Where We Belong

by Shann McPherson

  I nod, looking down to my sock-covered feet so he can’t see me roll my eyes. Yes, I’m relieved Anna’s okay, but I really couldn’t care less what she or her bitchy bridesmaids think of me.

  “She wants to do dinner tomorrow night,” Nash says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Just the four of us.”

  I look up again, my eyes wide.

  “Sure.” I shrug, managing a smile. “Sounds like fun,” I lie.

  “We’re still on for the wedding cake testing tomorrow, right?”

  I catch sight of his grin, his blue eyes dancing beneath the dim light of the hallway lamp. His gaze is so all-consuming, it’s easy to become lost within it.

  “Of course.” I nod, snapping myself from my musings. “I baked the samples this morning. I just have to put the final touches on the frosting. I’ll have everything ready by midday.”

  Nash’s shoulders seem to sag in relief, and he steps forward, closing the distance between us, rendering me absolutely breathless when he wraps one of his arms around me, pulling me close. “You know I love you, right, Murph?” he whispers, his lips brushing against my temple.

  I nod as my eyelashes flutter, my eyes closing as I breathe him in, basking in his embrace and the sentiment behind his words. And, in that moment, I’m almost certain I feel something pass between us, something unexpected, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Without so much as another word, he presses a kiss to the top of my head before turning and walking back outside through the door, leaving me breathless and unsteady on my feet as I grip the doorjamb in the hope that it will keep me from falling into a heap on the floor. I watch, waiting for him to get into his rental car, waving as he slowly pulls away from the curb before I close the door. Resting back against the wood, I can’t hide the smug grin pulling at my lips as I consider what just happened. He still loves me.

  Chapter 11

  Monday is not only the start of a new week, it’s the start of a new me. I have a newfound confidence, and a well-thought-out plan of attack. Normally, on any other Monday morning, I’d drag my sorry ass out of bed, shower, tie my damp hair into a knot on top of my head, brush my teeth, and throw on any old thing to wear to work to prepare for the week. Not today. Today I take my time in the shower, using my very best body scrub. I shave my legs. I moisturize every inch of my body. I brush my teeth while wearing an eight-minute eye mask that promises to help reduce dark circles and puffiness. I give myself a blowout. I apply primer, foundation, and I even contour, for Christ’s sake. This morning I am somebody else.

  Today isn’t a day for jeans and an old T-shirt. Today I choose my prettiest floral skirt that twirls with every movement I make. I team it with a jean shirt tucked into the high waist, and a statement belt to help accentuate that I do, in fact, have a figure. With a pair of cute sandals, and my leopard print glasses, I’m ready to face the day and, more importantly, Anna and Nash.

  ***

  It’s a truth universally acknowledged that inside every woman is an inner-psycho, just waiting to be unleashed. Now, while I might never admit it out loud, I’m quite certain my inner-psycho reared her disheveled head the moment Nash Harris arrived in town to give me that damn invitation to his wedding. Ever since Friday, I’ve been doing things I can’t even begin to explain, like lacing half the wedding cake testers with laxative …

  I’m not even sure what I was hoping to get out of it. Maybe I was hoping Anna would get so sick, she wouldn’t be able to make our dinner reservation. Then I could somehow convince Harley to stay away and I’d have Nash all to myself. But then what? Was I expecting Nash to come to his senses and realize I’m the one for him? I don’t even know what it is, but it’s as if I was an outsider looking in, unable to control my own actions. I’m on the verge of utterly certifiable, and I can’t even stop myself at this point.

  With a smile on my face, dressed in my pretty skirt, my hair bounces against my shoulders with every one of my steps as I walk into Reynolds’ drug store. I have a casual conversation with Aubrey Reynolds over the great weather we’ve been spoiled with lately as she scans my box of overnight constipation relief. I then proceed back to my store with said laxatives in a brown paper bag, waving to Mr. Hanson as he walks by with his Labrador Retriever, before continuing to open up the shop as if I’m not about to do something completely unfathomable. I’m sure one day there will be a Netflix special written about me.

  I watch the clock. It’s after midday. I check my watch considering perhaps the clock is fast, or broken. But the clock is fine, and it’s almost one o’clock. Standing at the counter, I tap my nails against the countertop, resting my chin on my other hand as I sigh, staring at the table I’d set up in the center of the small store. I’d gone all out. A pretty tablecloth. Two silver trays; one with Nash’s samples, and of course, another ‘special’ batch destined only for Anna. I even decorated the table with a pretty mosaic vase full of fresh flowers, and a bottle of Pellegrino in a silver bucket of ice with two crystal champagne flutes. And, they’re late. I quickly begin to grow impatient but, just like clockwork, my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my skirt, and I pull it out to see a new text message from the one person I’d expected.

  Nash: Hey. Murph, I had to drive Anna to the city. There was a mix-up, and the designer couriered her wedding dress to their store in Atlanta! I’m so sorry, but I’ve asked Harley and Beth to stop by and test the cakes on our behalf. I hope that’s okay x

  I read the message at least ten times, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to have a complete meltdown. Such a great plan gone to waste. But, before I can think of an alternate, the bell above the entrance chimes and I look up from my phone to see Harley holding the door open for Beth, the two entering the store together. Harley looks excited for cake. Beth looks like she’s ready to sacrifice her unborn child. I swallow the lump at the back of my throat.

  “Hey, you guys,” I chirp brightly, walking around the counter.

  Beth offers me a cold, bored glance, clutching her expensive-looking handbag tightly as she stands on the spot, looking around with an unimpressed glower.

  “Hey, babe.” Harley smiles, rolling his eyes at me when Beth isn’t looking before leaning down and placing a kiss on my cheek.

  An unexpected flutter causes my belly to twist from his closeness and the scent of him, but I ignore it, forcing my smile to remain as I pour two glasses of sparkling water, handing one to Beth, which she snatches from me before taking a seat at the table.

  After receiving the text from Nash, I had considered disposing of the tray of tainted cake samples. I thought maybe his text had been some kind of a sign. I couldn’t poison Anna. What if she’d been allergic to something in the laxative? She could have died, and I’d have been charged with murder. Nash would have hated me forever and I’d have been confined to a federal prison. Then I look at the perma-scowl etched into Beth’s hard face as she glares at me, and I silence my subconscious.

  “Here, Beth.” I push the tainted tray closer to her. “This batch has … less sugar,” I say on the spot, knowing a girl like Beth would most certainly be the type to count her calories.

  “Oh.” She cringes, suspiciously eyeing the cakes. “I’m not here to eat cake. I’m dairy free, gluten free, and I don’t eat carbs.” She pushes the tray away with a disgusted look on her face.

  I roll my eyes to myself and move to pick up the tray, but before I can get to it, Harley shrugs, murmuring with his mouth full, “All the more for me” as his hand reaches over the flowers, taking one of the red velvet samples.

  “Harley, no!” I yell without thinking, but it’s too late. He’s already shoved the whole thing in his mouth, looking up at me in confusion, mid-chew.

  “Wha—?” He guffaws with a mouthful, cake crumbs spluttering from his mouth.

  Slapping my hands against my cheeks in exasperation, I know there’s nothing I can do now, so I just choose to play dumb with a casual shrug.

  “These are real good, Murp
h,” he manages once he’s swallowed. “I prefer this one over that lemon one.”

  I nod, my eyes widening momentarily when he takes yet another cake sample laced with laxative. Forcing myself to look away, I bite back the laughter threatening me. Of course it isn’t funny but, at the same time, it kind of is. I’m a terrible person.

  “So, you two are actually a couple?” Beth suddenly pipes up, tearing her focus away from her phone, which has been otherwise permanently attached to her hand.

  Harley flashes me a look as he licks a dollop of chocolate ganache from his thumb.

  “Yeah,” I answer, turning away and busying myself with wiping down the glass front of the cake display cabinet.

  “So weird …” Beth muses, and I can see a smirk pull at her lips in the reflection of the glass I’m cleaning.

  At that, I turn, placing a hand on my hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugs, casually continuing to scroll through her cell. “You just don’t look like his type is all,” she says with a conniving quirk of her brow, and I wonder if she actually expects me not to take offence to that.

  She is right, though. I’m totally not Harley’s type. In fact, we couldn’t be more different. At six foot two, he’s imposing, his arms and most of his chest covered in tattoos. He’s the kind of guy who likes to be seen. The life of the party. And even though he’ll never play football again, he’s still a total jock, obsessed with sports. He’s never been one to take life too seriously. And, of course, it goes without saying, he’s a good-looking guy. Green eyes, unruly chestnut hair, and an infectious smile with the most adorable dimples. As Sarah kindly reminded me after news of mine and Harley’s fake relationship hit social media, Harley Shaw is the most eligible bachelor in all of Graceville. All the girls love him.

  Me? Well, I’m five foot three, with wide hips, pale skin, auburn hair, dark eyes, glasses. I’ve always been a total dork. I hate tattoos; I just don’t see the point of permanently marking your skin just for the sake of it. And, unlike Harley who yearns for attention, I do everything I can to keep to myself most of the time. I fear attention. I’d rather stay in with a good book or a movie instead of going out just to be seen. I’m also the most serious person I know. I don’t take anything lightly. I’m nothing like Harley Shaw, and I’m nothing like the kind of girl a guy like Harley Shaw would go for. We’re best friends, not boyfriend and girlfriend.

  I suppose Beth is right to question our so-called relationship. But, as I rack my brain with how to respond, Harley suddenly speaks up, surprising me. “You know what they say,” he begins, offering me a conspiratorial wink. “Opposites attract.”

  I relax a little, releasing the breath I’d been holding, and I turn back to wipe the already spotless glass.

  “Anyway …” Beth stands from her chair, obviously finished with the conversation, her handbag dangling from the crook of her elbow. “So, we’ve decided on the red velvet?” She looks to Harley who is still stuffing his face full of cake.

  He nods.

  “Well, actually, it’ll be black velvet.” I step forward, suddenly nervous for some reason. I don’t know why. This is my business; it’s what I do for a living. But Beth is intimidating, and I hate that girls like her have this effect on me. “I just have to perfect the color ratio.”

  “Black cake?” Beth looks at me in disgust, her already pinched face scrunched up even more.

  I nod. “Yeah, it’s something new I’m trying. Black velvet, black fondant with a gold leaf press, and a gold drip.”

  Harley looks unbothered, but Beth continues eyeing me, unconvinced. “Whatever.” She finally shrugs. “I’m going to get a pedicure.” And with that, she’s gone, leaving an air of arrogance in her wake as the screen door slams shut with her hasty exit, causing the bell above to jingle violently.

  “Ugh.” I cringe, watching her walk past the store window with her chin held high in the air as if she’s better than everyone. “What an asshole.”

  Harley suddenly chokes on a mouthful, punching his fist against his chest as he coughs and splutters before finally bringing up the morsel of dislodged cake from the back of his throat. Immediately, the awkward silence of the store is inundated by his roaring laughter, and I look at him incredulously. I don’t normally cuss, and I’ve never been known to cuss anyone out, but that girl gets to me in a way I’ve never felt before. “There really is no other way to describe a person like that.” I shrug, turning and walking through to the kitchen.

  He continues chuckling as I tidy the countertop.

  “Do you mind if I take the rest of this cake back to the bar to give to the staff?” Harley calls from the front. “They love your baking, Murph.”

  I stop, freezing on the spot. “The laxative!” I hiss under my breath as if I’ve somehow forgotten about the ill-fated cake in just a matter of minutes. My jaw drops and I cover my gaping mouth with a hand, shaking my head. Poor Harley. He’s had at least half of it.

  “Um …” I consider his question out loud. “Actually, no. I n-need it to—” I panic a moment as I try to think of an excuse. “I need to keep it so I can see how it sits overnight,” I lie as convincingly as I can on the spot. “You can take the éclairs from the front window, if you want.”

  “I won’t say no to that,” Harley says cheerfully and I hear the legs of his chair screech across the tile before silence ensues and I just know he’s piling a cardboard tray full of the sweets from the cabinet. “I’ve gotta get back to the bar to sign for a liquor order.” His head appears in the cut-out wall between the kitchen and the counter. “I’ll see you tonight?”

  I turn, trying to remain casual, as if he hasn’t just consumed almost an entire box of overnight constipation relief.

  “Do you want me to pick you up on the way?” he asks. “It might be a bit more believable if we actually show up together this time.”

  I nod with a forced smile, and Harley leaves with a wave, none the wiser, his tray of éclairs placed gently in his arms like his firstborn son. Somehow, I seriously doubt I’ll be seeing him tonight. Poor Harley.

  Chapter 12

  I choose a plain black dress for dinner, teamed with a pair of leopard print flats that match my glasses. I pull my hair back into a sleek bun, and I add no more than a sweeping of nude lipstick. I’m surprisingly happy with the finished result when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall as I head down the stairs. Tonight is the night I know I need to look my best. Put-together. Collected. Nothing like a woman who just doused wedding cake samples with laxative in the hope of poisoning the bride-to-be.

  I sit at the kitchen island, tapping my fingers against the countertop to an imaginary beat, checking the time on the clock. I’m not sure why I’m even waiting around. Harley isn’t coming. He’s likely stuck on a toilet somewhere. Of course I hope he’s okay. I’m seriously regretting what I’ve done. I poisoned him. And now, as payback, I’ll be forced to sit through dinner alone with Anna and Nash who will probably spend the entire night looking at one another like a couple of love-sick teenagers. I’m sick to the stomach at the thought as I force myself to my feet, grabbing my purse on my way out. I wish I was stuck on a toilet and unable to go to dinner.

  Continuing toward the front door, I collect my car keys and my jean jacket from the coat hook in the entryway before opening the door.

  “Hey!”

  I almost scream, but I manage to collect myself, more than shocked to see Harley standing right there on my front porch. My brows pull together as I look him up and down incredulously. “What are you do—” I stop myself, snapping my mouth shut, not wanting to give anything away.

  Harley looks down to the car keys in my hand. “I thought we were going together?”

  He doesn’t even look sick. In fact, sick is the farthest thing he looks. Dressed in a pair of jeans that fit him impossibly well, and a gray Henley that shows off his toned upper body, he actually looks handsome. His hair falls forward, the wayward curls flopping do
wn over his forehead, and I just know he’ll spend all night pushing it back and out of his face. His emerald eyes glisten bright beneath the dull light of the porch lamp. His skin seems to be illuminated from the inside as if he’s just had a five-step facial.

  Seriously, what the hell is with this guy? He’s just consumed at least half a box of laxative, and he looks like he’s stepped straight off the cover of GQ magazine. He smiles down at me—oblivious to my confusion—his dimples pulling into his cheeks, and I wonder if perhaps laxative loses its effect if you cook it at 350 degrees.

  “You’re late.” I look up at him before turning to lock the front door. I tuck my keys into my purse, flashing him another unimpressed once-over. “I’d given up on you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Harley sighs, and I can almost hear him roll his eyes from behind me. “I got stuck waiting for Conrad to start his shift. He was late. Again.” He continues talking about his sub-standard staff member, but I’m not really listening as we continue across the yard to his truck parked at the curb.

  ***

  Pane E Vino is, hands down, the nicest restaurant in all of town. It’s at the fancy end of Main Street. The end with the expensive salon I’ve never been able to afford to go to, and the florist owned by Margot Winton, the wife of Harrington’s club pro. The stores on that side of Main Street cater for the wealthy Harrington Country Club crowd, the elite who flock to their holiday homes in Graceville in droves over the summer months because of its idyllic peacefulness, and small-town charm, far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the city where they earn their millions at their important jobs in the offices tucked away high in the sky-scraping buildings.

  I’ve only ever come to Pane E Vino once before, on a terrible first date with a guy named Tom who I was only using to try to get over my breakup with Nash. It was a horrible experience. He spent the entire night comparing me to his ex-girlfriend who, by the way, I clearly didn’t come close to comparing to. Then he proceeded to show me her Instagram page, and suddenly began—very loudly—cussing her out for posting a photo of her and her new boyfriend, so much so, the entire restaurant was privy to his bitterness. Tom was clearly not over his ex, and now, two years later, here I am walking into the same damn restaurant to see my ex-boyfriend, with my fake boyfriend, and I’ve never related to anyone more.