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“I wonder who sent them.” I take another huge bite, and my eyes roll back in my head as I savor the gooey goodness. The distinctive flavor reminds me of something, though I struggle to remember what.
Could Tyler have sent them? I haven’t spoken with him since his last apology. He did say he wanted to make it up to me. Cinnamon rolls may not make up for our horrible date, but they’re certainly a start!
Mom licks frosting from her bottom lip. “I should’ve asked if the delivery man was single.”
“Why?”
“He was a hottie.”
I laugh so hard, I nearly snort cinnamon roll out my nose.
“Don’t smudge your nails,” Mom barks as we exit the salon.
“I won’t.”
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me. You always smudge your nails. I don’t know why you insist on leaving before they’re dry.”
Because there’s no way I’m sitting with my hands trapped under a heat lamp for more than five minutes when I’m hangry.
“I told you we should’ve gone to lunch first.” I glance down at my sparkly pink polish and debate if it’s safe to put on my coat.
She throws her arm over my shoulder and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If we’d gone to lunch first, you wouldn’t get to show off your pretty nails.”
With an exaggerated exhale, I concede defeat. Arguing with her is pointless. “Fine. Can we at least eat at the Beanery? They have the best chicken salad.”
“Perfect. Maybe we can inquire about your secret admirer while we’re in there.”
“Good idea!”
As we wander down the sidewalk toward my favorite coffee shop, my phone rings inside my coat pocket. “That’s probably Nicole. Can you get a table? I’ll be right in.”
“Don’t be long.”
Mom slips inside, and I somehow pluck out my phone without messing up my nails, almost dropping it again when I notice the name on the caller ID.
Not Nicole. Dad.
Every drop of warmth drains from my face, leaving me frozen in more ways than one. Other than his quick “happy birthday,” I haven’t spoken to him since he left.
Dad’s image stares up at me from the screen, and with my pulse buzzing in my ears, I quickly ignore the call. I know what he wants, but I’ll be damned if I agree to attend his wedding to a woman barely older than me. Even if my going wouldn’t break Mom’s heart—and we both know it would—watching him exchange the same vows he just shattered into a thousand pieces would most definitely break mine.
Still rattled, I spin toward the entrance and slam into a hard body. Hot coffee spills down the front of my wool peacoat, dripping into my shoes.
“Shit, I’m sorry! Are you okay?”
I recognize the voice immediately and go rigid from head to toe. Why does it have to be him?
Mortified, I gaze into his dark eyes. “It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Princess?”
This time, when the nickname crosses his lips, it does strange things to my insides. “Hi?”
His shock quickly morphs into annoyance as his penetrating gaze drifts from my face to my hands—specifically, my fingers—tangled in the front of his Sex Pistols tee. “You wanna let go of my shirt?”
“I, uh . . .” With my sparkly pink manicure glued to his front, I panic. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? You let go and step back.” His voice falters, and I can’t tell if he’s about to laugh or bitch me out.
