Must Love Cakes: Watkin's Pond, Book 3 (2 page)

Manda had said she’d heard rumors of Freddie cheating and, no, Carrie hadn’t believed her. How could she? The whole time they’d been together, Freddie was meh at best about sex, only wanted to go out on certain nights of the week—which would keep the relationship fresh and special, according to him—and had an almost unhealthy obsession with Asian porn. His redeeming traits were, as far as Carrie had always been concerned, his touching loyalty to his mother and his loyalty to her.

They’d been together over a year officially, a year unofficially before that and she’d mostly resigned herself to it being enough. Sure, some people had really passionate love affairs. Some people—mostly in books, so far as she could tell—fell madly in love and it was returned and a true meeting of like minds and souls.

She wasn’t one of those people, didn’t have that kind of passion. What she had was Freddie, regular if unexciting sex, and a successful business. It would be enough. She could live a whole life this way and be happy. Maybe it wasn’t the stuff of a romance novel, but she’d accepted it.

RUOK?
he’d texted. Lord. If she could stab out her eyes with shrimp forks, she would.

“You still there? Are you okay? I can come over if you want. It isn’t like Brax will fire me. Who else would agree to work for peanuts at this tiny hardware store? Plus, his wife would kick his butt if he fired me…but I can come over. Bring some ice cream and help you plan your outfit for the party tomorrow.” Manda’s voice was muffled for a second, then she came back on the line. “Aw, man, the writer left. Braxton didn’t even call the cops, but he’s sweeping nuts up now. I’ll tell him you’re heartbroken and I have to leave.”

No, Carrie wasn’t okay. She’d tried to settle, tried to tell herself she could be okay with their relationship and that she wanted it when she knew she didn’t, yet in the end, he’d dumped her anyway. Not a big shocker she fantasized about the two constants in her life—Ben and Grady, it seemed, were the only two men she could really count on. “Nothing wrong with me that ice cream won’t cure, and besides, I’m not going to that party.”

“You have to go. Darcy will flay you if you don’t go.”

“But he’ll be there,” Carrie pointed out. “He never misses one of the local get-togethers.” They were a small town, after all. Pretty much everyone showed up at all the events.

“Bring your two buddies. There is no way he’s going to mess with you if you’re flanked by Ben and Grady.” Manda paused. “Aw, man. Brax is coming looking for me. Gotta run. You sure you don’t want me to come over?”

“I’m fine. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay, bye. And love ya.”

“Love ya too.”

Clicking end, Carrie glared at the video. “Look, dude, there is no way I’m finding my center today.”

The video didn’t answer, the waves continuing to break on the beach and the man babbling onward as if her whole world hadn’t just changed and broken.

Even the local recluse author showed up at Darcy’s party, his hot new wife curled into his side in a darkened corner of the room. Although Carrie didn’t want to be there, her skipping would’ve caused more talk than her attending, so she’d bit her lip and pulled on her big girl panties.

And she’d forced both Grady and Ben to go too, per Manda’s advice, figuring misery loved company. Since neither of them were nearly as susceptible to peer pressure as she’d always been and usually couldn’t give a rat’s ass what the people in town thought of them, she’d used the business to convince them—because it would make the business look bad if they skipped one of the biggest social events of the season. Everyone who was anyone attended the party at the local vineyard owner’s home, so they needed to at least make an appearance, after all. She knew she could’ve mentioned to them on a personal level that she wanted them to come with her, but confessing seemed weak…the last thing she wanted them to see her as when the rest of the town no doubt already shook their heads in pity at the poor fat girl who got dumped by the douche.

She was pretty sure she’d won the guys over with the mention of the open bar rather than the mention of business. Whatever, but they’d come and she wasn’t alone.

For Carrie, knowing that Fickle Freddie would be there with his new girlfriend, if the rumor mill ground out honest news, it meant walking on hot coals for a night and she planned to drink heavily and set up a designated driver for exactly that reason. He’d dumped her the day before the party—something she should’ve seen coming according to Manda Watkin—over text. Carrie choked on the shot of tequila and wished she was the kind of girl who could sling back hard alcohol without cringing. Instead, her head jerked and her eyes pinched closed as the liquor made its way down her throat in a lump—raining acid as it moved—and then she stomped her foot once, as if doing so would make gravity work faster and settle the hellfire in her stomach where it belonged.

A hard-ass she was not. Then again, few people expected a cupcake baker to be one—Buffy the pastry slayer? Just,
no
. Didn’t mean she didn’t wish to be a bold and brassy bitch, especially with her ex lounging on a nearby sofa, wrapped in a barely-past-her-teens girl like golden icing on a giant douche cake.

“You okay?”

Still blinking back tears from the shot and trying to hold it down instead of throwing up, Carrie forced a nod and cleared her throat. “I’m great.”

“Liar.” Grady leaned on the smooth, black-stained bar and tapped his own shot glass twice on the shiny surface. The rented bartender recognized the motion and refilled it with amber liquid Grady downed with far more grace than Carrie. “I
did
volunteer to kick his ass.”

Snorting, Carrie tapped her own shot glass, determined to drench her problems in José and forget the night ever happened. “What good would that do?” A hand slid along her back and Carrie choked on her own spit.

Her other best friend and business partner, Ben, thumped her on the back with one hand before tapping his own glass for a refill. “You okay?”

“Would everyone stop asking me that?” She snatched up her shot glass, only sloshing a little on her fingers.

“You choked—” Ben began.

“I asked about Freddie the Fickle. She’s touchy,” Grady explained and held his small drink up.

They all clanked in a quick and sloppy cheer, and then Carrie forced more tequila past her raw throat. A slow burn heated her cheeks and her body felt looser, more relaxed than it had in a very long time. She leaned a bit—
maybe listed would have been a better description?
—on Grady and considered Ben from one eye. “I’m not touchy. I
hate
that bastard.”

If she said it enough, maybe she wouldn’t actually cry. Or maybe she could at least pretend the tears she blinked back were from the pain of the alcohol? The worst part was that she wasn’t sure which he’d wounded more with his defection to another woman’s arms—her heart or her pride. She hadn’t really loved him, although she would’ve liked to be the kind of woman to love someone in a real, Hallmark relationship kind of way. She loved the idea of it, since he was the sort of man to leave Post-it love letters and bring her flowers at work, but the reality always fell a bit flat for her.

Not to mention the sex. It wasn’t romance-novel variety sex. It had been…sloppy and a little awkward. And a whole lot of her shouting directions like a football coach. When they first got together, she’d practically had to draw Freddie a map to her clit since during one overenthusiastic make-out session he’d drunkenly thrummed her kneecap for a solid five minutes before she realized he was aiming for the stars but missing by a mile.

Snickering at the memory, she inhaled the scent of Grady. She’d long accepted the truth—that reality and stories lived in different worlds, and that she wasn’t the kind of woman to inspire swelling movie-soundtrack-worthy romance. Most days, she was okay with simply being the kind of woman who ran a successful business and had great guys like Ben and Grady in her life. But some days…

Some days, she wanted the epic love story. Didn’t everyone? And while Freddie hadn’t been fodder for fantasies, he’d at least been
hers
. Until he wasn’t, a very public and localized agony since small-town life ensured everyone—literally,
every
one—knew she’d been rejected.

Music thudded through her brain, almost too loud, and she tugged at her shirt to try to circulate air to her sweating breasts. Whether because of the tequila or stressing over her ex wrapped in waif-thin blonde, almost too much choking warmth flooded her system. She considered going outside for some air, but then Grady spoke and distracted her.

“We could mess with his head.” Grady made the suggestion close to her ear, and she snapped her head back to glare at him.

“What am I missing?” Ben leaned in closer, so he could hear the plan.

“Grady says we could mess with him. How? I’m guessing, since it’s you, I’m probably not going to give this plan the green light, but…” Carrie trailed off and braced herself on Ben’s arm. He cooperated, as if sensing her balance wasn’t so fantastic, catching her elbow to keep her steady.

“Okay, you know how everyone thinks we’re having threesomes?” Grady’s raised eyebrow sent a shiver racing up her spine—a sexy shiver—and she couldn’t keep from smiling.
The tequila must really be kicking in…

“Two men and one woman, friends? Running a business together in a small town? Yeah, I think we’ve all heard that rumor.” Ben’s snort was trademark Ben—snarky logic and almost painful cynicism riddled his tone.

Someone always mentioned threesomes.
Two men and a woman as a terrific trio in a small town? Pssht, must be fucking.
She couldn’t refute that she’d heard her fair share of speculation, so she didn’t say anything, concentrating on staying upright. Years of those kinds of rumors left them all unfazed by it. None of them took it seriously, drunk or not. Or in her case, admitted to wishing…

“So let’s give them something to talk about. Freddie the Fickle mean-mugged me the whole time you were dating, probably because he knows he’s not half the man I am.” The irresistible lightning-fast grin on Grady’s lips probably packed more punch for girls who hadn’t grown up tending his scraped knees and bringing him chicken soup and donuts when he was sick, but Carrie wasn’t completely oblivious to his charm. Besides, he had a point—Freddie had always seemed a little worried about her relationship with her business partners.

Ben didn’t seem convinced, tucking Carrie closer to his side as if to protect her from Grady. “I hardly think adding fuel to the threesome fire is going to help Carrie keep her chin up around the Douchemaster.”

A giggle erupted from her throat before she could entirely control the impulse. “I dunno, it might. If nothing else, I won’t have to look at him practically getting a blowjob in front of all of our friends for a few minutes.”

Ben’s hands on her arms clenched and he conceded. “So do you wanna dance?”

Grady scooped closer and nipped her ear. “Nah, not yet. First we draw attention.” It only took a second before Manda Watkin swooped in, tugging at his arm, a one-woman rescue party.

“Grady, let’s go dance. People are going to think—”

“She’s too much of a woman for one guy. About fifty pounds too much, right?” The harsh words carried over the silence of the song changing, and Carrie’s gaze landed, like a heat-seeking missile, on Freddie, still wrapped in his barely legal babe. The slice of his words was a razor, the wound so fast she didn’t even feel the pain for the first couple seconds. When it caught up, she blinked fast, refusing to cry in front of everyone.

Before she could do more than try not to weep in a roomful of everyone they knew, Ben skated his fingertips across her cheek, drawing her attention to him. “She’s perfect for us, although it might take both of us to make up for the extreme dissatisfaction she’s had to endure at your hands. You never realized what a treasure you had. Don’t worry about it, Freddie-boy. We’re men enough for her.”

Grady laughed, grabbed Carrie’s ass and tugged her body against his before anyone could see her blinking back more inexplicable tears. “Yeah, we’re all fucking like rabbits, right, Care-Bear?” He squeezed her arms, comfort in his touch, and she took a ragged breath to steady herself. Between them, they turned her, so she faced Ben.

The childhood nickname turned her laugh to a snort when her brain caught up past the alcohol, her part in the façade forgotten with the dash of reality. Carrie held no illusions to her sexiness. She hated her body because of the crap with Daddy Doom, as she called the evil stepfather from hell, and she knew she’d tasted one too many donuts to be considered a stone-cold hottie in today’s world. The situation with Freddie only highlighted her problem.

Now, back in the olden days, they thought big girls were hot. If you were eating enough to be plump, well, you were a supermodel.

Not today.
Carrie knew her flaws—too big breasts, ass that jiggled when she walked and a bit of a spare tire—no one saw her and thought “revving sex machine.” Being the fat kid wasn’t a bad thing, especially not with pals like her boys, and she was secure enough in herself to know some men liked what she had going on.

The thought of her two very sexy best pals lusting after her might make her cream her panties when she was feeling lonely or horny, but she understood reality.
No.

The feel of Grady against the crease of her ass as he played to the crowd surprised a small gasp from her that wasn’t feigned for their audience. Enough men met her standards for her to recognize the thick feel of him as a man who hid a raging stiffie in his jeans.

Giggling at the fact she actually considered Grady’s stiffness, she wrapped one arm around Ben as he sidled up to her, bumping his hips dramatically as he swayed her backwards onto the dance floor. “Yeah,” Carrie choked out. “I’m doing the nasty with them all day and all night, right, Ben?”

Ben growled and grinned. Snapping into his part, he caught her hair in one hand and tugged her head back. “She screams my name more than she does Grady’s, don’t you, Carrie?”