“I’m not saying a word, dude. You two are on your own with that one. And, hey, Stade?” he calls out just as I hit the door, and I turn to find that jovial look on his face all but gone. “Keep your greasy mitts off my sister, or I’m going to have to kill you.” He nods at the bitter reality.
A brief visual of Poppy sitting on my face bounces through my mind.
“Will do, buddy.” I head out to my office and bury myself in paperwork.
How the hell did I grow to be such a liar?
As it turns out, things with Poppy aren’t feeling like such a lie anymore.
Risqué Business
Poppy
The Mischievous Mavens’ Baking Blog has been invited to the prestigious Denver Bun in the Oven Bake Off. With such distinguished accolades in the bounds, of course, both Jax and I accepted their offer to join in on the festivities. Besides the fact that eating all the fresh baked cookies we could stuff our faces with, we appreciate that this will be our final foray into usury, trickery, and the like.
The clock is ticking on our little mama-inspired love-fest, and if we really want to stick it to those two biddies, we need to put on a show like no other. When you think about it, the big birthday bash itself will be the dismantling of all our hard work, so this is the big buildup before we walk the two of them over the landmine where our true gift lies in wait. I’m pretty sure my own heart will blow to smithereens at that moment, too. How in the hell I ever thought this was a good idea is beyond me.
Startlingly true to its name, the Bun in the Oven Bake Off features a bevy of women with, in fact, a bun in the oven. I’m not sure how featuring women who ovulated and fertilized at about the same time antes up their baking skills, but it’s clear they’ve been given preferential treatment when juxtaposed against the menopause set comprised of those mischievous mavens. There’s no way it’s a coincidence all the best bakers got knocked up at once. I’m betting that having all of these preggos running around is what brought the national media to the semen-infested yard.
Mom and Deb walk Jax and me proudly through the convention hall, introducing us to the who’s who in the baking world, and with each introduction, they not only beam with a little more pride, they flare with a little more embellishments.
Deb clasps her hands as we come upon a stately looking gentleman with a tag around his neck that reads Judge.
“Reginald O’Keefe!” Deb squawks. “You must meet my son and his darling fiancée.”
Jax and I exchange a quick glance. I have to pause for a moment to add that Jax Stade looks phenomenal in a three-piece suit, which leaves me breathless and wetter than a slip and slide. I’m not at all offended to be called his plus one even if it is just a big put-on.
“A Stade in the making!” Judge O’Keefe offers me a congratulatory handshake as if I just won the fiancé lottery, and in a lot of ways, including fiscally, it does. “And what a lucky man!” And he is wise. He slaps Jax over the back. “She’s a beauty. I always say why start with the house frau when you can skip right to the trophy wife? So they work for purses. So what?” He shrugs off the disgusting suggestion. “At least she’ll keep you happy where it counts most.”
And he is an asshole.
Jax looks over to me. “Poppy is the most intelligent, bravest, kindest woman I know. I truly do feel lucky.” He presses his mesmerizing gaze into mine while kissing the back of my hand.
Mom and Deb explode with sighs while the jaded judge takes the opportunity to make a run for it.
It happens again and again—Mom and Deb introduce us freely as fiancés. Soon, they have me relocating back to Oak Grove where a rug rat’s empire is coming soon to a vagina near me.
A buzzer goes off overhead, and all of the contestants waddle to their posts. Deb and Jax make a beeline for a stack of brownies, but I take the opportunity to pull my dear old delusional mother to the side.
“What is that all about?” I hiss. A psychotically ecstatic part of me is elated to have the title of Future Mrs. Stade, but the logical, bare-fingered, far more rooted in reality version of myself is fighting mad that my mother the loon is feeding into this nonsense.
“Oh, honey, it’s bound to happen.” She offers me a kiss to each cheek as if in her descent into madness she’s suddenly morphed into a European socialite. “I’ve always thought you’d make a beautiful bride.” She wags an unsteady finger at me. “Don’t tell your sister, but you have the boobs to wear a sweetheart neckline like nobody’s business. Way back when, I suggested that she opt for the turtleneck, but you—you can plunge straight to your belly if you wanted. We’ll get the girls together and head to Kleinfeld Bridal in New York.” Her hands rise over her head as if she were doing the wave. “We’ll have lunch in Manhattan!” She does a little reindeer prance.
Oh holy hell. I do a quick glance back at Jax who’s frowning over the two of us in judgment. I can’t blame him. I’m judging us, and I’m very much a part of the madness.
“You’re delusional,” I quip, trying to subdue the bizarre flailing of limbs on her part. “Who are you, and why are you dissing my sister’s rack?”
“Oh, hush.” She comes close to smacking me while pawing at the air. “You’ve always been so crude. You get that from your father’s side of the family.” She gives my cheek a quick pinch. “Mingle—have some fun. I’ve got an award to win. If you think I’m letting any of these millennial mamas walk away with my trophy, you’re the delusional one.”
Mom takes off, and Jax comes and offers me a brownie as if it were a peace offering.
“Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose at the most handsome man in the room. There are only about three men in a six-mile radius of this place, but Jax qualifies as the most handsome man just this side of heaven.
“I feel like I’m the one who should apologize. Here I’m engaged to the most beautiful woman in the world, and I have no ring.” He pulls my hand up and lands a kiss where a theoretical diamond should be.
My heart melts seeing my longtime friend so achingly sweet and romantic with all of the right words at the ready. Who knew that the boy I made mud pies with would grow up to be a crowned prince? Me. That’s who.
“I’m sure when the time is right, you’ll have something spectacular planned for the lucky girl.” My throat rubs dry at the thought of his future hussy.
Jax steadies his watery blues over mine. “I guess I should start thinking about it.”
“Really?” My heart thuds and drops to my feet in a cartoon-worthy maneuver. “I mean, of course, you should. If you keep sleeping around, your nads are going to turn into two giant blisters from the antibiotic resistant rash you’re sure to contract.”
“What about you?” He gives a slight wink as if calling me out on my own path down a blistering rash alley.
“Are you kidding? I’m chaste in comparison. If anything, my vagina will reseal itself from lack of use. It’s safe to say I can start on my vast collection of fickle felines once I get back home. Of course, they’ll be the exotic Bengal variety. If I’m going to be the requisite crazy cat lady, I’m going down in style.”
His dimples ignite at the thought of my furry harem. “And what about marriage?”
I shoot a quick glance to my mother, then to my cleavage. “My mother swears I’d look great in a wedding dress, but I’d need someone who looks equally great in a tux to stand by my side. And as of late, I just don’t see any prospects…” I meant to finish it with back in L.A., but I’d die of mortification if Jax thought I was hinting that he fills those Italian leather shoes.
I glance down at his Italian leather shoes and smirk because he is the one and only candidate I’d consider.
He leans in close. His warm cologne wraps its spiced arms around me. “And what about kids?”
My heart thuds unnaturally as I look up at my childhood friend turned playboy.
“What about them? I mean, if I had the right person in my life”—such as you—“I’d probably have fifty.”
He belts out
a laugh. Jaxson’s arm finds a home around my waist, and it feels natural like this with him. My hand lands over his chest, and I can’t help but gaze lovingly into his eyes. Strangely enough, I don’t feel one ounce of awkwardness because I happened to catch Mom and Deb pointing their phones in our direction. More fodder for the scrapbook they would have undoubtedly gifted us at the wedding.
“Fifty is a nice round number.” He twists his lips a moment, deep in thought. “I guess if I had the right girl by my side, I’d want at least that many. I want to be a hands-on father like my dad was. Little league coach, ballet, whatever the sport, I’ll play coach if they’ll let me.”
Jax Stade is melting me and simultaneously causing my womb to riot for his seed. What in the hell was I thinking letting this demi god use a condom? I could have gone back to L.A. happily knocked up with his baby. Although, separating myself from him by over a thousand miles makes that Super Dad scenario rather farfetched.
My arms float around his waist, and I pull him as I cower under the umbrella of his stately frame. If I had any lady balls whatsoever, I’d take this chocolate chip cookie scented moment to tell him exactly how I feel. But I don’t.
“You are going to make a great dad someday, Gordo.” It comes out sad, defeated as if he won the parental tug-of-war, and he’s the only one of us to go on to play that procreation game.
“Hey”—he lifts my chin and catches my gaze—“you’re going to make a great mom. I can’t wait to see it.” Here it is, my very last moment to say something, anything that might imply that these nebulous children we’re clamoring for might be one and the same. My mouth opens, and nothing but dead air comes out.
“Maybe our kids can play together?” And that, my friends, is what cowardice sounds like. Between you and me, it doesn’t smell much better. I can effectively fire my deodorant. But in my hormonal defense, being this close to Jax has always brought me to my sweaty knees.
“Yeah.” A lengthy breath expires from him. “Maybe they can.”
Mom and Deb pull out the win and take home the grand supreme baking prize, which only solidifies their stance that they can do no wrong.
“We’re winning at life!” Mom chimes as they come at us with their newfound hardware—a gilded slice of cake with a flag spike in it reading Bake Off Champions.
“Oh, Char”—Deb pulls Jax and me in for a congratulatory group hug—“with these two together, we’ve already won the grand prize.”
Mom presses her hand to her chest. “I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime, but I’ll be honest, I had given up on seeing the two of you together.”
Jax wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me in close, but neither of us loses the heavy look we’re giving our mothers.
Mom nods, touching his cheek then mine. “If God took the breath from my lungs at this moment, I could honestly say I died happy knowing the two of you were right where you belong—in one another’s arms.” She and Deb coo into one another as a small crowd heads over to gawk at their trophy.
Jax and I step away as they bask in their glory.
“Wow, Gordo”—I turn to look at my partner in crime—“it’s going to be a real crap-fest once we break the news.”
Those magical dimples of his invert as a wicked grin slowly materializes. “Homecoming dance, freshman year—my mother showed up as my date.”
A short-lived laugh expels from me. “Try junior year geometry class, my mother showed up in a bathrobe and curlers with a sack lunch she claimed I forgot. A sack lunch! It was a trifecta of humiliation.”
He gives a knowing nod. “Senior prom—our mothers won the honorary titles of both king and queen.”
“Damn, they were good.” I give a wistful shake of the head. “Graduation day—a moment we toiled thirteen long years to achieve—they wore matching Minnie Mouse costumes, and thus stole our thunder.”
“Lesbo Minnies were a hit, though,” he notes.
“True, but they really screwed up pictures for us. It looked like we went to Disney High.”
“So, what do you think?” His fingers press in over my ribs, and I can’t help but drink down the sensation knowing everything touchy-feely between us is literally barreling to an end.
I shed a crooked grin. “I think the bitches have it coming.”
And in the mother of all ironies, they would have stuck in one last paralyzing jab without realizing it. In an effort to give them their comeuppance, I’ve impaled myself right through the heart on the flashing sword of revenge.
I wish I could turn back time. I’d take back all of that bullshit regarding Miles Frampton.
Instead, here I am with a very real shattered heart.
Who knows, maybe I had it coming, too.
After a long afternoon testing the limits of our blood sugar levels, Jax and I decide to reconvene at Starry Nights for another carbohydrate-laden bite. I head over to meet him there and snuggle in a seat near the back as the house band plays sappy love songs for my bleeding heart.
At office, running late. See you in a few!
Instead of scowling into my phone, I offer up a dreamy smile. This is exactly what it would be like if I really were married to Jax. After all that talk about engagement rings and how great my boobs would look in a sweetheart neckline, I’ll admit I’ve indulged a bit in all things wedded bliss. Jax would be a great husband. For one, he can handle just about anything my acid tongue dishes out. And secondly, that face, that hair, that body. Jax Stade is a king, and I would gladly sign up to be his lifelong queen should the proposition arise. But after listening to the spiel about our children maybe someday going on play dates, it doesn’t sound like the throne next to his awaits me.
I spot Mack sitting in the back of Starry Nights, and she waves me over like she’s the last Titanic survivor on a floating door waiting for rescue.
“What’s up?” I offer a quick embrace as I take a seat. Mack’s J’Adore perfume permeates the area, and I take in a huge gulping sniff. I’ve always appreciated the way having Mack in my presence makes me feel as if I’ve just had a nice refreshing bath. I need to pick up a bottle just so I can spritz it every now and again when I miss her.
“You’re up.” Her eyes spin like Vegas slot machines. “Mom has lost her ever-loving mind! She actually took her wedding dress down from the attic and said she was going to gift it to you at your engagement party in the event you wanted to alter it. Did I miss something?”
“God!” I squeal, giddy over the prospect of an engagement party. It’s safe to say I’ve been swept up in Hurricane Char and Deb. “We’ve created a category five monster.”
“I can’t wait to see their faces once you do the big reveal.” Mack gives a devious chuckle. “Have you thought about how you’re going to do it? At first I was thinking a big blowout might be the way to go, but knowing those two, they’ll spend the rest of the night shooting for a reconciliation.” She purses her lips, and they touch the tip of her nose. “A straight forward, this was all a big fat lie in your honor may be the better option. You might want to throw a huzzah in there and maybe a high five with Jax. I bet you’re both ready to have this behind you. I mean—he’s not bad on the eyes, but come on—drooling over one another the way you two have—is really taking one for the team. No one can accuse you of not being all in.”
“I do like to commit.” With my entire heart and soul and every fiber of my brokenhearted being.
Mack glances over my shoulder and grunts, “Well, look who’s here on our brother’s arm looking crispy as a chip in a bag.”
I turn to find Larissa headed this way while Conner makes a stop at the bar. Is it wrong that I hate how stunning she is? That perfect, long, wavy dark hair, those puffed out severely colored in red lips. I’d die to have both.
“You know”—Mack’s eyes get squirrely as she spies our brother—“there’s something I need to talk to Conner about. I’ll be right back.” She skips to the bar, and Larissa plops right in her seat. It never fails to surprise me the way she carries
herself so impeccably perfect. When we were in high school, Sadie nicknamed her “The Mannequin” for her unchanging hair and makeup that seemed to be fade and wind resistant. Everything about her is as fake as her personality. If the inside matched the outside, I’d fear she’d steal Jax out from under me—not that he’s actually mine. That revelation alone pulls me under.
“So your mother’s big shindig is coming up this weekend,” she trills, guffawing at me as if that little shindig she just referenced were reprisal of our senior prom.
“And?” I steal a sip of Mack’s Long Island Iced Tea and immediately regret it, using her chips and salsa as a chaser.
“And”—she tips her head so severely I’m half-afraid she’s having a seizure—“a little birdie told me that you and lover boy are nothing but a big fat fake.” She bounces in her seat, unable to hide her uncontainable glee.
“What little birdie?” I ask curt with a sudden urge to find the nearest 12-gauge and do a little hunting.
“The proud peacock himself. Jaxson Stade.”
My entire body stings with surprise. “What exactly did he tell you? And when?” I’m about to reach over and shake the details out of this vindictive piece of plastic when she holds up a finger in an effort to subdue my rage.
“Don’t worry. I’m not saying a word.” A cat who ate the canary smile takes over, and I can practically see the peacock feather preening from her lips. “He’s sworn me to secrecy. Jax knows I can be trusted. We’re good friends.”
A fist forms in my throat, and I painfully swallow it down. “When? How did he bring this up?”
She chortles out a short-lived laugh. “When the person you’re practically living with suddenly up and gets a girlfriend, things can get dicey. He just wanted to assure me—you know, set the record straight. We’re pretty tight. He told me you’re leaving in a few days.” She winces. “I hope that’s enough time for you to comfort your poor mother once she hears the truth. This is going to send her into an early grave. Boy, when you hit back, you go for the jugular.” She gives a little wink as Mack and Conner join us.