The Sweet Taste of Sin E-Book

Ember Casey

• Herausgeber: Ember Casey
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Never trust a bad boy with your heart. Especially when that bad boy is one of Hollywood's notorious Fontaine brothers...

Ashlyn just wants to move on with her life. Run her bakery. Heal her broken heart. She's had three years to try and forget Dante Fontaine.

To the rest of the world, Dante is Hollywood royalty, the ridiculously attractive oldest son of the notorious Fontaine family.

To Ashlyn? He’s the guy who made her swear off men forever.

But when an accidental--and humiliating--encounter brings him back into her life, Ashlyn realizes that no matter how hard she’s tried to forget him, Dante definitely hasn’t forgotten her.

…and this time, he's not going to let her go.



Meet the Fontaines: Hollywood royalty. L.A.'s most notorious bad boys. Permanent stars of the tabloids. And the wickedest, most devilish lovers around...

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Books by Ember

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

More Books by Ember

About the Author

The Sweet Taste of Sin

THE FONTAINES

Book One

EMBER CASEY

Copyright ©2015 Ember Casey

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Images used under license from Depositphotos Inc.

Top photo: © simbiothy

Bottom photo: © DmitryRukhlenko

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

Website: http://embercasey.com.

BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

ROYAL HEARTBREAKERS

Royal HeartbreakerRoyal Mistake

Royal Arrangement

Royal Disaster

Royal Escape

THE DEVIL’S SET

Jackson

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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CHAPTER ONE

In my opinion, there’s no greater pleasure in the world than the buttery, slightly nutty flavor of a classic caramel sauce. The secret is, of course, to add a pinch of salt—just enough to stimulate the taste buds but not so much that you overpower the sauce’s warm, buttery sweetness. For such a simple recipe, even the smallest change can make a huge difference—using brown sugar instead of white, for example—and after hours of experimenting, I think I’ve gotten my version just right. I’ve finally created a mouthwatering, toe-curling, devilishly perfect caramel sauce.

Who needs sex when the world holds pleasures like this?

I’m still licking bits of it off my spoon when I hear the jingle of the bell hanging on my bakery’s front door.

“I’m coming!” I call around my mouthful of caramel. I toss my spoon aside and wipe my hands on my apron as I jog out of the kitchen.

Jack Teegan, my best friend, is standing at the counter with a large to-go bag in his hand. His eyes are roaming over the refrigerated cases of sweets on display. Ashlyn’s Bakeshop sells a little bit of everything—tarts, éclairs, sweet buns, and a number of classic French desserts that no one here in Los Angeles seems to know how to pronounce—but I do the bulk of my business in specialty cakes, sculpted creations so wild that some of them hardly resemble cake at all.

Jack is looking at one of my latest creations in the case right now, a dummy cake sculpted to look like a man’s chest—complete with bulging pecs and washboard abs.

“Classy, Ashlyn,” he says with a laugh.

“It’s the latest trend in bachelorette party cakes,” I reply, propping my elbows on the counter.

“What happened to penis cakes?”

I grin. “I can’t exactly put one of those in the front case.” Sometimes I can’t believe my business has come to this—carving men’s body parts out of cake. But I’ll take whatever work I can get.

Jack grins. “If you ever need a model…”

“Got it, perv. What did you bring me for dinner?”

He holds up the bag so I can see the GoGo’s Drive-In logo on the side. “Chili cheese fries, extra cheese.”

I squeal and grab the bag. “You’re the best.”

I practically skip over to the small table in the corner of the shop. On most days, this table is where I hold cake tastings. But it’s Monday, the one day a week my shop is closed, so Jack and I decided to meet up for dinner. I pull my box of fries out of the bag and push the rest of the food back towards Jack.

“They’re probably soggy,” he warns me as he unwraps his burger.

“They’re best when they’re soggy,” I reply. I shove a handful of fries in my mouth and close my eyes in ecstasy. “God, I love you. In a platonic way, of course.” I grab a second handful before the first is even down my throat. “And I’ve got a surprise for you for dessert. I just perfected my caramel recipe.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, too. A big one.”

My fist of fries freezes halfway to my mouth.

“You mean…” I lean across the table, my eyes searching his. “Ohmygod, did you ask Evan? You asked Evan, didn’t you?”

Jack opens his mouth to respond, but I’m still trying to process this monumental news.

“You bastard! Why didn’t you tell me last night was the night? I would have made you a special engagement dessert or something! Tell me everything. How did you do it? What did he say? I wasn’t going to bring this up yet, but I’ve been working on designs for the cake—”

Jack catches my arm as I’m rising out of my chair.

“Stop. Breathe,” he orders. “I haven’t asked Evan anything yet.”

“Oh.” I sink back down in my seat. Jack’s been thinking about popping the question to his partner for a while now, and ever since he’s told me, I’ve spent my free time dreaming up designs for their cake. Wedding cakes are my favorite—I live for sugar paste roses, for royal icing, for cornelli lace—and the thought of making one for my best friend is even more appealing.

But apparently I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Or maybe all of those naked man-chest cakes have made me crazy.

“You still get to make a cake, though,” Jack says. “And if you play your cards right, you might get to make a bigger, more important cake very soon.”

I lean forward, intrigued. “Okay, spill it.”

“You actually have my predecessor to thank for this.”

I frown. “Who?”

“Cory Westers. You know—Brockman’s former assistant?”

Jack recently wrangled his way into the coveted position of personal assistant to Matthias Brockman, one of the higher-ups at Fairlake Films. For someone like Jack, who’s spent his entire life dreaming of working in Hollywood, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. A few years ago, it would have been exactly the sort of job I thought I wanted, too—but a lot has changed since then.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Where does the cake come in?”

“Well, Cory dropped the ball on a lot of shit there at the end, including some details for several upcoming events. I spent most of the day dealing with the mess.” He grins at me. “But that’s not the important part. The important part is that I convinced Brockman we should do something extra special for the party on Thursday. And that includes getting an awesome themed cake for the occasion.”

“A cake?”

“For three hundred people. The more elaborate, the better.”

I shove more fries into my mouth as I let that sink in. “This Thursday?”

“Now, I know it’s not a lot of notice,” Jack says, “but I think—”

“Are you kidding? You’re fucking amazing!” I leap up and practically throw myself at him. Who cares if I only have three days? Who needs sleep when I have an opportunity like this? If I can make a name for my bakery among the bigwigs in Hollywood… “What kind of party is it?”

“Only the after-party for the biggest premiere of the year.”

My blood goes cold and I abruptly release him. “Wait—what?”

“And I haven’t even told you the best part,” Jack continues, apparently too excited to notice my reaction. “Remember how I said this might snag you an even bigger cake? Well, it just so happens that the two stars of this movie recently announced their engagement. So if your cake this Thursday is a hit, then maybe—”

“Wait, which movie is it?” I demand, unable to process anything else. Please, don’t let it be what I think it is.

Jack’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “God, Ash. What—”

“Which movie?”

I know he can’t possibly understand why I’m suddenly so upset, but before this conversation goes any further, I need to know. I have to be certain there’s absolutely no chance of seeing him. The man I’ve spent the last three years trying to forget.

Three long, sexless years.

Jack is looking at me like I’ve suddenly gone crazy. And maybe I have. But I have a very bad feeling in my gut.

He shakes his head. “I’m almost afraid to tell you now. But trust me—anyone else in this city would be dying for this chance.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to shake off my fear. Trying to sound eager. “Tell me. I’m dying for it. I promise.”

A little bit of the excitement creeps back into his face. In spite of my reaction, he still looks like he’s bursting to tell me.

“I know you’ve been avoiding all the big movie news,” he says, “but even you have to have heard of this one. It’s—”

“Cataclysm: Earth,” I whisper under my breath at the same time he announces the same name out loud.

Shit. The bottom drops out of my stomach as he confirms my worst fears.

Cataclysm: Earth has generated a huge amount of buzz. In part because of its enormous budget—the largest in Hollywood history, if we’re to believe the rumors—and in part because the production of this futuristic disaster epic has involved several members of the notorious Fontaine family, the freaking royal family of the film industry. The Fontaines have cracked the ultimate key to Hollywood success, balancing the ability to find infamy in the tabloids with the talent to craft one cinematic masterpiece after another. Charles and Giovanna Fontaine have been featured on magazine covers for decades—since they first hit the red carpet with their high-profile romance—and now their four grown sons are making their own headlines. Hardly a week goes by without one of them—Dante, Luca, Raphael, or Orlando—dominating the celebrity news media.

And I want absolutely nothing to do with them. Well, at least one of them.

I’ve done everything in my power to pretend the entire family doesn’t exist. But that’s next to impossible in this town, especially with Cataclysm: Earth coming out. The Fontaines are everywhere. On magazines. On every television channel. All over the internet. I can’t even walk down the street without seeing one of their faces plastered on the side of a bus. You can’t escape them.

Meanwhile, Jack is looking at me expectantly.

“Well…?” he says, spreading his arms. “This is huge, right?”

I want to be excited. I want to squeal and jump up and down and proclaim my undying love for Jack for getting me this opportunity. But even if I thought he’d buy my bullshit—which he won’t—I can’t lie to him.

And Jack, as usual, is two steps ahead of me. He crosses his arms.

“What?” he demands. “What could possibly be wrong with the greatest opportunity you’ve ever had?” He snatches my chili fries out of my reach before I can stuff any more of them in my mouth to avoid answering his question. “Ashlyn, we’re talking about getting your cake in front of Luca Fontaine and Emilia Torres. Do you even understand what that means? If you do this right, you could be the one to make their wedding cake. And you’re an idiot if you think that cake won’t be in every magazine at every checkout stand in the country.”

He’s right. If my bakery got that kind of press, I’d be booked solid for the next year. Screw that—the next five years. And with gorgeous, multi-tiered wedding cakes covered in rolled fondant and beautiful lacework, not more phallus-shaped monstrosities. The first dozen or so penis cakes were fun, but the subsequent dozen… not so much. That’s not why I opened this bakery.

But taking this job means I might run into him, and in spite of everything, I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.

Jack is giving me a look. “Seriously. What?”

After everything I’m sure he’s done to get me this opportunity, I owe him an explanation.

“I know someone involved with Cataclysm: Earth,” I say. But that’s not enough. “And he’s the last person in the world I ever want to see.” I risk a glance up at my friend. He’s frowning, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out the part I didn’t say.

Suddenly, his eyebrows shoot up. “You mean…”

“Yes. Him.” I grab the box of fries back from him. I’m sure my cheeks are nearly as red as my hair. “So you can imagine why I’m hesitating.”

“The Devil Himself got a job on Cataclysm: Earth?”

Three years ago, I spent many a drunken night crying to Jack about the Devil Himself. In fact, I met Jack only a few weeks after everything with the Devil Himself exploded so dramatically, back when we were all students in the same film studies grad program—back when I still thought I wanted to follow my parents into the movie industry. So he knows everything—except the Devil Himself’s real name. In fact, Jack was the one who came up with that charming nickname after I refused to name the bastard out loud.

But I can’t hide that name from Jack now.

My friend’s nose is wrinkled. “I thought you said he was a screenwriter. You said he had some fancy-schmancy project waiting for him when he graduated.”

Another few chili fries disappear in my mouth. “He did. He is a screenwriter.”

“Well, maybe you’ve got your films mixed up, because this is Dante Fontaine’s big project.”

I look at him pointedly.

Jack’s eyes almost bug out of his head. He nearly chokes.

“The Devil Himself is Dante Fontaine?” he manages between his coughs. “The Dante Fontaine?”

“Yes.” Suddenly, I’m having trouble looking at my friend. This is not a conversation I was expecting to have today. The last thing I want to do is drag up those memories.

But Jack is not about to let me off the hook.

“Wait,” he says. “Are you really telling me that you dated Dante Fontaine and lied to me about it? You lost your virginity to Dante-Fucking-Fontaine?”

“I never lied,” I said. “I just never told you his name. There’s a difference.”

“If Dante Fontaine so much as looked at me, you can bet your ass that you and everyone else in this town would know every little detail. If he and I—”

“I know. It was just… complicated,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter why. I can’t risk running into him again.”

“Fuck. Dante Fontaine.”

“You don’t have to keep saying his name.”

“Forgive me. I just found out my best friend lost her virginity to one of the hottest guys in Hollywood history.”

“You mean one of the hottest guys in Hollywood history turned her off men forever.”

“Well, you still admit that he’s hot, so you haven’t completely abandoned the cock.”

I groan. “This isn’t about cock. This is about me staying as far away from him as possible.”

“First of all,” Jack says, leaning across the table and pointing a finger at me, “you can’t let your fear of some dickwad dictate what you do. Grow some balls. Secondly, this is still an amazing opportunity, and you know it. Thirdly, he’ll still be at the film screening when you’re setting up. And he’s never been a big partier. He might not even show up to the after-party at all. You two probably won’t even cross paths.”

Jack does have a point, but in spite of his challenge to ‘grow some balls,’ I still find myself hesitating.

“Oh, come on,” Jack says. “Do you really want to be making cakes of male body parts for the rest of your life? This could be your big break.”

“I’m not sure bakers get ‘big breaks’ like people in the film industry.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. And honestly, I have no more excuses.

“Fine,” I say finally. “But I swear, if I see him I won’t be held responsible for what I do.”

“Fair enough. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

Jack grins at me. “Don’t mess up his face. They don’t make them like that often.”

* * *

I have to admit—it’s one of the most impressive cakes I’ve ever made. I started with a classic tiered cake, then used the Cataclysm: Earth movie poster for inspiration as I decorated the layers, creating an apocalyptic scene in sugar and icing. There aren’t many bakers in this world who can make a cake that’s both elegant and captures the essence of a disaster film, but I’m pretty sure I’ve managed it. This cake could get me work for months—maybe even years.

For luck, I wear my favorite dress—a knee-length plum garment that sets off my red hair to perfection—and I pay one of my pastry assistants overtime to help me transport the cake to the events facility where they’re holding the after-party. I don’t have enough money to have a full-time driver, and so usually I end up doing the deliveries myself.

Which is why there’s absolutely no excuse when I end up getting caught in traffic and showing up at the facility almost forty-five minutes after our designated delivery time.

I’m panicking by the time we roll up behind the facility’s service entrance, and my stomach is in knots as Jilly and I grab the pieces of our cake and dash inside. I’m not sure which scares me most—the possibility of screwing up this amazing opportunity Jack got me, or the possibility of still being here when Dante shows up.

Don’t think about him, I tell myself. The party doesn’t officially start for another half hour. You can be in and out before then. Chances are, I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. Even if he shows up early, Dante’s going to be far too busy talking to the press and celebrating the premiere of his big movie to notice the cake, let alone the girl who brought it in.

The ballroom is in chaos when Jilly and I get inside. People are rushing around, getting everything set up for what is sure to be the party of the summer. The place looks spectacular—it’s draped in golds and browns and shimmery taupes, decorated with fake ruins that somehow manage to evoke the bleak setting of the movie and look beautiful at the same time. Looks like my cake will fit right in.

We get a glare and a few sharp words from the event planner for our tardiness, but fortunately he doesn’t appear to have the time or patience to give us a full lecture—or to try and kick us out. We’re quickly directed to the far end of the room, and we make our way through the decorators and waitstaff and security personnel to the large round table set aside for the cake. I glance around for Jack, but he doesn’t appear to be here yet. When I was going over delivery details with him yesterday, he mentioned that he was hoping to sit in on the screening, but I’m not sure if he managed it. We’ve both been too crazy today to talk.

I always transport my tiered cakes in pieces and assemble them on-site. Jilly and I each have two tiers, and there’s a box of additional sugar décor still in the van.

“Start assembling,” I tell Jilly. “I’ll go get the rest.” I’m starting to shift into business mode, and thankfully that helps calm my nerves a little. I’m already thinking through my attack plan for getting all of the decorations on the cake quickly.

So I’m feeling a little better as I return to the van and grab the bin of sugar paste décor. And when I open the container and check on the tiny sculptures, I grow even more confident. I’ve made replicas of each of the film’s major characters, and these tiny figurines are sure to be the stars of the cake. I slide the lid back on the bin and return inside.

On the way back to Jilly, however, I decide to swing by a kitchen or bathroom and grab some water. It’s not unusual for the delicate sugar paste pieces to break in the process of assembling, so I always like to have a little edible adhesive on hand. A few bits of sugar paste dissolved in water make a quick and effective glue. I always make up a batch when I assemble a cake, just in case.

I don’t know my way around this particular facility, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find a sink. When I return through the service door, I glance around for a bathroom. Then I set off quickly down a hallway to the left, away from the main ballroom.

Normally I’d stop and ask someone for directions, but most of the staff are busy in the ballroom, it would seem. I push open a few doors and glance down a couple of other hallways, but there’s mostly just storage back here.

How can it be this hard to find a bathroom? I twist the bin in my arms so I can glance down at my watch. Twenty-three minutes until the party. Maybe I should just forgo the glue this time and cross my fingers that I don’t need to make any last-minute repairs.

But just when I’m about to head back to the ballroom, I hear a voice. Good. Someone who might be able to point me in the right direction.

I follow the voice down the hall to a door that’s slightly ajar. My arms are full with the bin of decorations, so rather than knock, I give the door a soft nudge with my hip. It swings open.

And immediately, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.

I didn’t stumble across a member of the staff, no—I stumbled across a couple. And I don’t mean a couple having a nice friendly chat about their relationship—I mean a couple deep in the throes of something that, if this were a movie, would most definitely be rated R. And moving quickly into NC-17 territory.

We’re in a storage room, and most of the room is taken up by stacks of fancy rental chairs. The man is sitting in one of these chairs, leaning back against the pearly white plastic while the woman straddles him. Her beaded gown is pushed up around her hips, and her dark, glossy hair is falling from its elaborate updo as she throws her head back and moans. She writhes against him, her hips shifting in a dance I haven’t experienced in far, far too long. His hands grip her waist, digging into the fabric of her gown as if he wants to tear those thousands of little beads right off the fabric. Her hands are closed around his broad shoulders, and her fingers tighten as she quickens the undulations of her body. Another soft moan escapes her lips.

And I’m frozen in place. Stunned. I know I should move, should run out of here before these two people realize that I’ve walked in on them, but I’m too shocked to do anything. My feet are rooted to the floor.

The woman makes another sound of pleasure, and this time her head tilts a little further back, giving me a glimpse of the side of her face. A gasp catches in my throat as I recognize her—Emilia Torres. Star of Cataclysm: Earth. One half of Hollywood’s hottest—and recently engaged—couple. I can’t believe I walked in on her and Luca Fontaine going at it. The premiere must have gone very well.

But as Emilia shifts again, I catch a glimpse of the man between her thighs and suddenly my world goes cold.

It’s not Luca’s fingers digging into her waist. Not Luca’s hips rising to meet her. Not Luca’s golden-blond hair beneath her hands, not his lips hungrily devouring hers. This isn’t her fiancé. But it’s not some random guy either. It’s Luca’s brother, the last man on earth I want to see.

Dante Fontaine, the Devil Himself.

CHAPTER TWO

The box of sugar decorations slips from my hands, crashing to the floor.

Immediately the couple freezes. Emilia’s head jerks around, her dark eyes widening in shock, but it’s Dante’s gaze that locks on mine. The emotions flash quickly across his expression: surprise, annoyance, and then recognition. By the time he gets to that last one, my feet have come unglued from the floor, and I stumble backwards through the doorway.

But I only make it two steps before I remember the sugar decorations. I curse and hurl myself back into the room, falling immediately to the floor and gathering them up as quickly as I can. I don’t dare look at the other two, but I hear the shifting of bodies and clothes as they rise and cover themselves.

Thank God, I think. Half of me was afraid they’d just start going at it again, ignoring the crazy baker girl who interrupted them, and the very thought makes me want to be sick. I’m still in shock. Emilia and Dante. Emilia. And Dante.

My Dante.

Three years ago, he was everything to me. He woke things in me I’d never felt before. Just being near him made my body come alive, set all of my senses on fire. He captured my full attention.

And he still does. He’s across the room and I feel like I’m suffocating. Like my body is on overload. I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else. Even my fingers feel stiff and clumsy as I grab the broken sugar paste figures and shove them back into their box.

He’s here. Having sex with his brother’s fiancée. It’s bad enough running into him. But to catch him like this, catch him writhing against her…

I wait for him to say my name. To acknowledge that he recognizes me. But there’s only silence—and the neck-tingling awareness of their eyes on me. There are a few bits of sugar paste still scattered around, but I don’t care. I clamber to my feet and escape as fast as I can. Their gazes burn into my back, and it’s a wonder my body hasn’t burst into flames.

My whole body is shaking as I dash down the hall, and I’m surprised I even make it back to the ballroom. I can’t stop seeing it. Can’t stop hearing her moans. His heavy breathing. The sound of their bodies moving together. The image of the two of them together plays over and over again in my head like a horror movie on repeat. I was afraid of running into him, but this… This is far worse than anything I could’ve imagined.

We made love like that once, with him leaning back in a chair and me moving in his lap. Usually, he liked to be on top, but I was feeling naughty that night—and he was always eager to teach me new positions, inexperienced as I was. It took me a while to get the motion just right, to find my rhythm, but the memory of that night still makes me shiver. I still remember the hard pressure of his grip on my hips. Still remember the ache in the muscles of my inner thighs from straddling him. Still remember the feel of his lips against my neck.

I’m shaking harder now, and my skin is too warm. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. But this is ridiculous—it’s been three years. Three years, and I’m falling apart at the sight of him with another woman. In fact, I think I’m going to be sick right into this box of decorations.

Jilly frowns when she sees me. “What’s wrong?” Her eyes drop to the box in my hands. “Oh my God, what happened?”

I’m so shaken that it takes me a moment to find my voice. “They fell.”

She’s around the table in two steps. “Is anything salvageable?”

I force myself to take a deep breath. We still have a job to do, I remind myself. I’m not going to ruin this opportunity for myself just because I walked into my own personal nightmare.

“We’ll make it work,” I say.

And we do. We find the unbroken pieces and stick the others together with royal icing. It’s not quite as strong as my usual sugar paste glue, but it will have to do. And I always make a few extra pieces of décor, so the situation isn’t completely dire. The result might not be the perfect cake that I planned, but it’s still pretty damn good.

But even though the professional side of me has taken over again, my fingers still tremble as I put the final sugar figurine in its place. My mind is still flooded with images—of his gripping hands, of his eyes glazed with lust, of the two of them moving together—but I try to blink them away and focus on my cake. My entire body is on edge, and my eyes keep wandering toward the door. If he and Emilia walk in here before I can escape, I don’t know what I’ll do.

“Looks amazing,” comes a low, familiar voice from behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn’t hear Jack come up.

“It’s almost done,” I say.

“They’re going to love it,” he says. His eyes flick from the cake up to my face, and a small furrow appears between his brows. “Don’t look so terrified, Ashlyn. It’s awesome.”

I try to force a smile, but Jack knows me well enough to see right through it.

“What’s going on?” he says. “You’re looking kind of green.”

Jilly’s on the far side of the table, putting some final details on the cake with royal icing. I step closer to Jack and lower my voice so that only he can hear. “I saw him.”

I don’t have to specify who he is. Jack’s eyes widen.

“Really? I thought he’d still be at the screening. I rushed out of there the moment the credits started rolling.”

“He must have sneaked out even earlier than that, because he’s here. Emilia too.” I start collecting the unused bits of sugar décor. My entire body feels hot again. I know this isn’t the place to discuss this—I know that I should be trying to push it out of my mind completely—but the next words pour out of my lips. “I saw them together.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. “You mean like…”

“Together,” I repeat. “Having sex.”

“Holy shit,” Jack says under his breath. “Where? What did you do?”

“I dropped my decorations.”

I didn’t think it was possible for Jack’s eyes to get any bigger, but I was wrong. “Did he see you?”

I nod, too embarrassed to even speak. It’s too soon to be reliving this. I just want to crawl into a hole and die of humiliation.

But Jack is not about to let me off the hook.

“What did he say? What did he do? Did he recognize you?” His eyebrows snap together as a thought occurs to him. “Did they even stop?”

“Yes, they stopped,” I hiss at him. “And I’m pretty sure he recognized me. But he didn’t say anything. Neither did she. They both just stood there while I scrambled to pick everything up.” I can only imagine what Dante must be thinking of me right now.

“Shit,” Jack says again.

Shit is right. And I can still see him kissing her, still see him thrusting…

“You need a drink,” Jack says. “Do you want me to steal you something from the bar?”

I shake my head. “I just need to get out of here.”

Jack nods. “I don’t blame you.” He glances toward the far side of the room. “Brockman is beckoning me. Call me later.”

I nod, but I know if I contact him later he’ll only want to continue this conversation, and I’m not sure I can relive this again. No, the only thing to do is to go home, drown myself in a bottle of tequila, and try to wipe every last trace of the Devil Himself from my mind.

The Devil, though, is not so easily forgotten.

No matter how much I drink that night, or how much I pour myself into my work the next day, I can’t get him out of my mind. Get them out of my mind. For Emilia is every bit a part of the images that haunt me as he is. Waking or sleeping, I can’t close my eyes without seeing the pair of them writhing together. Without their groans of pleasure ringing in my ears. Without the heat of humiliation flooding my skin yet again.

It’s wrong, how much this hurts. How much it stings like betrayal—but that’s unfair, because it’s not like I expected him to be celibate all this time, even if I’ve been more or less a nun. But it brings up feelings that are a little too familiar, feelings that crept in slowly during those last few weeks of our relationship. Very pathetic feelings, I’ll be the first to admit. But I loved him so deeply, so intensely, and I always wondered why a huge celebrity like Dante Fontaine—a guy who could have any woman in the world—would choose me instead of some starlet or supermodel.

In the end, he did choose a supermodel over me, which is why I walked away. Why in the weeks afterward, my heart stopped seeing him as the man of my dreams and instead saw him as the demon of my nightmares. Why catching him with Emilia, a gorgeous up-and-coming actress, hurts so damn much.

I have every reason to hate him. So why does he still have the same overwhelming effect on me? Why did I spend half the night remembering the many nights we spent together, teaching and exploring each other beneath the sheets? Why did I wake up this morning expecting to see him in the armchair across from my bed, working on his latest script as the light of dawn crept in through the window? It’s been a long time since I awoke to that sight, and yet I can imagine every detail of it perfectly—his dark hair hanging across his brow as he bends his head over his notebook, his pen moving in a steady rhythm across the page, his gold-flecked chocolate eyes gleaming bright behind the dark-rimmed glasses he wears when he’s working.

Just forget about him, I tell myself as I start the day’s tasks. Maybe the after-party incident is God’s way of telling me that it’s long past time to get on with my life. If this isn’t the closure I needed to remind me that Dante and I are over, then I’m not sure what is.

But why did I have to see them? And why did I have to drop my decorations and then fumble around like an idiot on the floor? And why did it have to be Emilia?

I think that’s part of what’s bothering me so much about this whole thing. I didn’t stumble across Dante hooking up with some random girl—I stumbled across him hooking up with his brother’s fiancée. Fiancée.Even years ago, when the pain was freshest and deepest and I hated him with every fiber of my being, I never would have expected this of him. While I never met his brother Luca, I know they are close—know the entire Fontaine family is close—and this is the worst sort of betrayal. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it in graphic detail with my own eyes.

At least I can comfort myself with the knowledge that I was right to dump him. I might be pathetic in many ways, but I was strong enough to trust my gut.

And I’m also fortunate to have a job that allows me to take out my emotions through my work. No one has ever accused me of being cool-headed or unfeeling. But it helps to have therapy built right into my daily tasks. There’s nothing like working through angst with a batch of dough.

Today, my therapist is puff pastry—carefully folded layers of dough and butter that have to be reworked every couple of hours. I throw it down on my workstation, enjoying the slap of the dough against the metal surface of my table. And then my fists get to work, pummeling all of my anger and confusion over Dante into the puff pastry.

My movements are violent enough that they catch the attention of Mama Pat. Patricia DeCosta—or Mama Pat, as we call her—was the first person I hired when I opened the bakery. She is an empty nester who applied for the job after the last of her three children went off to college, and although she’d never worked in a bakery before, she showed more skill during the interview process than any of the bright-eyed, fresh-from-culinary-school applicants. And she’s been a miracle in the kitchen, able to conquer any recipe I throw at her. She’s also the oldest of all of us here at Ashlyn’s Bakeshop—about the age my mother would have been, if she and my father hadn’t died in a car wreck when I was nineteen—and over the past few years, she’s evolved into the “mother hen” of our little team.

“Everything all right?” she asks, her eyebrow raised.

“I’m fine,” I assure her, even though I’m anything but. My fingers shake as I fold the dough, and honestly, I want nothing more than to throw this puff pastry against the wall. Anything to make the images of Dante and Emilia go away.

Mama Pat is watching me in a way that says, I’m shutting up, but I don’t believe you. My mom used to have a look like that. But my mom wasn’t around long enough to see me get upset over any guys. And I’m not sure it’s appropriate to ask a coworker what to do when you catch the man who broke your heart in the middle of a grind session.

I press my lips together and fold the puff pastry one last time. But I’ve been working it too hard, too long, and the layer of butter inside has gotten too warm and soft. It starts to squeeze out of the dough.

“Damn it,” I mutter, stepping back and wiping the back of my hand across my brow. I’ve made puff pastry a hundred times. I shouldn’t be screwing it up, even if I am upset.

But Mama Pat’s already at my workstation.

“You’re distracted,” she says, peeling the dough up from the table. “Why don’t you go work up front for a while? I’ve got everything under control back here.”

I want to argue, but I know she’s right. Working in the kitchen is just giving me too much time to think. So I wash my hands and head to the front of my shop.

Karen Sevelle is behind the counter today. She’s fresh out of college, and though I initially hired her to work the register and answer phones, she’s definitely stepped up—becoming more or less the front-of-house manager, and even joining us in the kitchen a couple of times when we’ve been in a pinch. My bakery might be small and still relatively young, but Karen, Mama Pat, Jilly, and I have become something of a little family.

Watching her work—and watching the line of customers walk away with smiles on their faces—calms me a little. Running a bakery isn’t as glamorous as I expected—you spend horrendously long hours on your feet and the bulk of the work centers on mundane, business-running tasks rather than playtime in the kitchen—but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I love running a business. Love creating delectable treats out of flour and sugar. There’s nothing like watching a child’s eyes light up when I hand him a cupcake the size of his face, or hearing a bride squeal when she sees her wedding cake.

Yes, I love my job—even if I sometimes find flour in places I didn’t even know existed.

I remind myself of this as I watch Karen. When I dated Dante, I was a completely different person. Back then, I still thought I wanted to work in the film industry. But I’ve come a long way in the past three years. Look at the life you’ve built for yourself, I think. Forget Dante. This is what matters. This is what makes you happy.

And just as I’m starting to feel normal and content again, my cell buzzes in my pocket. It’s Jack.

“Hey,” I say as I shove the phone beneath my ear. “Recover from last night yet?”

Jack sent me a handful of texts last night after I made my escape—and judging by the number of spelling errors, I suspected he’d been taking advantage of the party’s open bar.

“Ask me tomorrow,” Jack groans. “I’m already on my third coffee and I still feel like I was hit with a steamroller.”

I smile. “I’m surprised you let yourself drink in front of Brockman.” A couple of weeks ago, he was agonizing daily over which tie he should wear to work, convinced that one misstep would send him back to his old job making copies and getting coffee.

“Are you kidding?” he says. “Brockman was the one who kept shoving martinis into my hand. He was so impressed with what I’d pulled together that he said I deserved a break. And a raise.”

My grin gets bigger. “You got a raise? That’s awesome, Jack.”