a little proud of how great it’s looking so far.

  Now for the tricky part. The head.

  More cake and dense frosting would be too heavy, so I’m using polystyrene foam boards. Cutting that stuff is always a bear. I need two pieces, the head and the neck.

  I'm so focused on following the lines I’d drawn on the foam boards with an exacto knife, I don’t look up when the door to my windowless decorating room opens. Whoever it is will have to wait.

  “Wendy! Why didn’t you tell us you wrecked the van yesterday?”

  My shoulders instantly snap back at the sound of Dad's voice.

  The knife slips, and I barely miss slicing open my palm. Damn.

  Now the ears are going to have to be fondant. “I called Mom last night and left a message,” I tell my father without looking up. If I’m really careful, I might be able to save the unicorn's ear.

  “We were out with Rochelle and Marco. You were invited, too.”

  I don’t bother answering. I know where they were and that I was supposed to go with them.

  Just like how I knew they'd be upset over the van. I’ll deal with both later. Right now, I need to get this cake done.

  “That's it then? Nothing? And what’s this about the cake for Byron’s party getting ruined?”

  Crap, someone from the retirement party must have called.

  Without even looking at hi
m, I can feel his eyes on me. Dad hasn't ever been known to back down easy.

  And sonofabitch again. The ears will now be fondant for sure.

  Sighing, I set down the exacto knife while I still have fingers, and pick up the pencil to trace out the neck section on another sheet of foam. “Look, I decorated another cake and delivered it before the party began. It wasn't a huge deal.”

  I'm miffed because I nearly pulled off a miracle that day. I'd arrived and got it set out just in the nick of time. The bigwigs and chatty old office slackers in attendance couldn't have been more pleased, judging by the forkfuls they shoved into their mouths.

  “Still put us down two cakes. If you’d had it in the back instead of on the passenger seat, it wouldn’t have been ruined.”

  Not right now. I can't.

  I take a deep breath, fighting the exasperation building inside me. “Not exactly. I couldn’t just put it in the back because the back is full of decorations for Rochelle’s wedding. Remember?” I move the transfer sheet and trace a second neck section. “Don't worry, I’ll pay for the damage. It's not that bad, even for an old beater like –”

  “Mr. Forsythe says differently.”

  This time, my shoulders snap back so hard my head nearly flies off.

  “Who?” A shiver shoots up my spine like I’d just seen a spider. A big one.

  I’m afraid to turn around.

  I already know he’s there.

  The beast-dad from yesterday. Ben’s father. Standing next to mine.

  “I gave you my card so I could make it right, Ms. Agnes.”

  A shiver zips up my entire body. That’s him, all right.

  I’d know that voice anywhere. What I don't know is my own sense of reality.

  Is he for real? Who the hell does he think he is? Make it right?

  I shove the pencil down and let the air out of my lungs before I turn around. “I've still got your card in my coat pocket.” I’d purposefully left it there without a glance. Because I knew once I learned his name, he'd be even harder to forget. “Like I told you yesterday, sir, I don’t need you to make this right. Case closed.”

  “Wendy!” my father hisses.