The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 9

For most people, going to work half-tipsy at half past midnight isn’t the best idea.

But Hazel seems to feel this is perfectly normal. Judging from her 24/7/365 comment, maybe for her, it is? She’s getting more clearheaded by the minute, not having any alcohol in more than an hour and putting away a basket of cheese fries by herself, so I’m not in doubt of her decision-making skills. And it’s not like we’re breaking and entering. She has a key.

Honestly, even if we were committing a little light B and E, I’d probably go along with it to spend time with her and get to know what makes her tick better.

As Hazel flips on the lights, I’m surprised at the charming bakery before me. After seeing Etta’s version of Puss N Boots, and hearing that her mom’s business is called the Bakery Box, I was worried it would be sexy red velvet fabrics and black lights. For Cold Springs, it’d seem apropos in the craziness. Instead, it’s bright and clean, with pink-and-white striped walls, a trio of four-seater tables, and chrome display cases that are currently empty.

Hazel looks at me expectantly, awaiting my verdict or a snappy comment. But I’m enjoying surprising her as much as possible.

“This is cute. Your mom must be an amazing baker,” I say kindly.

“She’s the best,” Hazel agrees, and I can sense the indecision in her. Under the eyes of her watchful aunt at the bar, she was flirty but knew she had a solid safety net that would keep her from taking things too far. She could tease and torment me, all the while telling me that I didn’t have a chance with her because of one thing. My name.

But now? Alone, with only herself to stop her, I can feel her wavering. She wants me, she just doesn’t want to want me. It’s a situation I’ve never been in, and I suspect she hasn’t either. As for me? I certainly wasn’t expecting to replace something, or someone, to make this trip home bearable, but Hazel has more than done so.

The kitchen is different from the front of the shop. Gone are the cutesy decorations and soft pastels, replaced with commercial-grade stainless-steel worktables, an industrial mixer that looks like it could handle cake batter or concrete with equal ease, a huge refrigerator, and a trio of big ovens that could bake a whole wedding cake at once.

Oh, and a microwave. It looks out of place, the only black thing in the entire bakery, with a twist dial and a huge scuff on top. “What’s with this old thing?” I ask, running my hand over the surface. It’s clean, just scarred.

Hazel looks my way and flips the switches on the wall with practiced ease. “Mom only uses that for two things.”

“What’s that?”

“Rewarming coffee and melting butter,” she says, pointing at the big industrial sink. “You. Hands. To the elbows.”

I sense this is my first test—to see if I actually will follow directions. I scrub up to my elbows like a surgeon getting ready for open-heart surgery, with every intention of acing this test. “Now what?”

Her reply is to toss an apron in my face, and I’m tempted to protest. It’s . . . cutesy.

But without a word I slip the baby-blue gingham strap over my head, fiddling with the ties to get something approaching a bow knot going behind my back. I feel like I look stupid, but Hazel gives me an appreciative look. Though it’s possible that’s because she’s tying her own plain white apron on.

“Cara had this crazy midnight-madness idea,” Hazel explains, giving me flashbacks of the awful wedding planner barging into my suit fitting like she owned the place, “which is actually brilliant, but I will kill you if you tell her I said that.” She points a sharp finger at me, and I hold my hands up, promising that I’ll do no such thing. “Good, because it basically means that, in addition to Mom making the wedding cake, she now has to make four hundred desserts.”

“Four hundred?” I ask incredulously. “Holy shit, that’s a lot.”

“Exactly,” Hazel says. “Now we can’t bake it all tonight, and Mom’s already started on some of the goodies, but we can help out by getting a few batches of cupcakes done and in the cooler for her.”

It makes sense, and I’m even more impressed as Hazel looks up at a big whiteboard on the wall. It’s covered in a mess of scribbled notes in a rainbow of colors that looks about as decipherable as the walls of an Egyptian pyramid. But she clearly understands it.

“Okay, what’s first?” I ask, and Hazel points. “The flour?”

“Yeah, the one marked ‘all purpose,’” she says. “Use the baker’s scale there, and get me two pounds of it.”

I replace a large plastic tub and do as she says, putting in two pounds of white flour. “Now what?”

Hazel, who’s in the fridge, looks over her shoulder. “Do the same thing with fourteen ounces of sugar, but put that in the bowl when you’re done. It’s a wet.”

“A wet?” I ask. “But it’s sugar. Dry.”

Hazel flashes me an amused look. “It dissolves so quickly with liquids, sugar’s considered a wet ingredient for our purposes.”

I peer into the bin of apparently “wet” sugar that looks completely dry to me. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Hazel says, bringing her own ingredients over. Dropping what looks like an obscene amount of butter into the big metal bowl on the mixer, she starts the mixer up at a slow speed. “C’mon, Helga. I know it’s early, but you can do it, girl,” she purrs to the mixer in a sweet, cajoling voice. To me, she simply orders, “Get me a fresh gallon of milk.”

I grab her the milk, and as she pours it in without measuring, she asks, “What do you do now that you’ve run away from home and are apparently the black sheep of the Ford family?”

“Is that the rumor? Hard to believe I’m the black sheep.” She gives me a wry look, and I shrug. “I’m a woodworker, own my own shop making heirloom furniture and period-appropriate reproduction millwork.”

“Blah blah . . . wood . . . blah blah . . . furniture. That’s about all I understood,” she teases, cracking eggs into the bowl.

I laugh, charmed by her “no big deal” attitude. But I want her to know me, as much as I want to know her, so I explain. “When people are renovating historical homes and need trim moldings, you can’t just go down to Home Depot and pick it up. The pieces are special, unique, and though we could machine-mill them with the technology we have now, creating them by hand, carving them the same way they were centuries ago, is . . . important.” I realize Hazel has stopped what she’s doing, listening to me attentively, and I fear I’ve revealed more than I intended. “The heirloom furniture is my cake and pie, though,” I joke, pointing at the bowl she’s holding. “Custom pieces using turn-of-the-century methods to make furniture your great-great-grandkids will sell at an estate sale one day.”

Hazel laughs, letting me lighten things. “So you have a bunch of big tools and machines?”

“I do, but most of my work is done with my hands,” I reply suggestively.

“You must be good with them then,” Hazel says. I hold my hands up, letting her see for herself. She smiles her approval before jumping subjects. “Where do you live now?”

“Newport. I’ve got a little house that’s smaller than my shop, which was the garage at one point. It’s enough for me.” She slows down the mixer before adding the dry ingredients, and I ask a question of my own. “Who’s the better baker, you or your mom?”

“Mom, no doubt. She’s a better baker than most of those idiots on TV,” Hazel says immediately, “but I’m learning what I can.”

“I bet,” I say appreciatively, not only of her but of her various skills. Her confidence in the kitchen is almost as sexy as her cockiness at the pool table.

She turns the mixer back up. “Okay, give that a minute to mix, and we’ll get the bacon and candied pecans going.”

“Bacon and pecans?” I groan, my mouth watering. “Damn, that’s like seduction in a cupcake for me.”

Hazel’s eyes sparkle. “Good to know your stomach is the way to your . . .” I wait for her to finish the phrase as expected, but I should’ve known better because she leans my way to say, “Dick. I picked out that combination. A little salty, a little sweet. Pure sinful decadence.”

I shift on my feet, feeling some sins of my own coming up, and though the move is subtle, Hazel misses nothing. With a coy smile, she scoops cupcake batter into the paper baking cups of a large tray. She pops the tray into the oven, asking, “Why did you leave Cold Springs?”

“It’s a long story.” I don’t add that it’s one I don’t particularly want to get into. I figure Winston will want an explanation, and I probably owe him and Wren one, but it’s not a topic I like to dig out and showcase.

“We have twenty minutes until that batch comes out of the oven,” Hazel says as she goes back over to the fridge and pulls out four packets of bacon. “Try me. And you can peel bacon while you’re talking.”

I grab a big cookie sheet from a pile I see on a rack, deciding whether I’m going to share. And if so, how?

“Okay, let’s see. First off, I grew up with opportunities, obviously. I won’t deny that.”

“That’s good, very self-aware of you,” Hazel teases, grabbing a bag of pecans and scooping brown sugar into a bowl.

“But there was also an expectation of who I’d be, what I’d be,” I explain carefully, and she lifts an eyebrow. “I know, I know. Poor little rich boy, right? But it was there, just the same. Like my whole life was laid out for me, planned out . . . where I’d go to school, what I’d major in, what I’d do after graduation, who I’d marry, and what I’d do from there. It felt a little like being told the world was your oyster, but then realizing that you don’t like oysters, and that there’s a whole ocean of other options out there. And land. And air.”

“So you wanted to sink or swim with the fishies?” Hazel says as she pours the pecans into a big industrial food processor. “You sure you moved to Newport and not New York?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m sure. I guess what I mean is . . . I just wanted freedom. Rise or fall, it’d be closer to being by my own hands.”

“Closer?”

“Regardless of how much I might have given up moving out of Cold Springs, I still started life with a lot of advantages,” I admit. “But I tried to leave as much behind as I could. I took my truck, same truck I’ve got now, and started driving. Didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do. I just wanted to figure things out on my own without the family static.”

“But you took the money, right?” Hazel asks, a bit accusatory, and I get it. Like I said, I had advantages that I’m well aware of. Even so, I feel like I should say no, as if the money is going to be a sticking point for Hazel that lets her discount anything unexpected I might’ve done. But if I’m telling Hazel about leaving, I’m going with the truth.

“Yes and no. I took what was in my accounts and lived on that for a bit while I figured myself out. And you could say I used my family resources to take out a zero-interest startup loan for my shop,” I explain. “But once I had some success, I stopped. I’ve been putting money back into the savings accounts my parents set up when I was a kid, paying on my business loan, and living on my own income. I’ve got a budget all set up for it.”

To my surprise, Hazel smiles. “Idiot. No sense leaving money on the table. Take what you can get when you run. If it’s in your name, it’s yours.”

“Well, I guess I can see your point. I just want to make sure at some point I’m doing it on my own, even if it’s only in my own head.” I laugh, what she said registering fully. “I figured you’d be all ‘rich-boy runaway on Daddy’s dime.’ That’s what I think most people hear when I tell them about leaving.”

Hazel looks thoughtful. “I think you’d be surprised. Do you know how many people have those thoughts? Getting out of Cold Springs or whatever town they’re in? Getting away from some bullshit in their past? People do just about anything for a fresh start.”

In three seconds, she’s making me feel less guilty about taking the money than I’ve been able to do for myself in years. “Most people don’t have the opportunity to start over.”

“Hopefully, they stay because the reasons to stay are better than the ones to go,” Hazel says optimistically.

But I’ve seen Winston’s and Wren’s situations, and their balance sheets definitely tilt in favor of getting the hell out of Cold Springs. Yet here they stay. “Hmmph,” I grunt.

“You tell many people about why you left?”

I freeze. I have to think hard, just to be sure, but in the end, I look up at her, her with her pecans and brown sugar, me with my tray of bacon slices. “Honestly? Just you.” When she lifts an eyebrow, I nod. “It’s the truth. I have friends in Newport, but I haven’t exactly told them where I come from. I’m not ashamed of it, but it doesn’t seem relevant, either, because it’s not who I am anymore. They don’t care about my last name, or associate it with the way . . . well, folks here do.”

“Ah,” Hazel says as if she’s discovered something exceptional. “So it’s not what they think, it’s what you think. You’re the one who thinks you’re a ‘rich-boy runaway on Daddy’s dime.’”

“Shit. You don’t mince words, do you?” I ask, stepping back.

Hazel shrugs. “Why bother? If people can’t handle my mouth, they can’t handle me. It’s easier to filter people out from the jump. Door’s over there,” she offers as though she expects me to be one of the ones who limp away from her sharp tongue.

Except other than backing away from the raw bacon and wiping my hands on my apron, I’m not going anywhere. “What’s next? More bacon?”

Hazel turns to check the oven, trying to hide her pleased smile from me, but I see it clear as day in the reflection of the glass. I think I just passed one of Hazel Sullivan’s tests with flying colors.

By staying. Something that’s not my usual strong suit.

“What about you?” I ask. “What’s your story?”

She opens the oven and pulls out the cupcakes, setting them aside as she pops the tray of pecans and brown sugar down low, my bacon up high. “Not so different than yours but without the money. My family has run Puss N Boots and the Bakery Box for years, and I grew up helping Mom and Aunt Etta. I never really considered doing anything else. Guess you could say I was in that big middle.”

“Big middle?” I echo, and she nods.

“Sure. Lots of folks around Cold Springs would say our family is doing pretty well for itself. Maybe we are. I mean, Aunt Etta’s got her own horse, and that’s all she wants in the world. Same with Mom and this bakery. And I’ve got my home. But we’re not so rich that we don’t clip coupons, do without sometimes, and we work hard to keep the businesses running right.”

I nod, knowing what she means. I don’t say it, but I remember the man who came into my shop one time with an antique Scottish hutch he wanted to sell. It was in serious need of restoration, but even still, tears were in his eyes when I asked why he wanted to part with it.

The reason? Medical bills. So I paid what he asked, even if I took a small loss on the resale when I added in the costs of the restoration. I even offered the hutch back to the man, but he refused. It taught me a tough lesson, because I would’ve happily eaten the cost to bring a smile to his face, but he said the hutch had painful memories now. It was only my determination to live on my own work that forced me to eventually sell the hutch.

“You want to take over one or both businesses someday?” I ask. “You know, sling cakes by morning, beers by night?”

Hazel shrugs. “Don’t really think about it. I mostly put one foot in front of the other and keep everything from going off the rails as best I can.”

She opens the oven door, stirring the pecans before closing it up once again.

“Do you ever go off the rails? Let loose a bit?” I challenge, stepping in front of her once she’s clear of the hot ovens.

I’m truly curious. She’s a hard worker, dedicated to her family, staunchly loyal to her friends, and though I think she’d consider herself a bit of a wild child, the truth is, even when she lets loose, like dancing on the bar or playing pool, she’s in complete control.

Every move she makes may not be calculated for pros and cons, but the bets she makes are ones she knows she can win, and her rowdy behavior isn’t all that rebellious in a bar where she feels safe and knows that everyone there would help her if she needed backup.

I lean in closer, my breath on her cheek. I can feel the heat coming off her body, both from the oven’s blast and the work she’s been doing. Anticipation fills the small space between us, and I wait, not moving to see if she’ll make that crazy leap into uncertainty.

A test of my own, if you will.

I want her to kiss me. I want to feel the savageness of her soul because I bet Hazel Sullivan is a sight to behold when she unleashes. She licks her lips and I’m on edge, barely holding on to the end of my rope. I think this is going to be a pivot point, the time before Hazel kissed me, and after.

Inside my boots, I’m clenching my toes so I don’t step between her feet to get even closer. My hands curl into fists as I fight my desire to touch her. I work my jaw, trying to look calm and patient, as inside I’m anything but. I tilt my head slightly and part my lips, so fucking ready for her.

Her breath catches, her breasts rising a scant inch, as her eyes dip to my mouth.

Kiss me, I will her with my mind. She’s going to do it, I can see it in her eyes.

But at the last moment, instead of a kiss, she steps back, her voice hardening. “Fuck you, Ford.”

“What?” I growl, feeling like I just got slapped in the face. Ice dumps through my veins at the loss of her heat when she moves away. I hate every single inch she’s added between us, not only physically, but with her words.

“You heard me,” she says, now sounding pissed off. “Fuck you, Ford.”

I plant one hand on the metal workbench, my knuckles whitening as I grab the edge for balance. “Why are you calling me that?”

“What?”

“Ford,” I hiss. “You’re using my last name against me. Like it’s a curse or something.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks bluntly.

“I thought we’d gotten beyond that,” I say angrily. “My family has flaws. I’m well aware of that. I fucking laid them out in black and white for you.”

She snorts. “You laid out your issues. You forgot a few. Like Jed breaking Etta’s heart. And don’t forget what your dear old dad is pulling with the zoning. I love the way you can make ramrodding the town sound like y’all get a little too competitive playing Monopoly. Like real people’s lives aren’t being affected.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about with the zoning,” I tell her honestly. “I’m just figuring that shit out myself. And Jed and Etta’s thing was almost thirty years ago. It sure as fuck shouldn’t determine what you or I do. But maybe it does for you?”

Though I shouldn’t be, I’m disappointed. In the situation, at my family, and even in Hazel. I thought she’d see beyond my last name, especially after I told her everything I did.

She’s right—I haven’t shared that with anyone.

But maybe that doesn’t mean as much to her as it does to me. Maybe she’s playing me the same way Jed wanted to, as a pawn in whatever game they’re trying to win.

The timer on the pecans goes off, and I turn to grab it this time, giving Hazel my back as I put my walls up. Lost in Hazel’s beauty and fiery personality, I dropped my guard too easily, too quickly.

I won’t make that mistake again.

But I am a man of my word, despite whatever she might think.

So we’re going to get these goddamn trays of bacon and candied pecans finished so Hazel’s mom can have a head start for whatever Cara’s Midnight Madness shit is. Silently, I stare into the last oven, waiting for it to ding too.

She says nothing, and it’s only once the last batch of goodies is out and cooling that I look her in the eyes again. I can see the glitter of moisture there and take no joy in her tears, especially since it’s colored with confusion and so many other warring emotions that I can’t label them all.

“You seem sober enough to drive home,” I tell her, setting the keys to her car on the table. “Good night, Hazel.”

Without waiting for a reply, I leave, tugging my apron off and putting it on a hook before I simply walk out into the cool morning air.

The walk back to Puss N Boots is long, but it goes by in a flash as my mind whirls, replaying the entire night. When I get to the parking lot, I get in my truck, turning on the heater for a few moments, warming not my body but my heart.

It’s a longer drive than it should be, going back home to fall into bed just as the sun starts to rise. The last thought I have before sleep takes me is . . .

Tomorrow is the wedding rehearsal. Gonna be a fucking nightmare.