Page 108 of The Best Kind of Bad

She feels sheepish about being tardy, but I feel like a god-damned super-hero. The grin on my face ain’t going away anytime soon.

She talks to the mother of the bride while I ferry cakes into the club. I step back, watching with pleasure while she assembles this wedding’s masterpiece. It’s fascinating to see what creations she can whip up. Each one has been different. Unique between weddings, but unique to anything I’ve ever seen before. I’m used to the three-tiered cake with the little bride and groom on the top. Marnie’s cakes are artful and inspiring.

I love seeing the final product.

She says this cake is anakedwedding cake. I laughed when she said it, but I guess it’s a thing. Who knew wedding cakes could be sexy? I watch her arrange fresh lavender on each tier. She’s using my lavender. The cake was baked with honey from my bees. I’m wishing for a day when I can say our lavender. Our honey.

I don’t know a teaspoon from a soup spoon, but she made me a part of this cake. And that fills me with pride.

By the time we step out of the country club, the sun is starting to settle behind the trees. It’s the golden hour. My favorite time of day. And Marnie looks radiant. I grab her arm, reeling her back against my chest so that I can take a selfie.

I want to remember this day. The way this felt.

I can see a future like this. Marnie doing her cakes, me farming, and both of us helping each other out. A team. It’s a beautiful dream.

But maybe that’s all it is. I like to think of her as my woman, but she isn’t. Not yet, anyway. And time is running out. Slipping away from me.

If she moves on, leaving dead weight like me behind, I wouldn’t blame her. But I’d also want proof of our time together. Proof that it wasn’t just a dream.

Tucking my phone into my pocket, I slide my arm around her waist and walk her back to the truck. We head on over to The Go Around. It’s a hoity-toity place for a small town. I more or less hate it and all the snobs that frequent it.

But Marnie is hungry and I ain’t going to take her to some dive shit hole. And besides, we both clean up pretty nice. We’d be out of place at Barry’s, the trucker bar out by the interstate. I wanted to rise to her standard, so I put on a button up and dark jeans. Messed with my hair. Shaved for once. I think shaving’s a hassle, but the way she explored my jaw, curiosity sparking in those amber eyes… a shave might be worthwhile just to keep her attention.

I help her out of the truck, going slowly across the parking lot so she can keep up in those sexy fucking heels. Maybe I can talk her into leaving them on later. I’m going to tear every last piece of clothing off her body, but the heels can stay.

We step into The Go Around, and like every other place in this town, I’m hit with a parade of memories. I used to be a server here, for a short time. But I couldn’t put up with the god-damned snobs, so I quit, opting to earn my way with blood and sweat instead.

This is where therichfarmers go. It’s like they can play wild west here. Act like they know what it’s like to get dust and cow shit on your boots. It’s old-timey. Brass fixtures and stained glass make it look like something straight out of a western.

I hate it.

But Marnie is looking around with a spark in her eye. And that alone is worth all the fuckery.

71.

Marnie

Stiletto heels and white rock parking lots don’t mix. I’m pretty focused on not breaking my ankles, thankful for Dusty’s steadying arm around my waist.

I’ve dated men in the past that charge ahead while I struggle to keep up in the torture devices we call heels. Why wear them? Because they make my ass look like a million bucks and I feel like a sex-goddess in them.

The price we pay for fashion.

He strolls beside me, telling me about The Go Around as we walk up. It was built over a century ago. I came here with Jerry Lind, but it’s completely different when I’m with Dusty. When we step inside, I can smell wood polish and sweet leather. A hint of smoke.

Dusty said we wouldn’t find beef tartar and caviar here, but that we could get an eighty-dollar steak if we were feeling fancy.

I’m not a big beef fan, which makes me an oddball in cattle country. He stops by the hostess’s stand, one arm casually slung around my hips. Someone calls out to him, and I feel him stiffen at my side.

I don’t recognize the man who called out, but I do recognize his friend.

Jerry Fucking Lind.

The two of them are sitting at the bar, drinking scotch or bourbon from crystal glasses.

And they’re waving us over. Well, Jerry’s looking reticent. But his buddy is grinning like Dusty’s an old friend.

Fingers tightening on my hip, Dusty pastes on a smile and leads me over.

---