Showing up and agreeing to him teaching me was a good decision.
Everything was fine until Cage and I started joking around, and then it went topsy-turvy, literally. One minute, I was bouncing around, trying out my new moves, and the next, he had me tossed over his shoulder, caveman style.
I felt the rush of adrenaline.
I felt the release of tension.
I felt the increase in confidence.
And then, I felt something foreign, something I haven’t felt in a long time—lust, desire, butterflies.
I swear, he was going to kiss me.
Or maybe I was going to kiss him.
That’s when I ran home like a yellow-bellied chicken.
The more I’ve thought about it, the more I want to kick my own ass. I battled myself the entire class—forcing myself not to look at Cage like he’s a piece of meat, berating myself for taking his instructions in a sexual manner.
Put your body into it. A simple request. But after my sex-deprived, attention-lacking psyche got ahold of it, it sounded a lot more perverse. I found myself shaking my head, trying to clear out the dirty thoughts and focus on the task at hand, not the man who was spending his free time to teach me.
I’m just glad I left before I did something I couldn’t take back and that I’d be seriously regretting this morning.
But it’s fine.
Nothing happened.
I’ll make him some muffins… as a thank you… and at the next class, I’ll keep my hands to myself and keep my mind out of the gutter.
Merle Haggard’s lyrics—if you don’t love it, leave it—are striking a chord with me this morning. Humming to myself, I walk back into the kitchen with my ingredients. A month or so ago, this song might’ve made me sad— or mad. I probably would’ve internalized these lyrics. I would’ve thought about how Asher didn’t love me, so he left me. And I’m sure that’s true, but it doesn’t affect me like it did.
The feeling that’s taking precedence over all the others this morning is fight. Maybe it’s the empowering feeling still lingering from yesterday. Even though things didn’t end on a good note, the rest of the class was awesome. I’ve never felt so alive and in control of my body as I did punching my way across those mats. It was a rush, and it made me feel like fighting.
Not the kind that will land me in jail, but the kind that says I’m Tempest Cassidy and I’m still here… I’m not going anywhere… and you’re not going to win.
“That’s right, Merle,” I mutter to myself as I measure out the exact amount of flour, leveling it off with a knife. The key to great muffins is precise measuring and not over-mixing. “You know, we’re kind of two peas in a pod…” I continue, speaking to one of the few men who truly gets me—Merle Haggard. “You hear people talking about you…” I mutter as I begin to fold in ingredients. “I hear people talking about me.”
If The Hag was still alive, I think we could be great friends.
I chuckle to the muffin mixture taking shape in front of me. If anyone caught me holding a conversation with a dead man, they really would think I’m crazy. But what’s a girl to do at four in the morning when she has things on her mind and no one around to talk to. Besides, I do my best thinking while I’m creating. This is my time to process and recollect without interruption.
Lana suggested mediation. Well, this is my form of meditation—me, Merle, and muffins.
“If you don’t fucking love it… leave it,” I agree as the song plays on loop. Whatever song I’m using for inspiration becomes my morning soundtrack. Sometimes, I’ll listen to the same song a dozen times. As I sing along to the chorus, folding in some dark chocolate chips, I start to feel a twinge in my bicep, reminding me of the burn I felt during my lesson with Cage.
As my mind wanders from the muffins back to the lyrics, I have a thought: I wish Asher would’ve taken advice from Merle and left me before he decided to fuck Mindy Mitchell.
On more than one occasion, I’ve asked Asher how long… How long was he with her before I walked in on them? How long did he know he no longer loved me? Was it before or after the miscarriage? Was that the deciding factor… Did it make him feel like as much of a failure as it did me? Those are some of the burning questions he’s yet to answer.
Maybe I’m a masochist for wanting to know, but I do.
After the whole bedroom incident and that first trip to jail, one of the first things I did—after changing the locks to the house and burning the sheets and my fluffy, white comforter—was go to my doctor and order an entire panel of tests. I knew I wasn’t pregnant, so that was never a concern, seeing as I never got a chance to find out if that little window of fertility was working. But more than anything, I was freaked out. I know Mindy’s past and her reputation. I needed to make sure Asher, and Mindy by proxy, hadn’t given me any STDs.
I shiver at the thought.
Fortunately, everything came back fine. But it still didn’t set my mind at ease.
For the first couple months, the mere idea of sex made my stomach roll. And I briefly thought he’d ruined it for me forever, but thanks to Cage and his ridiculous amounts of pheromones and testosterone, I know that’s not the truth. He makes me feel things I thought were dead and gone, kind of like Merle.
Just friends, I remind myself.
Don’t screw this up, Tempest.
When my mind finally shut up last night, and I quit second-guessing and over-analyzing, I eventually fell into the best sleep I’ve had in months. My body was deliciously spent and I didn’t feel like punching anyone or burning anything. It was the most peaceful I’ve felt in the last five months, since my life got turned upside down.
After I have a few batches of On the Fightin’ Side of Me done, I start on some Ring of Fires. Those sold really well last week. We also have some late-season cherries that need to be used up, so I pull those out.
As I go about the kitchen—measuring, mixing, pouring, baking—I let my mind be free, dreaming up something creative to use the cherries for, when an idea comes to mind. Running to the pantry, I pull out all the ingredients I’ll need.
I’ve always thought a nice addition to a traditional Texas Sheet Cake are cherries.
The flavors are very complimentary.
Going Through the Big D also comes to mind. It’s perfect—the story of my life mixed with where Cage is from. I smirk to myself as I think about it a little more. In an odd way, Cage and I are a good fit. He seems to get me and I like myself when I’m around him. Even if he does ruffle my feathers, he makes me feel confident. I like it. It’s so much better than feeling sorry for myself.
Mark Chesnutt isn’t as old school as I normally go, but it’ll fit this recipe well and look great on the menu board.
When the muffins are cooled, I pour ganache over each one and top them with cherries. Setting four of them off to the side and putting them in a box, I make up my mind to visit Cage later. They’ll be my I’m-sorry-I-almost-kissed-you-and-ran-away-like-a-loon and thank-you-for-teaching-me-kickboxing muffins. Thankfully, I don’t need to fit all of that on the chalkboard sign.
* * *
By mid-morning, most of the muffins are gone, making me glad I set some aside for Cage. I’m placing the last dozen into the display case when the bell above the door chimes and a familiar face walks in, making me cringe.
Stella Wilson.
She’s Mindy Mitchell’s right-hand girl, always has been. Everywhere Mindy went, and I do mean everywhere, there Stella would be as well. It was like it’d been sent down to Moses on the Mount, along with the Ten Commandments. So, her showing up here this morning, although a public place and the most popular bakery in a fifty-mile radius, it still puts me on edge.
“Welcome to Donner Bakery,” I greet, wishing I wasn’t up here all alone and I could hide away in the back, but everyone else is busy with other customers or doing something else, so it’s just me… and Stella. “What can I get you?”
Her sugary sweet smile makes me swallow hard, gra
teful I haven’t had a chance to eat today, because it might be making a reappearance. Back in high school, that smile was a precursor to evil. Right before her sharp tongue would dart out and slash you, she’d smile.
“Tempest,” she says, my name sounding condescending and patronizing and making me want to hurl… all the remaining muffins in her face. But that would be a waste of very delicious muffins, if I do say so myself.
And I do.
I made them.
I may not be confident in many things, but muffin making is my domain. I kill it. Own it.
I am the Duchess of Muffins.
After my brief mental pep talk and envisioning her with layers of crumbs and chocolate and cream all over her, I give her a smile in return. “Stella,” I offer, hoping it comes out sounding just as ugly as I intend it.
“So,” she says, taking a few more steps toward the counter. “I hear you’ll be joining us at the reunion.”
Oh, God.
“Mmm hmm,” I manage, unable to open my mouth for fear I’ll say something I’ll truly regret.
“And you’re bringing a date?”
Oh, God.
“Uh, yeah…” Cutting my eyes across the bakery, I look for help, anyone.
She places her expensive bag on the counter, leveling me with her stare. “Is it someone I know? Someone we went to school with?” Her questions come out inquisitive, like we’re two old friends and she’s interested in my life. “It’s a shame about you and… Asher,” she says, whispering his name behind her hand. “I mean, you know me and Mindy are tight, but that’s just not the way to go about things.”
For a second, I almost fall into her trap, a false sense of security creeping up on me before I give it a good kick, along with myself. Wake up, Tempest. Do not fall for her tricks. You are older and wiser… this is not high school.
Back then, I would’ve assumed she was genuinely trying to be my friend, but now, I see her for what she truly is—a snake in the grass, scoping out the latest gossip. A full-time employee for the enemy.
“A friend,” I tell her, hoping my face expresses the mock confidence I’m going for. “You wouldn’t know him.”
Why are they so concerned about who I’m bringing? Is it not enough that Asher and I are divorced? I assumed they’d lose all interest in my life once I was no longer a part of his. So, is this morbid curiosity or is my life so pathetic they assume I’m lying? I am, but she doesn’t have to know that.
Her lashes bat quickly. “Oh… is he from… out of town?”
“Yep.”
I only put plus one on my email because I didn’t want to sound pathetic. I have no clue who I’d take with me, my choice of friends is limited.
And that’s when a plan starts to take shape.
Glancing back over my shoulder, I eye the box of muffins I set aside earlier. “Yeah, he’s from out of state, actually. No one you’d know.”
The look of confusion and obvious skepticism is blatant. She wants to call me out on the lie, right here in front of God and everyone, but instead, she gives me that same smile. “Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”
As she turns, walking back toward the door, I call out after her. “Did you want some muffins?”
“Oh, God, no,” she says, pausing long enough to put a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses over her fake ass eyelashes. “I’m trying to drop another five before the reunion… gotta look good for my prom dress. We’re all wearing them. You should too.” Smiling, she waves, tossing her bag over her shoulder and walking out of the bakery.
The urge to puke or punch something is so strong, I have to walk away from the counter.
“Mikey, cover for me?” I ask, passing him on my way to the back. “Please,” I add, tossing my apron on the counter and not waiting for his reply as I push my way through the back door.
Once I’m alone, I hide my face in my hands and let out a muffled scream.
When that doesn’t work, I start punching the air, putting into practice the moves Cage taught me yesterday—right jab, left hook, uppercut.
That’s it, nice and smooth. The memory of Cage’s voice in my ear washes over me like a soothing balm. Breathe. I continue with the movements, over and over until a sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead and I feel a slight burn in the muscles of my arms and legs. Release the pent up anger, pour it all into the movements.
After a few more minutes, the urges have passed. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and appreciate the burn in my lungs that matches my muscles.
I’m in control.
I’m calm.
I own the feelings… the feelings do not own me.
When I walk back into the back door of the bakery, I feel a change… it’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m the same Tempest Cassidy I’ve always been, but I’m learning how to handle the emotions that have plagued me and I’m a becoming a better version of myself. Slowly, but surely.
Something else I just realized: I don’t care about Asher the way I used to… not even a month ago, or a week ago… not even a few hours ago. I no longer want him.
All I want is to move on with my life.
Chapter 12
Cage
I’ve spent the last two days beating myself up over the almost kiss.
Yesterday, after my morning run, which I doubled in length because I needed the extra time to clear my head, I almost stopped by the bakery, but it was packed. There was a line of people out the door. Peering inside, I saw her, and I immediately felt the spike in my pulse, which was crazy after the kind of run I’d been on.
How can a petite redhead have this kind of effect on me?
I knew then that I needed to walk away and put some space between us, let her come to me. If that ever happens. The way she pushed me away and ran out of the building like it was on fire, makes me think I won’t be seeing Tempest Cassidy for a while. At least not up close and personal.
Which is where I want her.
And all the more reason I should lay low.
Candy and Fuchsia are on stage doing their thing when I catch a whiff of sweetness—vanilla and sugar mixed with homemade goodness. It’s not your typical store-bought perfume. Those are too sweet and honestly make my stomach turn. This is the scent of a woman who spends her days in a bakery, surrounded by baked goods and decadence.
It’s the scent of Tempest Cassidy, the very same woman I was just thinking I needed to keep my distance from, walking into my bar. Well, not mine… but I have to be here, she doesn’t. However, I can’t say I mind that she is, as long as she doesn’t have a repeat of her last visit.
Now that I know her a little better and know my feelings for her run deeper than an instant attraction, I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions. Especially, if she decided to make her own stage on the bar again. The way those men were looking at her that night still makes me want to wipe the floor with them.
Maybe I’m the one who needs some anger management.
Her eyes are everywhere but on me as she walks closer.
My first thought is that maybe something happened—Asher showed up at the bakery or she saw Mindy at the bank. Maybe he’s being an asshole about the house? Her comment about them selling it has stuck with me. I want to ask her what she plans on doing after the house sells. Not only has she had her entire life turned upside down, but she’s also being displaced. I know what the life being turned upside down part is like, but unlike Tempest, I chose to leave my old life behind. And unlike her, I still own it and can go back there anytime I want.
She’s lost her husband, future plans, hopes, dreams… and now her house?
It seems like too much—too much for one person to deal with—and worry for her settles in my gut.
Be a friend, Cage.
Make this right.
Smooth the waters.
Give her an outlet.
When she finally makes eye contact with me, it’s like looking in a mirror—a tinge of guilt, a hint of reluctance, and a glimmer of hope t
hat maybe all is not lost. I’m not sure why she’d feel guilty. She’s not the one who almost kissed her friend.
“Tempest,” I say in greeting as she saddles up to the bar.
“Cage,” she returns, sliding her eyes over to me and then turning them to Floyd. “Hello, Floyd.” Her smile is genuine and gorgeous. I want that smile. I want all of them.
Fuck.
“What can I get you, Em?” he asks. And there’s that nickname again. I want to know all about it. Who gets to call her that? Are we close enough for me to use it? Would I even want to?
With a name like Cage, I’ve never really had a nickname, at least not a shortened version of my name. I’ve never been a big fan of them. But maybe I want to use hers.
“I’ll just have a Coke,” she says. “Straight-up with a lime.” When she laughs, Floyd winks at her and goes about pouring her drink. And I breathe a little easier. If she’s not drinking tequila tonight, maybe she’s here for other reasons that have nothing to do with her asshole ex.
I watch from the corner of my eye as Tempest drinks her Coke and tries not to look at me. She glances my way then quickly looks in another direction while biting down on her bottom lip. It’s completely adorable, but I force myself not to react. It’s obvious she has something on her mind but is stalling, so I’ll wait until she’s ready to share, enjoying just being near her in the meantime.
She’s on her second Coke, straight-up with a lime when she finally turns to face me.
“Yes, Tempest?” I ask, managing to keep my eyes on the patrons in hopes that she’ll work up the confidence to say whatever she came to say. All the while praying it has nothing to do with the fact I almost kissed her the other night. I’m hoping we can just let that slide. Honest mistake. Beautiful girl. Close contact. These things happen. “Something you’d like to say?”
“I’m sorry for the other night,” she spits out and my heart drops.
This catches me off guard. If anyone needs to apologize for that night, it’s me.
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