Here for the Cake

by Jennifer Millikin

Strangers don’t gravitate toward him, attracted by an unnamable quality. Except for me. I’m the stranger, attracted.

I made ignoring him my second job. My preferred pastime. Thanks to being placed in the same class, I’m given the chance to exercise my ignoring muscles every Tuesday and Thursday, and by now, I’m swoll.

If a girl can’t use booze to numb the indecency of her little sister marrying her ex-boyfriend, when can she use it?

Gag me. Now. With a spoon. A serrated spoon. No! A spork.

Yep. That’s what I’ll do. I didn’t get the invite, therefore I couldn’t book a flight, and now oh shoot, I’m so sorry I can’t make it.

I didn’t need my ego stroked, only pacified.

“You’re the floor.” I frown as I suck the pad of my thumb between my teeth. “I’m the floor?” “People walk all over you.”

Her instruction to keep it classy went through my resentment-soaked listening filtration system, and… here we are. Dick city, baby.

Honestly, it’s amazing what you can find on the internet.

“Thank you, but now you need to get out of here. One of the bridesmaids said she’s DTF, and her standards are low.” Lexi delivers a small shove to go along with her warning. “You’d be right up her alley.”

But then I see... her. Paisley Royce. A woman who has haunted me for years. A dream, but in the flesh. A story I relive too often. Beautiful Paisley, with her unique blue-green eyes and her rosebud mouth.

I wound up at her off-campus apartment, a little high and a lot overwhelmed by how pretty she was.

The next day, fully sober and one hundred percent mortified, I sent her a text. Shooting for levity, I said Hey, it’s Klein, the guy you probably hoped to never hear from again. I must have hit the bullseye with that joke, because she did not respond.

It gets worse. Way, way worse.

She pretended I didn’t exist. But me? I loved her from afar with a burning desire that consumed me.

Paisley herself was the mind-altering substance, a woman sent to complete me.

Shane Michael (really? Never trust a guy whose last name is a first name)

I bet the royal blue fabric makes her eyes more blue than green, and suddenly I’m insatiably curious to know if this is true.

She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,

I could stand there and stare at Paisley all night.

his jeans doing something to his thigh muscles that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

I want to smack him.

The audacity has me flummoxed and unable to form my own coherent thoughts.

I have a second urge to inflict bodily harm on him.

Why do I have to like the way he walks? Who does that?

He is not supposed to have aged this well.

Klein’s lips hover an inch from my screen. His green-eyed gaze grips me as he says, “Paisley, baby, get off the phone. I’m done sharing you.”

Did Paisley baby get off the phone I’m done sharing you just become my favorite ten words in the English language? Yes, but I’ll never admit it out loud.

he smelled like spiced apples and something I couldn’t name but immediately made me a different kind of drunk.

What is Klein doing to me? And why is my body, the treacherous traitor, responding in such a way?

Devious! The man used the power of distraction to disarm me.

Paisley looks like she wants to come over the bar and knee me in the balls.

Long blonde hair, athletic legs, and an ass that makes me want to bite my fist.

Those thoughts have bad idea written all over them.

So damn stubborn, this woman.

“You owe me a flashing penis ring.” My gaze goes to the teenage valet to see if he’s overheard. He’s looking away pointedly, so I’m going to assume he did. I blow out a gusty sigh and answer. “Never going to happen.” “You”—Paisley steps closer and pokes my chest—“are just jealous because yours doesn’t light up.” With one eyebrow cocked, I look down at her. “How do you know it doesn’t?” She gasps and takes a step back, her palm pressed dramatically to her chest. “Was that a joke, Mr. Serious?” “I would never joke about phallic light shows.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re as repugnant as you were back then.” That actually hurts, but I’ll be damned if I show it. Mental note: use the word repugnant in my next novel.

I boop the end of Paisley’s nose. Murder flares in her eyes, and that should be a warning sign, but I’m distracted by the ocean color of her irises. They are probably even prettier when they’re not shooting death rays my direction.

Are we...getting along? Flirting, even? Unacceptable.

I’m just going to pretend his chest isn’t straining against the fabric more than it was before.

Anger is never simply anger, but a reaction to the emotion underneath.

Time has done nothing but turn her into a woman with lush curves and a sharp wit. I happen to be a sucker for both.

The woman is a masterpiece, a smoke show sent to test my resolve.

This is all going to be a piece of cake. Wedding cake, to be exact.

I am fine. I am slap-my-ass fantastic.

He’s so handsome it causes actual physical pain.

He steps into the space made by the open door, gripping the top of the doorframe and leaning forward.

Should I be concerned about how crazy this man makes me? Probably.

“Do I have something on my face?” I run my finger pads under my eyes, in case there is mascara built up underneath them. “You’re perfect,” Klein says.

I smooth my hands over the mint green short-sleeved knit sweater dress I ended up pulling on. “Thanks,” I murmur. “It’s nothing.” Klein has already turned away, but I swear the deep timbre of his thick voice mutters, “It’s something.”