“No,” I admit. “She wouldn’t go that far. She just really likes to irritate me.”
And I seem to fall for it every time. I revert to my teenage years, when Juju and I started this bickering that is our new normal.
That’s easier to deal with than the soft Juju who feels like my friend, because almost always, she turns on me.
A couple of weeks ago, when I asked her if she could make desserts for the restaurant until I could hire a new pastry chef, her eyes softened.
“I’d be honored,” she said. “You know that I’m really proud of you, Camden…right? I think what you’ve done with the restaurant in Colorado is epic, and I know this new restaurant will knock it out of the park too.”
“Thanks, Juju,” I said, surprised.
Her mouth parted slightly, and I stepped toward her. I heard her breath hitch and could see the rise and fall of her chest.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“It’s been a long time since you called me Juju,” she whispered back.
“I always call you Juju in my head,” I confessed.
We stared at each other for a long, weighty pause, and I could’ve sworn she wanted me to kiss her. She leaned in slightly, and her eyes dropped to my mouth.
And then her brother walked in, and we both took a step away from each other.
“My two favorite people. I’m shocked you’re alone and not throwing dough at each other.” Jackson laughed.
“Give it time and we’ll be back at it,” I teased, grinning at Juju.
Her jaw tightened, and the warmth left her eyes.
I fucking hated to see it go.
I wish I didn’t always say the wrong thing when it came to her.
But this was us, a seesaw that never balanced.
The door flings open, and Juju rushes in.
Her hair is up, her cheeks flushed, either from the cold or because she knows I’ll be ticked. She’s pushing a cart loaded down with desserts.
“You’re late.”
“I’m here,” she sings. “And I brought the pies and cheesecakes you wanted…plus mousse cakes and bread pudding that I thought would fit nicely with your menu.”
“I didn’t ask for the mousse cakes or bread pudding. I asked you to be on time.”
She stares at me indignantly. “I was doing something nice for you.”
I exhale slowly. “I didn’t ask you to be nice or to bring extra food that I may or may not be able to sell.”
Her cheeks burn brighter. “You’ll be glad you have them, you arrogant control freak.”
“It’s not about control,” I say between gritted teeth. “It’s about not having waste, and doing what you say you’ll do.”
“Trust me, if you let the good people of Windy Harbor know that my mousse cake or bread pudding is a surprise dessert for this evening, they will sell faster than you can plate them.”
“That’s not how restaurants work, Juliana. I’ve already printed the menu.”
“So tell them it’s a special that isn’t on the menu,” she grumbles. “Should I have brought store-bought cheesecakes instead?”
