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When she’d written “Every Time You Break My Heart,” little did she know she should have titled it “Every Time aMusicianBreaks My Heart.”
She’d broken her rule, and now everything was in jeopardy.
She’d put her worries of paying off Babs’ loan on the back burner.
With the balance due in a week, and no guarantee that Landon would show up for the third challenge, she was well and truly screwed.
She’d lost focus.
She’d gotten sloppy.
She’d traded snark for sap and was paying the price.
And she had seven days to figure something out.
She scanned the comments, hoping there were one or two questions that didn’t pertain to Landon Paige.
But nobody was there to take in a music class.
Sounding off at a rapid-fire pace, question after question hit like bullets to her heart.
But there was no way she could teach a lesson.
“On second thought, let’s call it a day. See you next time. I’m Bonbon Barbie, making music sweeter and easier to understand. Remember, no matter your learning style, you can read and play music,” she finished, sputtering her closing spiel, but the scripted ending rang hollow. She peeled off the mask and tossed it on the empty boxes. “Who am I kidding?” she said as the comments section registered a frenzy of activity. “I’m Harper Presley-Paige. At least, that’s who I am for the time being, and I’m about to murder another box of bonbons.”
She closed her laptop and slipped it inside her tote, along with her phone. She exhaled a weary breath, grateful for the break from the onslaught of pings and gnawing questions.
Get your chocolate fix, girl.
She looped the tote’s strap over her shoulder and set her sights on the bakery.
Hello, sweet chocolatey relief.
She got out of the car, said goodbye to Carol, and smoothed her shirt.
But it wasn’thershirt.
The oversized black T-shirt that had doubled as her wedding attire belonged to Landon. But just like the week after her wedding, she hadn’t taken it off.
After three days of eating, sleeping, and trying to get through the day in it, the smell was beginning to rival the week she’d lived in the shirt after returning from Las Vegas. Her head was all in on throwing the damn thing into the trash bin, but her heart couldn’t bear to part with it—or even take it off.
And then there was the tutu.
She glanced at the brown ballet staple.
She’d put it on early this morning before sneaking out of the house to evade the reporters.
Blame the fashion-choice faux pas on her stupid heart.
Of course, the brown boots and the tutu were a combo, so she was also rocking the café-colored footwear.
Go big or go home—and she couldn’t go home.
Lifting her chin, she strutted her stuff dressed as a cocoa-licious hooker ballerina and charged into the bakery. “This is a bonbon emergency. I’ll take two dozen butterscotch STAT,” she announced. She wasn’t sure why she’d added the STAT part, but it appeared to fall on deaf ears.
The tall man and the petite woman working the counter ignored her.
Ugh!
