What the hell?
“Uhh, Doug, can you man the grill for me for a second?” I say, setting my spatula down and following my friend toward my office.
The moment I step over the threshold, the door slams shut. “What the hell?”
“Shut up.” Jameson gives me a look that would make a lesser man cower beneath the desk. I’ve rarely seen this side of him, never to have it directed at me. The anger rolling off him is thick and uncomfortable, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he looks like he wants to kill me and bury my body in the woods.
Instead of arguing with him, I do as instructed and take a seat behind my desk. I expect Jameson to sit across from me, but that’s not what he does. He leans over my desk, narrowing his focused eyes. “What the fuck did you do?” he growls, making me pull back.
“What are you talking about? What did I do?”
“The newspaper!” he thunders, slamming his hand down on the desk.
“What newspaper?” I demand, getting angry myself. “What the hell are you talking about.”
“The letter to the editor, Jasper. What the fuck?”
My mind spins. Letter to the editor? What the hell is he talking about. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I holler back, standing up and leaning over my desk. We’re practically nose to nose now, but I don’t care.
“No? You don’t remember this?” he asks, reaching into his leather jacket and pulling a folded newspaper from within. He slaps it on the desk between us, drawing my angry gaze down.
I read the words, but…what?
What the hell is this?
“Look familiar?” he demands, the vein on his forehead pulsing.
I look back down, trying to figure out what is going on here. It’s a letter to the editor, written by me.
That article.
The one from weeks ago, when I found out Lyndee was opening the bakery across the street. I remember finding the news story about Sugar Rush and reading all about her successes. About the awards she won.
I was so pissed off.
I clicked the link and typed out all that bullshit but never sent it.
I know I didn’t.
“I didn’t send this,” I insist, rereading the garbage on the paper for a second time.
“Not according to name at the bottom.”
My lungs deflate, all oxygen seeming to evaporate from the room. I drop in my chair and try to breathe, but it’s difficult. My lungs burn, my throat’s dry, and my chest aches. “I wrote it, but…a while ago. I didn’t send it.”
“But you did.”
My mind races as I try to piece together what is happening. I thought I got rid of that email. How the hell did it wind up being sent after I composed and thought I deleted it?
“I don’t…” I run my hands through my hair. “I don’t understand.”
He snorts in disgust. “You think you don’t understand? How the hell do you think Lyndee feels right now?”
I jump up and glance toward the door. “I gotta go.”
As I fling open the door, ignoring how it slams against the wall of my office, he hollers, “You better fix this shit and fast!”
I move through the kitchen, feeling eyes on as me as I go. Glancing at Doug, I tell him to cover for me and hightail it out of the kitchen.
The dining room is full, but my focus is on the front entrance. I’m outside moments later and running across the street, a car honking its horn and slamming on the brakes to keep from hitting me.
When I hit the sidewalk, I see lights on in the back of the bakery, letting me know Lyndee’s inside. I decide to take a chance that the back door is unlocked and am there a few seconds later. Twisting the knob, I’m relieved to find it unlocked as I push it open and step inside.
It only takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting, but when they do, the scene before me breaks my heart. Lyndee’s standing there, surrounded by dozens of pastries, flour covering every surface and egg splattered on the back wall.
I take a step forward, my heart in my throat. “Lyndee?”
She looks up, our eyes meeting, hers holding so much agony it causes me physical pain. “What are you doing here?” she whispers, swiping angrily at a tear on her cheek.
“I…” What do I say to fix this? “Are you okay?”
Her swollen eyes flare with fury. “Am I okay?” she repeats, sarcasm dripping off her words.
Okay, so apparently that was the wrong question.
“I just…” I stammer, taking a step in her direction.
“You just…what? What could you possibly have to say right now, Jasper?”
I move around the island, slowly joining her on the opposite side. “I don’t know how this happened.”
“How what happened? How you wrote horrible lies about me and my business and sent them to the local newspaper for everyone to read? How you damaged my reputation and everything I’m working for with just a few clicks of the mouse? Please, tell me all about how you have no clue how this happened.”
I stop when I’m directly in front of her, those gorgeous brown eyes I love throwing daggers of venom at my chest. “Listen, I know this looks bad,” I start, but don’t get any further.
“Looks bad? This doesn’t look bad, Jasper. This is bad!”
“I didn’t mean any of that,” I argue, grasping at any straw I can grab to help me plead my case.
“You didn’t mean it? All those lies you told?” She laughs, but it’s humorless and sounds nothing like the glorious chuckle I long to hear. “Well, thank God you didn’t mean it. That fixes everything!”
I sigh, reaching for her hand, but she snaps it back before I can touch her. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, hating that she won’t let me touch her.
“There’s nothing you can say, is there? You wrote deceptions about me and sent them to the newspaper, Jasper.”
“I’m so sorry, sweets. I didn’t mean them. I was angry, and it was juvenile. I knew it after I had written it and thought it was deleted,” I plea, taking a small step closer. “It must have accidentally gone to my draft folder and went out earlier this week after I was sending emails.”
She closes her eyes, the tears still falling in waves, creating a hole the size of Jupiter to form in my gut.
My thumb grazes against her soft, wet skin and a whimper escapes her lips. “I’m so fucking sorry,” I tell her, stepping forward once more. We’re standing chest to chest, our bodies aligning perfect. She was made for me.
I lean down and brush my lips across hers. A charge of electricity slides through my body just like it does every time we touch. I want nothing more than to kiss away the pain, to take all the hurt I’ve caused and make it all go away.
Just as I try to deepen the kiss, she rips her lips from mine and takes a step back. I want to grab her, make her stay with me, refuse to break our connection because it’s too fucking good, too fucking right to deny. But when I go to open my mouth, she’s already shaking her head, the opening I saw earlier slammed shut and locked without a hint of sunlight.
“You need to go,” she says, her voice trembling, yet strong.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to make this right.”