He’s got one hand on his hip, and the other is roughly pulling through his hair. “Why can’t it just be a kiss? Why does it have to be a free pass?”
Standing up, the remainder of my buzz wears off too quickly, and my spine prickles. “Because that’s what we agreed to. I don’t understand what’s happening right now, Ben. Why are you angry?”
“You kissed me,” he says, jabbing a finger at the ground. “This whole time, I’ve respected every rule you’ve laid out. Even the ones I don’t agree with, I’ve followed them to the letter, Kat. I’ve been forcing myself not to even hope for that first kiss with you for weeks. Weeks. And I even let the free pass thing go the other night, because I’m trying really hard to understand what it is you’re needing here right now, even though I’m fairly certain you haven’t given any thought to how all of this is affecting me. And it might not mean anything to you, but a first kiss with you was important to me. So I never stepped out of bounds. I followed the rules. Then you kiss me, and now you’re just waving your hand saying it’s a free pass?”
“Ben—”
“Why couldn’t it just be a kiss?” he says again, more hurt than angry now. “I get that you’re trying to protect yourself. I understand that, I do. And I respect the hell out of it. But you’ve been sending me every signal from every direction, and I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I don’t know what this is or what we’re doing. And what’s worse? I think you know exactly how confusing this all is for me, and you don’t seem to care. I’ve let that go because this is your thing, and this should be about you. And I agreed to all of it knowing what your endgame was with Ryan.
“And yeah, I’m not supposed to have feelings for you, but I do, and I know that’s on me. I’ve kept them separate from this since minute one. But you pull me all over the place. One minute you treat me like we’re dating, and a second later you’re shouting about the rules, saying over and over how you have to keep them because otherwise, somehow I’d get confused, and it would mess everything all up.”
He stops and looks at me, his eyes hurt and pleading. “I’m not... I’m not that guy, Kat. I feel like you should know that by now.” He takes another step back and looks around, pulling angrily at his shirt where his tie is still absent. “Apparently I am the guy who gets his feelings hurt when he gets called a ‘free pass,’ though, so we both learned something tonight.”
“Ben, that’s not what I meant,” I say, hearing my voice crack. His words—“I’m not supposed to have feelings for you, but I do”—are ricocheting through my head so hard I feel dizzy. Stepping away from the door, I move toward him. “I’m sorry.”
He holds up his hands to stop me. “No,” he says resolutely. “I’m going home.”
“Ben, you can’t be serious. We have to talk about this.”
“I’m very serious,” he says, and his expression makes me believe him. “I’m clocking out. I’m tired of working so hard to understand someone who doesn’t give a damn about returning that favor. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. We shouldn’t have done any of this tonight. Maybe we shouldn’t have done any of this at all.”
I scoff, “Okay, fine. If you’re ‘clocking out,’ you can get the hell off my porch.” My face is burning in a very different way than before. The cloud of emotional nirvana has dissipated, and I’m left with a thousand feelings I’ve no hope of untangling in this instant. “I can’t believe you’re going to unload all of that on me and not even let me have a say.”
“I think you’ve had plenty of say,” he snaps. “And quite frankly, I’m too angry to talk about this with you anymore tonight. So maybe just this once, you can let me hold on to a sliver of dignity and leave.”
A thousand biting responses flash through my head. If he wants to snark, I’ll dance all night. I’ll stand here and shout my side of the story for the entire city to hear just because I can. That’s how stubborn I can be. That’s what makes me The Mouth.
My instinct is to prepare for battle, to dig in my heels to go to the mattresses.
But I don’t.
He’s wounded.
And I’m the one who wounded him.
“Okay, Ben,” I say, swallowing down any barbs, and more importantly, every tear. “That’s fine. Good night.”
He shakes his head and pulls his keys out of his jacket pocket, and my stomach hurts when I see the edge of his tie poking out. “Wow, thanks for the permission.”
I’ve been thrown completely off my axis. I’m too stunned to cry, too angry to keep shouting, too shaken to stomp into my apartment and slam the door.
Instead I stand with arms crossed tight, watching him turn, head down the sidewalk and climb into his car without breaking stride.
He never looks back. I watch him drive away, and I hold my position on the porch long after the taillights disappear.
35
The lights of the makeup mirror are so painfully hot, I’m a little worried they’ll burn into my skin like a tanning bed. The guy scurrying about with a little ear microphone assures me that isn’t the case.
Someone—I don’t even know who it was—handed me a giant coffee when I first arrived, and I want to track them down so I can kiss them. Or hug them and cry on their shoulder. That interaction could go either way.
The Channel 7 makeup artist gal comes over, tucks pieces of tissue paper into my Cup My Cakes T-shirt and sticks a straw into my coffee lid. “To keep your lipstick from smudging,” she explains when I give her a look.
“I don’t wear lipstick,” I inform her.
She snickers. “You do today. These are HD cameras, honey. You’ll look like a corpse if you don’t have something on.”
Great. “Can you make it look like I don’t have giant bags of sand under my eyes? That’d be a neat trick.”
She steps back and assesses my face. “You look like you haven’t slept...ever. Nervous about the show?”
Well, yes. That, and the guy I had therapy sex with last night is mad at me because I’m an emotional cadaver, and now I’m supposed to go back to my sort-of-ex-boyfriend with a working special and put an end to this relationship madness, and my entire career is hinging on a single presentation tomorrow, and even though it shouldn’t be a priority at the moment—and despite the breakthrough last night—I have enough pent-up sexual frustration to power a small country through what I imagine would be some interesting loin-to-turbine conversion system.
“Yep. Nervous.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” she says kindly. “And I’m sure you’ll do great. You know, I’ve been to your shop! It’s really cute. I ordered a cake for my mom’s birthday, and she loved it.”
“Aww, really? That’s so great. Thank you.”
So even if everything else is a mess of crap right now, at least I managed to get one thing right.
Except I don’t do the cakes and probably had absolutely no hand in that success whatsoever.
“I’m Betsy, by the way,” the gal says as she pokes at my face with a goo-covered sponge. “You’ll hang here with me until they’re ready for you on set.”
“Nice to meet you, Betsy,” I say, and stick my hand out to shake hers. “I’m Kat.”
“I know it’s early as balls, so just kick back and relax.” She chuckles a bit. “Take a nap if you want. You wouldn’t be the first person.”
I smile. That’s a tempting offer. But if I couldn’t sleep in the few hours I tossed and turned in my own bed, I doubt sitting in the chair under the glaring lights of the sun bulbs is going to lull me off to dreamland.
Why did I have to say “free pass”? What in the hell made my brain think that was ever a good idea? It wasn’t what I even meant. The whole thing just sort of slipped out. I don’t think of Ben as a free pass. I think of him as a beautiful, kind, awkwardly adorable, thoughtful man whom I’ve grown absurdly atta
ched to over the last few weeks.
He’s also someone I’m far more compelled to roll around with in naked ways than I care to admit.
And that’s the problem. I’m stubborn as fuck and reluctant to actually admit—even to myself—that I have the tingles for Ben Cleary.
But none of that matters. I’m not supposed to have tingles for Ben Cleary. That wasn’t part of the deal.
I sigh inwardly. I’m such an idiot. Me and my control-freak boundaries. I should never have done any of this. The whole point was to get back to Ryan so we can try to ignite our tingles, for sobbing out loud.
Ben’s right; this never should have happened. Sex shouldn’t have happened. Kissing. Glittery necks.
The memory of our sparkly moment races through my brain, and I want to cry. Ryan would never in a million years have participated in glittery times. He’d feel self-conscious and think it was stupid, which would make me feel self-conscious and stupid.
When we’d been together six months or so, way before the rut, I remember we were having dessert at a restaurant and I accidentally got some whipped cream on my wrist. I was going for coy—or whatever passes for sexy in my attempts—and I held it out to him, thinking he’d maybe lick it off, or at the very least, semi-sensually pull his finger across it to banish the cream.
But no. He didn’t even seem to notice the loaded-lust gaze I was giving him and just handed me a napkin without looking up from his lava cake.
He’s never been one for PDA.
If I’d never gotten into this fiasco with Ben, I’d never know about the fantastic ways to remove edible glitter from a neck.
Maybe that would be better. I wouldn’t have known what I’ve been missing.
I just... I don’t think I want to miss that anymore.
“Are you okay?” Betsy asks. “Your whole body just sort of...clenched.”
I slump in the chair. “I’m fine. Just sitting here regretting all my life choices. It’s cool.”
Betsy breaks out a calm and casual smile, and I get the feeling she’s had her fair share of crazy in this chair. I assume the makeup artist for a morning show is like the psychotherapist to the barely conscious before dawn.
Time passes, and I sit quietly, watching her work as I finish my coffee, which is super weird through a straw. I have to admit, she does a very impressive job of making me look passably human. Eventually the stage manager comes to take me over to the main stage. The hosts are already on camera, chatting away about morning traffic with some poor schmuck out on the streets with a remote camera and a crowd of flailing douche-monkeys behind him.
During a commercial break, the three hosts hop offstage and come over to say hi as another makeup person touches them up.
The station manager introduces us. “Kat, this is Sandra Wen, Don Collins and Rachel Hollowell. They’ll be doing your segment this morning. Guys, this is Kat Carmichael from Cup My Cakes bakery.”
“Pleasure to meet you all. I’m a big fan,” I fib as I shake their hands. Although if I ever had time to watch a morning show, I would probably watch theirs. I hate the Channel 4 team. Their meteorologist inspires a blind irritation that borders on rage as soon as he speaks. I don’t even really know why.
“So great to have you here,” Don says in a very loud newscaster voice. I wonder if it’s possible for him to turn it off, or if that’s a full-time sound. “My son Connor’s birthday is this weekend, and I thought it would be fun to have you come on and do a demonstration for us,” he explains.
“That’s what your station manager said,” I reply, smiling.
Don laughs what seems to be a perfectly rehearsed laugh. Gosh. I bet that doesn’t get annoying to be around on the regular at all. “I think they just like to see how much I can embarrass myself.”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “The segment was your idea, Don.”
I immediately like Rachel.
“Well, I’ll try not to let you look too foolish,” I say with a disgustingly coquettish chuckle. I hate myself a little.
Someone with a microphone runs up to us. “After this segment, we go to commercial, and then it’s over to you guys. Three minutes.”
My stomach flops a little. I bet the gals are back at the shop watching this right now on the TV in the lobby, waiting for the show to start while they wrangle the morning rush. The stagehands are taking all my equipment onto the kitchen part of the stage. All my piping bags are being laid out, so I go up to help out and give a quick rundown of my gear to the hosts before the weather segment is over. I brought my very best apron with me—a blue one covered with little mischievous foxes frolicking with umbrellas—and tie it on. The hosts stand beside me, and I set out a piping bag and batch of naked cupcakes for each of them, plus some small bowls of decorations.
Another one of the equipment guys whose name I didn’t catch comes over and starts placing a tiny microphone under my apron, clipping it to the neck strap. I give him an incredulous look as he essentially heads to second base, sticking his hand up my shirt, but I assume this is something he does fifty times a morning. I wipe the incredulity off my face and try to focus.
I turn back to the hosts. “When we start, I’ll demonstrate how to do a few different animals for the audience, but then I’ll walk you guys through how to do elephants on the cupcakes, okay? They’re pretty easy.”
“Sounds great,” Don says, eyeing his piping bag with a big, shiny grin.
“Don’t be nervous,” Sandra says kindly. “These are fun segments. They’re mostly so we can look like idiots and you can have some free advertisement. Don’t feel pressured.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling gratefully. Sandra seems like she’s been at this for an age. Don, on the other hand, closely resembles a sentient Ken doll.
A stagehand on the floor waves wildly in our direction and counts down with his fingers, finally pointing at Rachel. She looks at the camera and says, “We’ll be right back after this with Kat Carmichael from Cup My Cakes bakery, so stay tuned!”
After a second, the stagehand waves his arm again and everyone goes back to what they were doing. I look at Sandra. “Were—were we just on air?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“One minute, guys!” the stagehand yells.
Oh, shit. Okay. Things move fast here. All right. One minute. I can totally do this. I’ve decorated thousands upon thousands of cupcakes. And it’s entirely possibly the decision-makers from Coopertown are watching this right now. Even if they aren’t, the good press from this show could help out a lot. Shannon is going to rock things tomorrow, but every little bit helps. I can totally do this.
God, what if Ben is watching?
What if Ryan is watching?
What if Mr. Peterson is watching?
Why are the studio lights so goddamn hot?
The stagehand pops in front of the camera and points at all of us. “Fifteen,” he announces.
Fuck.
It’s time to put my money where The Mouth is. I suck in a deep breath and take my spot up by the counter.
Rachel, Sandra and Don line up beside me, each doing their last-minute preening rituals before the cameras go live. It must be exhausting to be on TV.
The stagehand counts down on his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one. He points at us. Here we go.
“Welcome back,” Sandra says brightly. “We are joined by Kat Carmichael from the adorable bakery Cup My Cakes, located on the corner of Eighth and Central. Good morning, Kat!”
I smile. “Good morning, Sandra. Everyone. Thanks for having me.”
Don chimes in. “All right, Kat, now, my boy Connor’s birthday is Saturday, and my wife and I thought it might be fun to give decorating some cupcakes for his party a shot ourselves this year, but we don’t have a clue what we’re doing. We went onto Pinterest, and apparently you need
a master’s in cake decorating to even attempt any of those!”
I shake my head and grin. “Yeah, don’t go to Pinterest for ideas unless you want to feel really bad about yourself.”
They all laugh. “So, do you think you can help us out?” Don asks, grinning his best broadcaster smile.
“Well, I can absolutely show you some basics,” I say, gesturing to a tray of unfrosted cuppies. “Mostly it takes a little practice and remembering that you’re a busy parent, so don’t beat yourself up too much about making perfectly decorated cupcakes. Your kid will be happy you gave it the effort. Even better, get the kids involved in the process, and everyone has a fun, messy time.” I pause and give the hosts a pointed look. “Of course, if you do want perfectly decorated cakes, I highly recommend ordering from Cup My Cakes. I hear their staff is top drawer all the way.”
That gets a big laugh. “I see what you did there,” Don says, still chuckling. “All right, so Connor wants a zoo-themed party. Can you make anything zoo-ish on cupcakes?”
The other hosts are watching intently, and I appreciate them as an audience. The edge of my mouth curls up in a mischievous little grin. Shannon always says it’s good to show off a little when there’s a crowd.
“I think I could probably manage a few things,” I say casually.
There’s a row of all different colors of frosting bags laid out, and I set to work. I’ve been practicing this for days to get it done as efficiently as possible, and it’s paid off. First I pipe out a zebra. It’s simple enough, but it looks impressive on the chocolate cake.
I’ve only got a couple of minutes, so I quickly pipe out a lion’s face that covers an entire cake, followed quickly by monkeys that have very chubby cheeks and look perfect for a toddler’s birthday party.
Finally I go for a giraffe. I brought along a little grass fondant topper to place him on since his long neck is slightly problematic, but he looks very cool when he’s finished, so I knew it’d be worth the trouble.
The hosts circle around, oohing and aahing appropriately. “These are incredible!” Rachel says.
The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky Page 24
