Page 11 of The Masks We Burn

Trying my best to keep my eyes trained on the cake sample slip in front of me, I force my breathing to remain calm. I’ve always been the hotheaded type. The one who is ready for anything at the drop of a hat. But mostly, it’s always in defense. With William, though, my entire core is on edge, my lips fixed to say something before he gets a chance.

I tangle my fingers in the tips of my hair, the pink reminding me that I did a thing I’ve been afraid to do for years, too consumed with what someone—like my mother—might say. When I looked at the soft hues in the mirror, I’d fallen in love with my reflection. The woman looking back at me didn’t show fear of the future. She showed me how happy living in the now felt.

“Did we narrow the choices down well?” Spencer asks, drawing my attention.

Vanilla Bean Classic with Amaretto

Lemon with Vanilla and Fresh Raspberries

Pink Moscato with White Chocolate

Red Velvet with Cream Cheese

Chocolate Decadence with Salted Caramel

I nod,knowing instantly without even tasting a sample that I’m gunning for the lemon. If done properly, it has a refreshing taste, and I think it will pair well with the seafood dinner they selected.

Next to me, William guffaws, an annoyingly sexy smirk stretching his lips. A quick glance around the table tells me no one else notices, as their heads are bowed, studying the overly complicated slip.

Bite your tongue. Don’t say anything. Today is not about you.

See? He’s an arrogant asshole that grates on my nerves without even trying. Granted, I have no clue what he was scoffing about, but I feel it in my gut it was about my approval of the cakes. Heaven forbid someone look to me for advice. Irritation flares in my chest and it isn’t until I taste the subtleness of copper that I realize I’m biting into my cheek.

I don’t let my gaze leave the paper, but I angle my head and whisper just enough for him to hear me. “Screw you.”

This causes him to chuckle, which literally shakes the damn table from its timbre. “Sweetheart, let’s not today. For once, can we be cordial?”

My mouth drops for a retort, but Lily clears her throat just in time for me to see a woman striding to our table. William shoots me a quick wink and I clamp my jaw shut so hard I think I hear something crack.

I swear if he made me break a damn filling...

The baker begins explaining the slips of paper, letting us know she’ll be bringing out the five different flavors requested. Then she talks about texture, smell and taste—all things I’m familiar with because of lessons from my family’s personal baker, Miss Jean. She was a patient woman who let me muddle in the kitchen anytime and taught me things even at the expense of a few failed dishes. But I fell in love being behind the stove, covered in flour and stomach full of taste tests.

When I told my mom I wanted to open a bakery, she explained to me how saturated the profession was, and how I’d end up in debt, living how we were in Cali. The very idea of days-old spaghetti was enough to deter me and resume my miserable search for a career. A search that’s proved fruitless for months and left me wondering if there’s anything out there I’d evenremotelylike to do. Or maybe I’ll be stuck in an entry-level job, trapped by degree choice.

Lost in thought, my eyes betray me, shifting over to the butterflies embedded in William’s arms. There are at least a dozen, each one so vibrant in his dark tan skin they look almost real. Even more so because they are currently jumping around each time the muscle underneath them moves as he rolls his fingers together, focused on the woman’s speech.

It’s easy to see why I was so drawn to him before—physically, at least. My weakness has always been a set of soft lips, strong arms, and a wicked tongue. But his tongue is also cruel. It knows how to hit its target with deadly accuracy. I only wish it was the nub between my thighs and not my ego.

The woman, whose name I learn is Mae, begins bringing out the samples. The first is the vanilla which is incredibly delicious, moist and airy. After she disappears behind the counter to grab the next sample, we write down our thoughts, not able to discuss them until the end. This goes on for all the flavors, and just as I thought, the lemon reigns supreme.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to talk among yourselves and I’ll be right over here if you have any questions.”

Lily thanks Mae before turning to look at Spencer’s paper. He’d hidden it the whole time, refusing to let them start their “healthy debate” too early. And boy is it healthy. Lily, our soon-to-be psychologist, knows how to curve her words and make an argument seem pointless. I mean, who wants to argue with someone who is damn good with communication and won’t argue back. It’s no fun.

Turns out, Spencer and I like the lemon, Lily wants the vanilla, and William is set on the pink Moscato.

“You have to remember, Lily, your main dish is lobster. The vanilla may be a little too dense.”

William stretches slightly, the outside of his thigh brushing against mine, making my hackles rise. “Who wants something tart for dessert? Cake is meant to be sweet. Rich. Not sour.”

“You would think that. You probably have the taste buds of an adolescent who doesn’t know the difference between lemon juice and lemon zest.” I huff and realize a little too late that my thoughts weren’t my own, and I said them out loud.

“Amora Joy Orlov. Girl, take it down a notch.” Lily gapes from across the table, her fork clinking against the dainty white ceramic plate. She eyes me warily and I know I’ll catch hell for it later.

I open my mouth to give an apology—more to her and Spencer than the douche himself, but William holds up a hand. His posture is stiff, spine straighter, causing him to tower over me, blocking out some of the light behind him. His deep green eyes connect with mine, and I shift in my seat, the sudden feeling of unease making my nerves dance.

“My mother would agree with ya. Spent too much time outside instead of helping in the kitchen.” His full lips lift in the corner, a genuine smirk gracing his face and stealing my next breath.

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