How to Look Happy (36 page)

Life Is Sweet

I step through the frosting-pink front door of Sweeties and am immediately embraced by the warm glow of the space and the fuzzy-sweet aroma of baked deliciousness. A soft buzz of conversation seems to start at the heart of the bakery and vibrate into every nook and corner.

I glance around to orient myself.

Chick is impossible to miss. She’s holding court at the center of the main room, perched on her marble cashier’s counter with her legs crossed and her feet swinging in front of her. Her hair is freshly coiffed and colored, hot pink tonight, and styled in a tall bouffant. Her vintage dress is classic Chick, with a sky blue background printed all over with frosting-mounded cupcakes. She’s even wearing an apron, simple and white, with a single layer of frill lining its edge.

If I could have designed
her
for the event, this is exactly what I would have come up with. I shake my head and smile, though my insides are trembling from nausea and fatigue. I keep my eyes zoned in on Chick, afraid to look left or right.

As for me, I chose a classic, scoop-neck, ’60s-cut number in mint, almost the same shade as the floors and with a flowy circle skirt that reminds me of the dress Baby wears in the final scenes of
Dirty Dancing
. After my meeting with Amanda, I got a wild hair to go shopping, stopping at my favorite Midtown boutique and finding the perfect dress, of all places, in the window display. If I have to face…I gulp, unable to even think his name…
him
tonight, on a date with Annalise, I’m at least going to do it looking hot. Carrie came over and fed me wine and encouragement the whole time I was getting ready for this evening.

Still, I don’t feel hot. I feel—well, I feel as if I might collapse at any moment. I tried to slip in a nap before Carrie arrived, but I couldn’t come anywhere close to sleep. I’m wearing more makeup than usual to hide the gray circles under my eyes.

“Jen!” Chick has spotted me, and she’s gesturing wildly for me to join her in her flood-lit circle of admirers.

I float across the room on my strappy silver heels, my smile pasted on and behind it, trembling teeth.
Is he here yet? Is he with her? Have they seen me?

When I approach the front counter Chick reaches out for me, grabbing me by the arm and practically dragging me forward, and then she spins me around to face the group that surrounds her. “And here she is,” she gushes. “The woman who made this place perfect, and the person who made tonight happen. Everybody, meet Jen Dawson, interior designer extraordinaire.”

There’s a round of greetings, some hushed, some exuberant. I actually get slapped on the back by a tall guy in tan slacks and a navy sport coat who’s like a cross between a football coach and an infomercial spokesman. The movement jars me forward, almost causing me to trip on my too-skinny stilettos. He’s apologizing as Chick clutches my arm again, making sure I don’t fall.

But I barely notice, because I’ve spotted them.

Annalise is holding court in the study room, amidst all of her work. Her pale blonde hair is loose around her shoulders tonight, and it shimmers in the room’s soft lighting, created from dimmed recessed lights, work lamps scattered on tables, and spotlights trained on the art wall. The tables have been pushed back from their formal, workday arrangement to make space for guests to gather in the center, and that’s where Annalise is now, talking animatedly to a woman on her left, her right arm wrapped around Todd’s waist. A pang of longing starts in my stomach and radiates out through my core as I glance from her up to him…

But then I realize it isn’t him.

The man whose arm is draped across Annalise’s narrow shoulders is shorter than Todd and somewhat stockier, with hair as sunshine yellow as hers. In fact, as I squint to look closer, it appears to be bleached. He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted, short-sleeved, black, button-down shirt that shows arms inked from biceps to wrist.

He’s a friend
, I think. An artist friend who’s here to support her work. I graze over the crowd around Annalise, searching for Todd. When I glance back at her, she’s spotted me.

She waves excitedly, and I watch, open-mouthed, as she excuses herself from the people she’s talking to.

She half steps, half skips through the wide opening between the study room and the main space of the bakery, towing her tatted-up friend along behind her.

“Jen!” she says. “I want to thank you again for this opportunity.” With her accent,
this
sounds more like
zsees
. “It is very exciting.” She glances up at the blond man, who’s still attached to her by a few interlaced fingers, which I’m watching with fascination.

“I’d like to introduce you to my—how do you call it?—fiancé,” she says. “Altan, meet Jennifer Dawson. She is responsible for zse beautiful wall of my work.” She’s positively beaming when she looks back at me.

In disbelief, my eyes search out her left hand, and sure enough, it’s sporting a petite bauble that sparkles when it catches the light. I glance up at her eyes, stunned, sure she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring the other times I’ve seen her.
Maybe because we were working.

I force my jaw closed, suddenly realizing I must look like an idiot, and feel my lips pull back into a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Altan,” I say. “Your fiancée is incredibly talented.”

Altan grins down at the top of Annalise’s head and then slides a possessive arm across her shoulders. His accent, when he speaks, is very American, and very not-from-around-here. “Don’t I know it.”

“Are you an artist too?” I ask him, mainly to place his accent.

“Yeah, I moved down here with my brother, to go to school,” he says, quickly pegging himself as a New Yorker. “I’m working on my master’s in studio art, s’posed to finish next spring.”

“That’s so great,” I say. “Congratulations. To both of you.” The relief coursing through my body is so palpable, my legs begin to shake. I reach a hand back to clutch the marble edge of the countertop.

“You okay, girl? You look like you’re about to chuck out of here,” Chick says, hopping off the counter and gesturing for me to take her seat. As I hoist myself up, she reaches for a tray propped on top of a stainless-steel bakery case. “Here, have a cupcake.”

I laugh as she presents it to me because it’s my very favorite flavor—something I don’t think she knows because we’ve mainly discussed
her
tastes, not mine. Red velvet, swirled with a mountain of cream cheese frosting and dusted with sensuous flakes of dark chocolate. My mouth waters in spite of my shaky stomach.

“Well, that’s a nice sight,” comes a new voice. My eyes on the cupcake, I didn’t see him arrive. My heart leaps into my throat and starts beating in triple time. For a second I believe I might really pass out.

Then Todd laughs his easy laugh, which washes over me like a soothing balm. I glance up to see him entering our circle with quick, sure strides. “Jen served up right here on the counter, with chocolate sprinkles to boot.”

He stops a couple of feet in front of me, cocking his head and smiling that lazy, half-mouthed smile that’s more tantalizing than the mound of cream cheese that’s threatening to slip out of my hands.

He’s dressed up tonight—no paint-spattered jeans or clingy T-shirt, which is almost a shame. Almost. His light brown hair looks freshly washed and tousled, and he’s wearing a cornflower dress shirt that makes his eyes appear bluer, along with a charcoal-colored tie and a tailored sport coat. I can’t find my breath to speak, let alone to deliver the wry comeback he probably expects.

“Hi, Todd. Glad you could make it,” Chick says in her chirpy voice, rescuing me.

From the corner of my eye, I see her wink at me, and then she starts chatting with Annalise and Altan, subtly scooting them away from us. The rest of the crowd has folded into itself, people standing in scattered groups of twos and threes throughout the chain link of confectionary spaces.

I watch her move away from us, my jaw slack.
How does she know?

I study Chick from the back, too nervous to even glance Todd’s way.
She knows people. That’s how.
I’ve never seen anybody taste the flavors of a room like Chick Emerson. No wonder she’s the successful owner of a budding business franchise at age twenty-nine. I could learn from her.

“Are
you
glad I could make it?” Todd asks, forcing me to turn my attention from Chick’s profile, fascinating though it is. “Whoa, watch it!” He laughs, righting my cupcake, which is shifting sideways in my inattentive hands.

When his fingers brush the sides of my mine, quivers of heat flash like flaming arrows through my body. My heart, already overreacting, feels like it could beat through the bodice of my dress.

“Oops, you got a little…” He pauses, pointing at a glob of frosting that’s smudged on the ridge below my left thumb. “Right there.”

“Oh!” I move the cupcake firmly into my right hand and lift my wrist, angling it to lick off the smear of creamy white frosting. “Oh, God. Mmm…” I say, unable to help myself. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the perfection.

When I open them again, he’s staring into them. “Well, damn,” he murmurs, his eyes alight with something new, some fresh piece of information that seems to have clicked into place. Since I’m the girl with the honest face, I can only imagine what he’s seeing as he looks at me. “I might have to try a little of that myself.” His voice is lower now, husky.

As I watch, his head moves a little closer, and I’m mesmerized by it. And then he’s reaching to take the cupcake from my hands.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I pull my hands back, in the process smearing more frosting on the inside of my left wrist and on the fingers of his right hand. Unthinkingly, I lift my arm and lick it off again, with the same reaction as before. Eyes closed, involuntary “Mmm…”

When I open them this time, he’s quickly licking the creamy frosting from his own fingers. “If you keep doing that, I’m afraid I’m going to embarrass us in polite company,” he says, still in that husky tone.

I smile crookedly, mesmerized by his eyes, so close to mine. “And I haven’t even started eating it yet.”

He gives me a searching look, his brow wrinkling as he, presumably, tries to figure out what’s changed.
I’ve come to my senses
, I think.
I’ve opened my eyes and maybe my mind too.
I’m staring at him earnestly, unable to look away.

But then, suddenly, the smile in his eyes fades.

He takes a step backward, and I feel a flutter of confusion. I fight the urge to reach out and pull him back to me.

Todd folds his arms over his chest and says in a casual voice, “So how’s your boyfriend? What’s his name, Brad? Or no, it’s Brandon, right?”

My mouth pops into an “O” shape, stunned to hear Brandon’s name on his lips.
What the hell? Where is this coming from?
And then I remember.

Facebook.

I’m not the only one who came here with a misconception tonight.

My face heats up, and a flush crawls up the back of my neck. I haven’t heard a peep from Brandon since I unfriended him, but clearly he accomplished his aim to screw with my life. My fingers flex with a sudden, newfound desire to strangle the jerk, putting the cupcake in peril again.

I start shaking my head in denial, but when I glance up at Todd, he isn’t looking at me. His gaze is fixed on a point near the back doorway, and his body seems stiff somehow, not his usual relaxed stance.

“He’s
not
my boyfriend.” My voice is vehement enough to catch Todd’s attention, and his eyes flicker to my face, briefly, but then he looks down.

“Oh really?” The question is flat, as if he expected me to say that, or he doesn’t believe me.

I’m debating how much of the story I want to go into and finally say, “Yes, really. He lied about our relationship status on Facebook to get me back for refusing to sleep with him.”

It’s a stretch, but it has the desired effect. Todd’s head snaps up, and his eyes probe mine. A few torturous seconds tick by.

“Well, that’s good news on a couple of different levels.” He unfolds his arms, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. My stomach, which had clenched into a tight ball of panic, starts to slowly iron itself out.

“So you’re not going out with anybody, then?” His voice is carefully casual again.

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. My heartbeat finds a new staccato rhythm. “No, I’m not dating anyone.” I dare a glance at his face, and my breath catches in my throat. I realize I’m leaning forward to the point that I’m very nearly tipping off the counter. Meanwhile, he’s staring earnestly at me, and again I wonder what he’s reading on my face. Every second feels like an hour.

“Can I assume, then…” He steps forward, closing most of the gap between us. My breathing speeds up to match my racing heart. “That you’ve changed your mind about going out with
me
?”

He leans into the counter, his arm close enough for me to feel his body heat.