Cupcakes and Christmas - R.J. Scott Page 0,7

stretches I perched on the end of a long bench and waited.

Coming face to face with Justin under the chandelier, the focal point of the Christmas decorations, was unsettling and a shock to the system, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It wasn’t just because he was a good-looking man, blessed with eyes as blue as cornflowers, or that he sported deliberate day-old stubble and had cheekbones I could wax lyrical about all day, but it was his smile and his lips—pouty, kissable, sexy lips—and the way he held himself with so much confidence.

And his ass.

It wasn’t just all of that, it was Marc, and the papers in my pocket, and the hopelessness of everything that had been fucked up. Marc had loved Justin, mentioned all of his attributes when he and I had been snuggled up on the bed of our dorm, both of us idiot nineteen-year-old kids, the college cat I’d called Pipkin on my lap, watching the first season of the show. I’d baked before at home, simple recipes that had become more complicated with the pass of time. It was seeing out and proud Justin, baking with his smile and showing his ability that had me wondering if one day I could be on the show as well.

I was used to Marc commenting on what other men looked like, it never used to worry me. After all, we went through college together, married after graduation, and he worked for my dad. I killed time working for a local hotel on reception and baking in my spare time to the point where I’d begun to make more income from baking for birthdays and weddings than I did it my day job. The year I won season four I never thought I’d get past week one, but by the time I finished I was able to give up the hotel job, and actually consider opening my own place. So Bakes by Brody was born, and I’d even started thinking about Marc and I expanding our family. Maybe kids, maybe we’d start small with another cat or a dog.

Only I was kidding myself. It turned out that since the success of Bakes by Brody, Marc hadn’t been hankering for the picket fence with me and Pipkin. No. He’d been scouting for anonymous hookups and carrying on in a year-long affair behind my back. Dad told me about money that was missing from the business, but I hadn’t believed him. In fact, I’d only found out the true extent of my husband’s betrayal when he’d used the wrong credit card to pay for a hotel room. A simple mistake, but he’d broken like a glass vase hitting tile when all I’d asked was whether it was a business expense for his accounts.

He’d accused me of accusing him, and then the shit had hit the fan. Before I’d even known what hit me, dazed and confused, I was outside our apartment door, with Pipkin in his carrier, my battered leather bag, and a suitcase of crumpled and shoved-in clothes. Somehow, he’d made it my fault—I worked too hard. I didn’t pay enough attention to him. I was shit in bed. I believed every word of it because I had been working hard, I probably wasn’t home enough, and sometimes I was too tired to play the convoluted games he wanted in bed. He filed for divorce, and I didn’t argue. How could I love a man who fucked about on me then gaslighted me into thinking it was entirely my fault?

Dad had been right, and I’d pushed him away when he told me. That was the first damage. My siblings were the rock I clung to but now spent too much time worrying about me. And my mom was the one who held me when I cried. Marc had denied everything, and we were done. My dad didn’t press charges for my sake, and I put the money back into the dealership out of my own pocket, but since that day something had shifted between me and my father. He didn’t look at me the same way. He was probably disappointed in me for my choices.

All in all, it was a sad end to my childish hopes and dreams. Marc had lied to me, cheated on me, and once I signed the papers, it would be over for real.

My naïve but happy world ended and the phone call for this show couldn’t have come at a better time. I was