A group of giggling women pushed past me at that moment, one declaring in a loud voice, “Heather, you will not get me drunk tonight. I have to go home and—”
“Do Colin!” another woman in the group interjected.
They began cackling, continuing to tease the first woman, so I couldn’t hear what Anabelle said in response to Kace.
But I did see her reach for a cookie.
They couldn’t fix everything, but apparently, they could help people look beyond my strangeness.
I’d chalk that up to success.
Mostly because I didn’t have anything else going for me.
Two more days went by.
Two days of me showing up at the bar with baked goods—cinnamon rolls and chocolate custard hand pies.
Two more days of no Brent in sight.
At least I was able to play off my disappointment when I strode into the back room, determined that this time I would make good on my apology. That this time I would see him and make things right.
But he wasn’t there.
Though each time, Anabelle was, and it turned out, I was right. She was confident. And funny, with a quick wit that I couldn’t begin to match, but one that somehow didn’t make me feel dumb.
Instead, she mostly had me laughing like a loon.
Which was a good thing, because I was feeling more guilty and miserable as the week went on. I knew Brent had the next two nights off, and because I didn’t know where he lived but had been pretending, in the most oblique terms possible, that everything was fine between us, I couldn’t exactly ask Kace for his address.
Kace probably couldn’t give it to me anyway.
Employer-employee confidentiality. Was that even a thing?
“And then I told him that just because I’m Filipino doesn’t mean I’m the resident expert on all things Asian,” Anabella was saying, drawing my focus back to where it should be. On her and the conversation we were having during one of her spare moments.
“I thought all Asian countries were the same,” I deadpanned.
Then panicked, thinking she hadn’t gotten the fact that I was deadpanning and—
She chuckled and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I like you, Iris. Even if you’ve never tasted Halo-halo before.”
I grinned. “You promised to remedy that for me soon.”
“And so I shall,” Anabelle said, pushing off the bar and turning in the direction of a customer. “For a price.”
“I’ll make good on my end,” I told her with a wave. I needed to go anyway, to keep up my charade of Everything Is Fine in Brent and Iris World.
But I didn’t think my acting was very good. Kace was studying me closely, eyes unreadable, although the concern in his expression was easily discernible. I had two schools of thought on this matter. One, I’d be able to fix things with Brent, enough to convince everyone that we’d parted sort of amicably and I could occasionally spend my nights at Bobby’s, slowly sipping on a glass of wine, laughing with Anabelle and with Brooke, when she wasn’t on deadline.
Two, I’d never be able to fix it.
And Bobby’s would be off the table.
I didn’t want it off the table. I really liked being there, liked the atmosphere, the people, and how the space somehow felt like home, even when it was filled with strangers. It rounded out my existence since I’d moved, gave me another place that I could belong.
I really hoped I could find a way to keep it.
“Iris?”
I glanced over my shoulder, saw Kace had come up behind me.
“You good?”
“Great!” I chirped. “I just need to go . . . check on—”
“Brent?”
His tone told me he knew that wasn’t true.
“Actually, no,” I said. “I have dough rising at my kitchen for croissants. I need to put it in the fridge so it’s ready for the morning.”
That was true.
Although, it wasn’t true that I had to do it strictly at that moment.
Still, Kace seemed to believe me because he just nodded, though those eyes stayed unreadable. “See you soon,” he said. “Make sure you stop by in the next couple of days. I think Brooke will actually be done with her book and will be able to talk about whatever it is that put that look on your face.”
“What?”
He tugged a strand of my hair. “Something’s up. I won’t push.” A beat. “Unless you want me to?”
I shook my head.
“Okay. Talking with Brooke then.”
I forced a smile. “Talking. With Brooke. Sounds great.” I took a step toward the door. “I’ll bring the baked goods.”
“Don’t need to buy friendship, sweetheart,” Kace said then smiled. “But not saying they won’t be devoured all the same.”
“Right.”
I nodded, tried not to think too hard about his words, at risk of crying, and fled.
It was two in the morning.
I’d spent the evening being miserable and generally feeling sorry for myself. But now it was my witching hour, the time I always seemed to find myself awake, ruminating on everything I’d done wrong.
Tonight, I just couldn’t do any more of that.
So, I pushed out of bed, slipped on my second oldest sweatshirt, and went down to my kitchen. I was going to make the hardest thing I could think of—my special-occasion-only, extremely-expensive-albeit-very-delicious nine-layer-cake.
Alternating layers of delicate chocolate sponge, each sandwiching four different fillings—ganache, homemade raspberry jam, crispy dark chocolate cookies and praline (both homemade then pulverized and stirred into a white chocolate mousse), and Bavarian cream whipped by hand, respectively.
It was riddled with technique-heavy ingredients and would take concentration.
So much so that I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.
Done. Good plan. Work your brain into submission.
“I’m trying,” I muttered, stumbling into the kitchen and flicking on the lights, blinking for a moment against the brightness before I headed to my baking cabinet and began extracting the pans I’d need. And for the next forty-five minutes, I was distracted by the recipe. I’d gotten my ingredients out. I’d measured and prepped. I’d whipped up the batter for the sponge cake.
It was working. Sort of. Because if I could just keep my hands busy, my mind on the list of tasks ahead, I’d be okay, and I wouldn’t feel so fucking ashamed anymore.
“Shit,” I muttered, deliberately grabbing the carton of raspberries.
I’d just dumped them into the saucepan, along with sugar, water, and lemon zest when there was a knock at my door.
My first inclination was to be terrified that someone was knocking at my door at three in the morning.
My next was hope.
That it was Brent. That Kace had talked to him and—
I ran to the door, whipped it open, and found . . . Brooke.
“Oh,” I said, my disappointment obvious. “It’s you.” I clamped a hand over my mouth, realizing how it sounded. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”
“I’m not the three a.m. visitor you wanted,” Brooke said, matter-of-factly. “If I had Brent showing up at my doorstep on the regular, I’d be disappointed in me, too.”