by Vivian Ward
What was supposed to be an in-and-out office trip turned into an hour-long debate with our paralegals and Pardo. I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of there on time. Thank God the copy machine is in the front of the office behind the receptionist's desk because that was how I finally made my getaway.
After making all the copies I need, I load up my docs in my briefcase and quietly slip out the front door while everyone else continues to argue in our regular work area. Sometimes I get so tired of listening to all of the bickerings.
Now that it’s almost 7 PM, I’m sure Piper’s pissed that I didn’t make it home for dinner in time and she probably had to eat alone. I don’t like my fiancée having to eat dinner by herself.
She was probably sulking at the kitchen table, bored out of her mind eating whatever delicious meal she cooked up for the two of us.
In an effort to make it up to her, I pull over on the side of the road and call our local bakery.
“Baker’s Delight,” a bright, chipper girl answers the phone.
“Hello, can I place an order for pick-up please?”
“Uhh,” she hesitates. “Sir, we close in less than 10 minutes. Will you be able to make it here by then?”
I look down at the car clock, completely forgetting that most bakeries aren’t open very late.
“Yes, I can do that. Do you have any fresh chocolate cheesecakes?” I ask.
“We sure do! Just boxed some up for tomorrow. Need anything else?”
“No, that’s all,” I say, watching the traffic in my rearview mirror.
“And the last name, sir?” she asks me.
“Kraft, spelled with a K.”
“We’ll have that ready, sir,” she says. “And we close in eight minutes.”
“Right. I’m on my way,” I promise her as I hang up the phone and weave back into traffic.
Baker’s Delight is only a few blocks away, but the thick traffic is hardly moving. Putting on my turn signal, I begin inching over into the slow lane so I can make a right two blocks ahead.
Pulling into the bakery right as they’re about to close, the woman whom I presume answered the phone is about to turn the open sign to closed when she sees me, and I hold up my finger.
“Wait! I’m here,” I say, bolting from the car.
Although Piper’s not expecting me to bring home dessert, I think it’s the least I can do. She kept asking me what time I was going to be home. Maybe she wasn’t up to anything. Maybe she just wanted to make us a nice dinner but I got caught up at the office, and now I feel bad for getting home so late.
“You barely made it,” she holds the door open for me.
Inside of the bakery, all I can smell is the sweet scent of cakes, pies, and cookies. Sugary frosting floats through the air with a hint of chocolate trailing behind it. I don’t know how anyone who works here is as thin as this woman is.
She’s a short redhead with a sprinkling of freckles that runs right across the bridge of her nose and big, hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the door from her. “I got here as fast as I could.”
Locking the door behind us to prevent other customers from coming in, she makes her way behind the counter.
“Are you the one who called in the chocolate cheesecake for Kraft?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
She retrieves it from the cooler behind her and places the box on the counter. The cheesecake is in a decorative pink box with their name stamped on the lid in a fancy gold font.
“That’ll be $18.43,” she says as I pull my debit card out.
“Here you go.”
After she finishes our transaction, I promptly leave and weave my way back into the traffic. Luckily, it’s died down a bit since I started my drive home so I shouldn’t keep my bride-to-be too much longer.
I feel bad anytime I get home this late. It’s not fair to her, and I hate to keep her waiting. She’s always so good to me by having dinner ready every night. I just want to show her how much I love and appreciate her.
“Piper?” I ask as I walk through the front door.
The house is silent, but her car is parked in the driveway. I also don’t smell any dinner. I hope I didn’t piss her off so bad that she didn’t cook. That’s how I know when I really fuck up.
She loves cooking, and she loves playing the role of a domesticated housewife, but when she gets mad, she’ll refuse to cook. Those are the nights that I sleep on the sofa—and they’re very far and few between.
“Babe?” I call out again.
Setting the cheesecake on the kitchen counter, I see her emerging from the hallway bathroom as she makes her way toward me.
“Hey, babe,” she says, walking into my open arms. “How was your day?”
Resting her head on my chest, she snuggles up to me, and I can immediately tell that she’s not pissed. She looks like she’s had a rough day. I don’t know why but I feel sorry for her.
Her makeup looks slightly smudged like she’s been crying and her bottom lip looks swollen.
Rubbing her lip, I lean down and gently kiss her on the cheek.
“What’s wrong, babe?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she whispers.
But I know it’s more than nothing. Something has upset her, and I want to get to the bottom of this. Nobody makes my girl cry.
Nobody.
“Pipes, tell me what’s wrong,” I pull her into my arms and hug her.
Holding her against me, she remains silent for a moment before she begins shaking her head from side to side and lets out a long sigh.
“Are you going to tell me whose ass I’m kicking or what?” I ask her. “Because I know some mean dudes. I see them in court every day. I can make all of your problems go away,” I tease her.
She laughs for a second and pulls away but remains in my embrace.
“Let’s eat dinner, okay?”
I know that she’s just trying to change the subject, but I’m not letting her off that easy.
“Okay,” I play along with her charades.
Looking around the kitchen, I see no signs of food. She didn’t cook dinner, or if she did, she’s already cleaned up.
“How are we supposed to do that if you didn’t make anything?” I ask her.
“I don’t have to cook to have dinner,” she shakes her head at me and presses her lips together as though she’s outsmarted me. “I picked something up on my way home.”
I see the takeout on the kitchen table. Neatly stacked Chinese boxes tower over two plates; one for me and one for her.
“Chinese food actually sounds pretty good,” I tell her. “I picked up dessert on my way home.”
I open the pink bakery box on the counter and present dessert to her.
“Chocolate cheesecake,” I say, holding the box open.
“Yum!” she says. “Let’s eat dinner and then we can have some of that.”
I watch her carefully scoop the food out of the boxes onto our plates. She does everything with such grace, and I can’t stop looking at her.
“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” I ask, halfway through dinner.
She pretends to chew her food longer than necessary, biding time that she won’t have to answer the question.
“Well?” I ask again.
She holds her finger up and swallows a few minutes later before taking a long drink from her glass.
“Sorry, I didn’t think I’d ever get finished with that bite,” she wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Nothing is bothering me, but I was doing some thinking.”
“About what?”
“Your party and my bridal shower. Maybe I should try to find a way to go with you somehow.”
“No,” I cut her off.
That’s one of her big days, and I’m not letting her give it up for Ford’s party.
“You’re not giving that up. You’ll have your party, and I’ll have mine.”
“Logan, I don’t think you’ll have a party if I don
’t go. I have a feeling that your boss is serious about you losing the invite if I don’t come. I’m going to try to figure out a way to make it there so that I’m by your side.”
She’s the best damn woman a man could ask for, but I can’t let her do it. I won’t let her do it. What kind of man would I be if I allowed that to happen?
“Everything will be just fine. Don’t worry about Ford.”
“No, I—I want to go,” she says.
The tone in her voice isn’t compelling, but I can tell that she really wants to be there with me.
“Why? Why do you want to go with me so badly?”
“I love you, and I want to be there to lend my support,” she briefly smiles at me.
Something is off about her tonight—and last night— but I don’t know what it is.
“There’s no way you can make it,” I try to explain to her. “Just focus on you. You’re obviously stressed enough as it is. I’ll take care of things. Maybe Ford won’t even notice that you’re not there.”
She tilts her head to the side and scrunches up her face.
“Nobody’s that dumb. You’ve already told him that I won’t be there and from the way everything sounds, I bet he would notice. You told me yourself that he’d withdraw your invitation.”
I hate that I told her anything. She doesn’t need to worry.
“It’s fine. I’m going to figure out a way to do this,” she insists.
I have no idea what’s gotten into her, but whatever it is, she’s not going to tell me.
Chapter Ten
Piper
I was so glad that he didn’t ask why we were eating takeout when he came home so late. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t have had dinner ready, except for the fact that I went and met his boss without him knowing.
And the chocolate cheesecake added to my guilt. I could barely eat it, but he knows that it’s my favorite so if I wouldn’t have eaten it, he would’ve known that something was really up.
He kind of did, actually. He knows me better than I know myself sometimes. There’s no hiding my feelings from this man because he can read me like a book.
Sometimes I think it’s a gift, other times I think it’s a curse.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that he knows me so well. I truly am. It means that he pays attention and that he loves me.
It also means that I can’t slip anything past him. I’m also a horrible liar, so that doesn’t help things either. He knew that something was wrong and that I was troubled which is why he wouldn’t let it drop.
Even as we pulled back our duvet cover to climb into bed, he was still asking me what was wrong.
After I had left The Indigo Room, I broke down and had a good cry in the car before I made it home. The stress of the wedding, his party, my bridal shower and having the secret meeting with Ford were all too much.
The guilt of meeting up with his boss behind his back and the way my body reacted to his touch still weighs heavily on my shoulders. Part of me feels like I should feel guilty and disgusted, but I’m not.
It’s had the complete opposite effect on me. I’ve been all hot and bothered by it; and to make matters worse, I had a sex dream about his boss last night.
A freaking sex dream!
About Mr. Ford.
Who the hell does that? The last thing you should do is dream about your husband’s boss fucking your brains out. It’s even worse that our wedding is so close.
When you’re about to marry the love of your life—the man who gives your body the oxygen it craves—the last thing you should do is dream about another man.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but my imagination has been running wild ever since I met up with him at the lounge. I’ve been telling myself to stop it, but I can’t help it. My mind races and it won’t turn off.
All of the possibilities keep swimming through my head.
And poor Logan. My innocent fiancé who has no idea that I’ve met with his boss or that I’ve been dreaming of fucking the man.
The worst part?
I’d never cheat on Logan in a million years.
But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about all of the what-ifs.
What if I did sleep with his boss?
What if I liked it?
What if his boss liked it?
See? There I go again. What I need to be thinking about is what would Logan do if he knew any of this. Would he still love me? Would he still marry me? Would he kill me?
Those are the important questions.
“What’s on your mind?” Meagan asks, waving her arm in front of my face.
I almost forgot that we were at lunch and that she’s been talking to me non-stop for the last 20 minutes. She tends to have that effect on you though; she never shuts up.
“I’m just having lunch,” I say, acting like everything is normal.
“Bull,” she waves her spoon back and forth. “I know something’s on your mind because you haven’t hardly eaten anything and you’re completely ignoring me. You’ve sat there like a zombie this entire time. What’s going on?”
I think about telling her for a minute, then decide against it.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Can’t a woman just be in deep thought?”
“Did you forget that I’m a human bullshit detector? Spill it.”
I suppose if there’s one person that I’m going to confide in, it should at least be Meagan. Besides Deb, she’s my closest best friend, and she does know all about the invitation and how Mr. Ford might withdraw it if I don’t go.
“You know my bridal shower? Well, I went and met with Logan’s managing partner about his party.”
“What’s a managing partner again?” she asks.
“It’s kind of like his boss. He’s the guy in charge,” I explain. “Anyway, I went and met with him at The Indigo Room and,” she cuts me off.
“You mean you went and met with him at that swanky lounge? Does Logan know? What was it like in there? Tell me all the details.”
I almost want to slap her. It’s not like it was a date or like I was excited to meet up with him. It was nerve-racking, and I still feel bad about going there without Logan’s knowledge. I’ve never been one to keep secrets or hide things from my partner.
“It was nice and no; Logan doesn’t know,” I say. “I was hoping that after I explained to him about my bridal shower, that he’d give Logan a break.”
“Did it work?” she asks.
“No, not at all. Somehow, he got me to agree to go with Logan, and I said I’d be there.”
Her jaw drops and then she purses her lips closed. She’s pissed, and I don’t blame her. I’m mad at myself.
Mr. Ford is smooth. I’m still trying to process how he talked me into it. It’s like I was in a daze while I was with him and I just wanted to make him happy, so I did.
“Are you telling me that you’re throwing your bridal shower down the drain? All the hard work that I put into this is out the window? That none of us are going to be able to come to your party? The one we’ve been planning for you?”
She’s beyond pissed. She’s hurt, and I don’t blame her, but I’ll do anything to help my man. Sometimes we have to do selfless things for the people we love, and our whole future rests in the hands of Mr. Ford.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying Megs. We’ve just got to figure something out. Help me here. I don’t want to lose out on it either,” I explain to her.
She finishes her yogurt and licks the spoon clean.
“Sounds like you’re trying to get out of it if you ask me. What can I help you with? Cancelling everything?”
This is killing me. The last thing I want to do is hurt my friend.
“No, but I need your help figuring out how I can be in both places at once. Can you clone me?”
I push out my bottom lip, pouting.
We both laugh.
“Yeah right, if I had cloning powers I wouldn’t use them on your sorry ass,” she teases. “How
can we pull this off? Obviously, it means a lot to you if you’re willing to go to this extreme, so I want to help.”
The two of us lean back in the uncomfortable break room chairs, staring at the clock as we watch the hand count down seconds until our break is over.
“What time is this party of Logan’s?” she asks.
“I’d have to ask him, but I think it starts at 8 PM? I don’t remember. Why?”
She sits up and turns to face me.
“I was just thinking,” she leans forward. “What if you had your bridal shower and then rushed to his party when it was over? Could you be late? Would that be okay?”
I draw my mouth into a line as I think about her idea.
“No, I don’t think that’ll work. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to make a grand entrance with him or something. I don’t think his managing partner will go for me just showing up for the last hour or so of the party; but then again, I don’t know how long they usually last.”
“Hmm.”
The two of us go back to the drawing board with only minutes left of our lunch break. I wish I could go back in time to change the date that we scheduled my bridal shower.
“I’ve got it,” she says. “You can’t be late, right?”
“Right,” I agree with her.
“What if we can get you there on time? Would that work?”
“How are we supposed to pull that off?” I ask her.
“I’d had some games and things planned out but what if we hurried it along and got everyone out the door? That away you could still have your bridal shower and still make it to the party?”
“So just cut it short and rush through it?”
“Yeah,” she says. “We’ll do the important parts and skimp on the rest. How long will you need to get ready for the party?”
I think about how we could make this plan work. It could be viable if it all plays out just right.
“If I had to, I could do my makeup and hair before the bridal shower so that when it’s over, all I have to do is throw on my dress, pantyhose, and heels.”
“So about 30 minutes then?” she asks.
“Yeah, about that long.”
She smiles and throws her arm around me.
