Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
“Stop,” I say, laughing as she hugs me tight. “Don’t jinx me. The competition’s stiff this year.”
“So I heard,” she says, bobbing her brows up and down. “So, you slept with the enemy, huh? You really do have the worst luck with men, babes.”
“Ugh, I know. Nelson, Theodore, Shelby…” I rattle off my trio of horrible exes as I roll my eyes. “I assume Harrison called you?”
“He’s concerned. Thought you might need help destressing about Sexy Yet Traitorous Tea Guy before things get started tomorrow.”
I shake my head, forcing an easy smile. “Nope. Everything’s fine. I’m totally focused and ready to bring my A game. You know me, I don’t get distracted by boys.”
She narrows her brown eyes, studying me closely, but apparently my poker face is strong this evening. “Okay. This means we’re free to focus on picking out the most amazing outfit ever, right?”
I clap my hands and squeal, “Yes! I’m so glad you’re here. You can order Chinese, while I put on a fashion show. I’m going to try on everything in my closet. Twice.”
Ruby grins. “Perfect. Though, I will have to head back to my place by seven to meet Jesse. And I will want to hear all about this awful, yet incredible-in-bed, Englishman at some point. After you beat him and talking about him doesn’t stress you out anymore, of course.”
“I’m not stressed,” I repeat in a breezy voice. “But that sounds perfect. I’ll be turning in early tonight, anyway. Beauty sleep, you know.”
But many hours later—after Ruby and I have laughed and eaten Chinese and picked out the world’s most perfect dress for tomorrow—I lie in bed with my thoughts spinning and Scrabble tiles dancing in my head.
Tiles that keep rearranging themselves to spell Weston Byron’s name.
The next day, Sweetie Pies is a madhouse.
Summers are usually a little slower for us than the rest of the year, when thoughts naturally turn to pies, sweet indulgences, and family celebrations. But for some reason this morning everyone and their bossy grandmother who’s allergic to cinnamon and hates raisins is lined up at my counter, loudly demanding to know the daily specials even though there’s a giant chalkboard detailing them in ten-inch letters right behind my head.
I adore my customers, but by eleven, my customer service face has gotten quite the work out, and I’m secretly relieved for an excuse to cut out early to get showered and spiffed up for the first round of the competition.
It doesn’t start until three and I’m only a ten-minute walk from the location—the first round is always held in a big, beautiful tent in Prospect Park with a view of the lake—but I’m hoping to grab a power nap too. I slept poorly, plagued by dreams of a handsome, yet dastardly Brit.
Mr. Weston Byron was swaggering through my head all night, so I’m not surprised when he swaggers through the front door of my shop right as I’m ducking under the counter to head home.
Still, the sight of him stops me dead in my tracks.
Dead. Like I’ve been zapped by a freeze ray.
For a second I think it’s his eyes, those penetrate-me-five-different-ways eyes that instantly make my panties damp.
But then I realize what’s shocked me and blurt out, “Your beard.”
His hand drifts to his newly bare face with a cautious smile. “Yeah. I thought I should clean up a bit. For the um…cameras and all.”
The cameras. Right. Must not forget he’s a traitor. A dirty, lying, sex-tricking traitor.
I stand up straight and lift my chin, shaking off the stunning effects of his man beauty. “Of course. You look very nice without a beard.”
“Thank you,” he says, shifting to one side as two familiar little girls with a takeout bag dash out the door, racing each other to their push scooters. “I was hoping—”
“Just a second.” I hurry past him, sticking my head out the open door to shout, “Be careful, Emily! Jane! If you bring home broken pie crust again, your moms won’t let you do the pick-up. And you know I need girl talk. How else am I going to keep up with the gossip?”
Emily instantly slows, reaching out to snag Jane by the elbow. They both turn back to me with big grins.
“We’ll be careful!” Jane calls. “We promise.”
“And we’ll hook you up next week,” Emily says, propping a dramatic hand on her hip “So much is happening right now you can’t miss an update or you will be so lost, girl.”
“Good. Scoot safe.” I wave goodbye with a grin that fades as I turn back to West and sniff. “Yes?”
He glances out the window at the girls then back at me. “You’re good with kids, I see?”
I frown. “No, I’m good with people. Kids are people. Less annoying, smaller people who need grown-ups to listen to them more often. Especially when they’re twelve. Twelve is hard.”