Page 76 of Sweet Surrender

It was just sex.

Just a little twist in the sheets between willing participants.

Just a little fun while we’re stuck in this together. But one thing’s for sure.

Her ex was a fucking idiot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Hendrix

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clings to my skin, seeping into my clothes, my hair, probably my damn soul at this point. The industrial mixer hums in the background, a steady rhythm that should be soothing but isn’t, only because I’m drowning in icing and the long wait between when one color dries so I can do the next.

Time is not my friend right now. Not when another order just came in and I’m determined to get the dog birthday cookies done and take on this new order.

I may have money being deposited in my bank account, but I learned in the past few months that “rainy days” are a real thing and I need to prepare for them accordingly. Slacking off now isn’t an option.

The bell above the bakery door jingles.

A little thrill shoots through me. Customers aren’t exactly chomping at the bit to come buy my cookies and so any chance I get to possibly gain a new one is exciting.

And that statement alone shows how new I am at this whole thing.

I wipe my hands on my apron and peek over the counter. A woman stands near the front case. I can’t tell whether she’s more interested in the cookies or scrolling through her phone—which is a common thing these days—so I stand there politely and wait so I don’t distract her.

But as she scrolls, she keeps glancing up at the menu above my head and then quickly back down every few seconds in a way that has me taking notice.

Then it dawns on me. She’s not looking at the menu. She’s looking at me.

Another jingle at the door. Another shuffle of feet into Cookie Cutter.

Then another.

What the hell is going on?

Sammy meets my eyes through the front glass window, almost as if to ask if I’m okay. I nod to which he does the same in kind.

They’re customers. Why would I ever need help with that? It’s exciting. Exhilarating. It’s income.

“May I help you?” I ask the first woman in line who’s still standing there with a flush in her cheeks and her phone angled up as if she’s taking a picture of the menu.

But before she can answer, another group of women in their late teens or early twenties file in. The five of them huddle together, whispering loudly. Are you sure? Do you think? I don’t understand how she did it?

They murmur to each other, their gazes flicking in my direction before snapping away when I catch them.

My stomach twists.

I know.

I know before I even reach for my phone, before my fingers start fumbling to unlock the screen.

The photos have leaked.

My fake wedding. My fake husband. My private moments.

The world knows.

My hand trembles as I scroll to find the pictures, but it doesn’t take long.