by Ember Casey
I stand, running my hands down my apron. I’ve made my decision. Now I need to live with it. I only hope that Jack will come to see that this wasn’t some ridiculous whim. I want to believe that Dante is committed to making this work.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s Dante, and my heart gives a little leap in my chest as I raise the cell to my ear.
“Hey,” I say.
There’s a brief pause. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I’m fine.” I tuck a loose bit of hair behind my ear. “Just had a little argument with Jack.”
Another pause. “Do you need to talk about it? What were you arguing about?”
You. But I don’t say that out loud. Our relationship is still too new, too fragile, for us to start dissecting the reasons other people think we shouldn’t be together. And I don’t want him to think I’m second-guessing this.
“It’s fine,” I say. “He’ll come around.”
“I hope so,” Dante says, his voice dropping. “Because I plan on being around for a while.”
The dizzying buzz of happiness fills me again. “Is that so?”
“Yes. In fact, I have an invitation for you. As you know, Luca’s birthday is next weekend, and my mother is holding a small get-together for family and close friends. I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me as my date.”
My heart stutters. He’s asking me to meet his family?
“I—of course I will,” I manage. The little voice in my head says, See? I knew this was something real.
“Glad to hear it.” His tone makes his pleasure more than clear. “Of course, I’d like to see you before then, too.”
“I think that can be arranged.” I lean against the bakery case and smile. “What were you thinking?”
“If I had my way, I’d see you tonight. Tomorrow. Every night. All night.” His voice has gotten rough with what I easily recognize as desire. “But unfortunately, I’ve got work commitments for the next three days. How does dinner on Thursday sound?”
“It sounds wonderful,” I say.
“Good. Then it’s a date.”
I smile. “It’s a date.”
CHAPTER NINE
On Wednesday, the day before my first real dinner date with Dante, everything changes.
It starts like any normal day. I’m in the bakery early, getting my recipes organized for the day, when Jilly comes bouncing in. Rather than go straight for her apron, she stops right in front of my workstation.
“Is it true?” she says. “Are you really dating Dante Fontaine?”
I look up from the flour. “What? Where did you hear that?”
“The same place the rest of the world did.” She holds up her phone, showing me a popular gossip website. There, front and center, is a photo of Dante and me leaving Big Barb’s with the headline, “Dante Fontaine’s new mystery girl: Who is Ashlyn Worth?”
A chill shoots down my spine. I knew this was coming, but I guess I’d hoped I’d have my anonymity for a little while longer. It’s so strange to see my face on this site, to see my name printed as if I’m some sort of celebrity. Tens of thousands of people might read this.
“So?” Jilly prompts. “Is it true?”
“I…” After asking Dante to be open about our relationship, I can’t exactly deny it. “Yes. Yes, I’m seeing him.”
“Are you serious?” Jilly squeals. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m telling the truth.”
“How did you meet him? What’s he like? How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, give the poor girl the chance to breathe.” That’s Mama Pat, who’s just come in through the back door.
“Did you hear?” Jilly says. “Ash is dating Dante Fontaine!” She spins back toward me. “How did this even happen? Did someone introduce you? Or did you just run into him on the street somewhere and have some intense connection the moment your eyes met?”
“No, we—well, we knew each other back in school. And I ran into him again when we delivered the Cataclysm: Earth cake.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my mind revives a very vivid image of that night—of Dante and Emilia together—but I quickly push it away. I’ve done a good job of forgetting the circumstances that reacquainted Dante and me, and even though I know I can’t ignore it forever, it’s not something I want to dwell on right now.
“So this has been going on since then?” Jilly says. “I delivered the cake with you—why didn’t I see him? Did you ask him out or did he ask you?”
“Why don’t you make sure the front case is ready?” Mama Pat says. “Do your job before you start prying for personal information. She’ll tell you when she’s ready to.”
Jilly glances at me, but I only nod.
“Go prep the front case,” I say. “I’ve got three cake consultations today and I need to get eight batches of muffins done before the first one.”
Jilly looks disappointed, but she’s a good employee and won’t directly disobey me. She heads out to the shop to get everything ready for the day. As soon as she’s gone, I give a nod of appreciation to Mama Pat for coming to my defense.
She smiles. “I’ve been wondering what was going on with you.”
I turn back to my muffin dough so she can’t see my face get red. “Was it that obvious?”
“To anyone who’s spent any great amount of time with you. I knew it would take something special to make you call off work.” Her grin widens as she ties her apron around her waist. “I hope you noticed that we managed to keep the place from burning down while you were gone.”
“I did. And thank you.”
After that, we settle in for what seems to be a normal morning. But around noon, when I head up front to help Jilly with the lunch crowd, I see him.
At first I think I’m just imagining things. We get a lot of tourists here in Los Angeles, so it’s not unusual to see people snapping pictures on the street outside. But usually those tourists aren’t taking photos of my bakery. And usually they’re using cell phones or small personal cameras, not huge fancy-looking contraptions with lenses as long as my arm. He’s here to investigate Dante’s mystery girl. I just know it.
But what do I do? Go out and shoo him away? Am I allowed to call the police? Or should I just let him go about his business? Maybe if I let this play out, it will blow over more quickly. The more I try to hide, the more interested they’ll be. Besides—this might bring the bakery some extra business, and I won’t turn my nose up at that.
But as the afternoon rolls on, I realize that I grossly misjudged the situation.
The photographer outside my bakery becomes two photographers. Then three. Then five.
I’m watching them and chewing on my lip when Jilly beckons me over.
“Phone call for you,” she says.
Thank God. Business will take my mind off of the growing crowd of paparazzi. I grab the phone off the wall. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Worth?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Margaret Stefano from the Hollywood Grandstand, and I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to chat.”
“Are you interested in ordering a cake?” I ask, pulling my clipboard off the wall.
She laughs. “No, Ms. Worth. I wanted to ask you a few questions. For an interview.”
“An interview?”
“For Hollywood Grandstand. We can chat right now over the phone if you like, or if you’d prefer to meet in person—”
“No,” I say quickly. “Thank you, but I’m not interested.”
“If you’d prefer—”
“I’m not interested,” I repeat, then hang up the phone before she can get another word in.
For a few minutes after the call, I’m too stunned to move. That was a reporter. I knew my relationship with Dante would attract some attention, but I didn’t expect the press to start calling my bakery.
But that call is only the beginning.
The secon
d call comes in half an hour later. The next one fifteen minutes after that. By lunchtime, the phone is ringing off the hook, and not with an influx of orders for specialty cakes. Instead, it’s people from magazines and blogs and even a couple of newspapers asking to speak with me. To set up interviews. When I politely decline, a couple of them try to wheedle information out of me, but I just tell them “No comment,” and slam down the receiver.
“Maybe we should just disconnect the phone,” Jilly says. She seems as distressed by this as I am.
“I don’t want to miss any actual customers,” I tell her. I’m not going to let some overzealous reporters mess with my business.
I’ve been watching the top celebrity gossip sites all day, monitoring what’s being said about me. Most of the blogs don’t have many details—they only offer general theories about who I am and how Dante and I met—but then around mid-afternoon, one of them posts the name of my bakery.
And that’s the tipping point.
Let’s be real: anyone who knew my name could have figured out where I work with a little bit of internet research. Certainly many reporters and photographers did. But now this site has made it easy for anyone to find me.
And find me they do.
Suddenly our phone is ringing off the hook—and not just the bakery phone, but my personal cell phone, too. I must have my number linked to one of my social media profiles or something, and before long I have to turn it off to keep from going insane.
Most of the calls coming in on the bakery’s main line are still from reporters, but some members of the general public are calling in, too, asking if Dante Fontaine will be making any appearances here anytime soon. Or asking what Dante’s favorite dessert is. Or what his last order was.
Under different circumstances, I might have found it amusing—at least until the threats started.
The first one comes an hour after my bakery’ name is posted.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver. I’ve probably answered a hundred calls today, but I’m still stubbornly refusing to let this attention disrupt my business. “Ashlyn’s Bakeshop. Can I help you?”
“You’re a slut!” screeches a voice on the other end of the line. “I hope you die!”
For a moment, I’m too shocked to say anything. And then, “Excuse me?”
“I hope you fucking die! You’re a whore.”
“I… I think you must have a wrong number.”
“Dante deserves better than you. If you hurt him, I swear I’ll come down there and kill you.”
I have no idea who this is. No idea why she thinks these things about me. But I’ve heard enough. I hang up the phone and yank the cord out of the wall.
“No more calls,” I tell Jilly, who looks a little stunned at the violence of my reaction.
I don’t tell her or Mama Pat about the threat. I walk straight back through the kitchen and into the walk-in cooler, waiting until the door is shut behind me before I release a long, shaky breath. Dealing with reporters is one thing, but death threats?
My hand trembles as I pull out my phone. Should I call the police? Or Dante? What are you supposed to do in a situation like this?
When I turn my cell back on, dozens of notifications await me. I don’t bother listening to any of the messages or reading any of the texts. But a quick glance at my inbox reveals that they’ve found my email address as well. And it only gets worse when I pull up my bakery’s website and social media pages.
Everything is overflowing with messages. Some curious, some invasive. But I’m quick to learn that the woman who called me isn’t the only one upset about my relationship with Dante. His fans have sent me dozens of messages—some public, some private—expressing their opinions of me. Commenting on everything about me. Threatening me with death just for daring to date their celebrity crush.
And those aren’t even the worst. The worst are some of the messages I’ve received from men—vile, disgusting things so obscene that I feel dirty just reading them. Calling me a filthy whore. Making crude remarks about my body. Detailing the things they want to do to me. My phone slips out of my hand and crashes against the floor.
A moment later, Mama Pat pokes her head into the cooler. “Ashlyn, honey, are you all right?”
There’s no hiding my distress. “I… I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting any of this.”
She nods solemnly. “Jilly and I were just thinking it might make sense to close early.”
I press my hands against my eyes. “I told myself I wasn’t going to let them get to me.”
“There’s not going to be an end to this today,” she says softly. “Or tomorrow. Maybe we should close the rest of the week until this blows over.”
“We can’t afford to lose an entire week of business,” I say.
“We’re losing business as is,” Mama Pat points out. “No one can get through on the phone, and the crowd outside is scaring away our usual customers.”
Sadly, she’s right.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s close shop for today. I’ll make the decision about the rest of the week tomorrow.”
We pack up and try to sneak out the back door. But the photographers are ready for us. They must have been watching us clean and pack up through the windows, because by the time we attempt to make our escape, half a dozen of them are waiting for us behind the shop.
“Just go,” I tell Mama Pat and Jilly as the cameras start flashing. “Escape while you can. They’ll follow me.”
And they do. As I make my way around the building to my car, the paparazzi follow, snapping pictures and calling out questions. I try to ignore them, but in my head I hear the death threats, the invasive questions, the obscene remarks about my body. By the time I reach my car, I’m shaking so hard that I have trouble turning the keys in the ignition.
Is this what I signed up for? I should have listened to Dante’s fears. He knew it would be like this. And yet I asked him to make this thing public, as if somehow that would make our feelings more real. How could I be so naïve, so unprepared?
I shake all the way home. There aren’t any reporters camped outside my house, thank God, but I wonder if it’s only a matter of time. I want to talk to Dante. I want to beg him to come here and be with me and promise me that this will pass.
But that’s just it—I don’t know if this will pass. Is this my life now? Is this how things are going to be if I want to be with him?
I want to call him, but that means turning on my phone again, and I’m not prepared to do that just yet. So I just climb into bed and pull the covers over my head and tell myself this is all a dream.
* * *
Morning doesn’t bring much relief.
I wake with a knot in my stomach. I don’t think I can face the bakery today—and frankly, I know it’s unfair to ask Jilly or Mama Pat or Karen to, either. After taking several deep breaths, I turn on my phone. There are at least a dozen new messages waiting for me, but I ignore them. I call my employees and let them know that the shop will be closed today. That gives me a little bit of relief, at least.
Right after I’ve hung up with Karen, my phone rings. My stomach seizes, but then I see that it’s only Dante. Relief floods me as I answer.
“Ash? Are you all right?” he says immediately. “My publicist told me the news broke.”
“Oh, I—I’m fine,” I say. Still a little stunned, but holding together. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
“I tried calling you multiple times last night. They sent me to Vegas for a press thing, or I would have come over to make sure you were all right.” There’s a hint of darkness in his tone. “You are all right, aren’t you?”
Just hearing his voice makes me feel better. Makes me feel silly for getting so worked up about a few photographers. Yes, it was weird. Invasive. But it was only one day of my life. Dante has had to deal with this since he was a child—on a much bigger, much more intense scale. This is nothing compared to what he’s experienced.
“I’m all right,” I assure hi
m, hoping my voice sounds steady. “They just surprised me, that’s all.”
I swear I can almost hear him frowning. “They found your bakery, I understand.”
“Yeah. Disrupted business a little, but I guess that’s to be expected,” I say lightly. “Maybe in the long run this will be good for the bakery. I’ve already had your fans calling to ask about your favorite desserts.”
Though I’m trying to make a joke of it, he doesn’t seem the least bit taken in by my tone. “Are they harassing you?”
“No worse than you’ve been harassed, I’m sure.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Really, it’s fine,” I say. I don’t want to talk about this. “I decided it was best to close the bakery for a day or two until this blows over. So I’m going to be taking it easy at home. You don’t need to worry.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“They’ll get bored with me soon enough, I’m sure. I’m just the shiny new thing. I’m not famous or particularly interesting.”
“Ashlyn, don’t try to avoid the subject.”
“I’m not. I said I’m fine. And I’m trying to be realistic about the whole thing. This is a temporary inconvenience, that’s all.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can sense him stewing.
“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” I ask before he can press the matter any further.
“Of course,” he says, then pauses. “Would you rather stay in?”
Part of me most definitely does. But another part of me knows that wouldn’t actually solve anything. I’d just be running from the problem.
“Let’s go with the original plan,” I say. “I can handle it, I promise.”
His pause tells me he doesn’t quite believe me.
“Really,” I say. I asked for this. I need to be strong enough to handle it.
“All right,” he says. “Pick you up at seven?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Another hesitation. “Ash, if they bother you at all—”
“I’ll be okay.”
