Page 77 of Sweet Surrender

They. Are. Everywhere.

Jase’s hand on mine. His lips ghosting just above my skin. The stupidly intimate way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear like he’s been doing it for years. It’s all been captured, frozen in time, and sold to the world like a goddamn blockbuster premiere. A perfectly crafted moment, staged just right, and yet with so many good, personal memories behind them for me.

It’s fake. It’s nothing.

And yet, the tightness in my chest tells me I’m lying to myself.

But now, it’s out there for the world to devour. To criticize. To question.

For a second, an electric thrill zips through me.

It’s real now. We are real. Even if it’s just in headlines, in speculation, in tabloid gossip. It feels big. Overwhelming. I am officially Hendrix Gizmodo to the world.

Then the panic sets in.

I am not ready for this. Will I ever be?

But definitely not today. Not when my entire counter is covered in half-finished cookies already earmarked for an order and not enough cookies made for an influx of customers.

Customers? Not really. More like looky-loos.

A bead of sweat drips down my back.

“Can I help anyone?” I ask as if nothing has changed when inside I’m absolutely panicking. They just keep staring as if I’m going to suddenly break out into song and confess all my deepest, darkest secrets. Or how big Jase’s cock is. I have a feeling they’d want one more than the other. I force a polite smile as I fight the nervous bout of laughter threatening to bubble up. “We have all different types of cookies. We have coffee and tea.”

“Is it true?” someone shouts out, getting a murmured consent from the rest of the crowd as the door jingles for a third time in as many minutes.

I don’t have to ask what she means. Is it true you’re married to Gizmo?

I smile and purposely run my hand through my hair so that the diamond shoots prisms of light all over the room. The subtle gasps that ring out are all the answers I need to know that they caught the subtle hint.

There might even be a muffled sob mixed somewhere in there.

I fight the smile that threatens to break through. But that smile lasts only a few seconds as some of the women file out, muttering.

“Total bullshit.”

“I’m prettier than her. What the fuck does she have that I don’t?”

“Talk about average. Like . . . what the fuck, Giz?”

I can’t do this right now. And I sure as shit am not going to let their cruel, jealous words ruin the incredible high from sex with Jase last night. Or the myriad of feelings that sex has created this morning.

And while I recognize their cattiness for what it is, that doesn’t mean each time another group of women come in, another set of comments is spouted off, that it doesn’t erode that joy a little more.

Bit by bit.

Hour by hour.

I force my attention back to my work, trying to ignore the whispers, the way I feel people watching me, like I’m a caged animal at the zoo.

By the time the day ends, I’m wrecked.

Not only am I wrecked, but halfway through the day, I put a sign on the front case that if they’re going to stay longer than five minutes, they have to purchase something.

Despite the sign, I greet everyone with a sugary-sweet tone that would make my buttercream jealous, aware of how my every action and words can be twisted on social media or posted if someone might secretly be recording me while doing so.

But those purchases used up all my inventory for the day and had me siphoning some from the order I’m working on in the back so that I have items to sell.