Page 61 of Maid of Dishonor

“I’m ready,” I say. Amazingly, my voice sounds normal.

I’m circling the car to get in the passenger seat when Sam says, “Oh. Uh, no. Let’s have you drive.”

I stop in place, raising my eyebrows at her. “You sure?”

She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, nodding. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I need to work on this.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, let me get your door for you, anyway.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and…is she blushing?

A surge of pleasure washes through me at that realization, that I was able to bring that color to her cheeks. Her body brushes against mine as she slides past me and into the car, and I’m hit with her scent, with the barest touch of her curves against me.

I close her door, then take a deep breath before getting back in on the driver’s side. What would Sam think if she knew how strongly she affected me? She’d be shocked, for one. I’m pretty sure she was borderline offended when I told her a while back that I didn’t think love or marriage were my thing—I doubt she’d be expecting me to have any sort of feelings for her.

Not that she’ll ever know, of course. Because she won’t. I’ll just ride these feelings out until they’re gone. That way my heart won’t get wrecked, and neither will our friendship. Easy. Easy peasy.

Except…it doesn’tfeeleasy peasy. Not when Sam is next to me, humming to herself, her perfect legs bare under her cutoff denim shorts. I could rest my hand on her knee, feel that smooth skin. I could reach over and hold her hand, press a kiss to her palm. I want to press kisses everywhere, as a matter of fact.

I wonder what it would be like to kiss the sensitive skin of her wrist, the back of her neck, the tips of her fingers. I wonder what it would be like to map out every inch of her. To sleep with her in my arms—just sleep. I wonder if I could be a dreamcatcher for her, my heart and soul woven into the patterns that would catch every nightmare trying to disturb her beautiful mind.

“Ugh,” I say without thinking. My nose wrinkles as I examine my most recent thoughts.

I’m getting soft. I’m getting…mushy.

“What is it?” Sam says, looking at me with concern.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, because no way can I tell her that I’m waxing poetic in my head.

She just shrugs and looks back out the window.

Crisis averted.

“What did you do today?” I ask, trying to cover my blunder.

“Visited my mom since I didn’t get to go on Saturday. Hung out at home. Nothing much. Oh, and my dad sent me some pictures of the ocean—look.”

She flashes the phone screen at me, but I’m only able to glance at it before looking back to the road. All I really see is a few gray lines, but I nod anyway.

Somehow I don’t have a lot to contribute to the conversation right now. My brain is still trying to do sappy, poetic things. So I breathe a sigh of relief when we arrive at the bakery, because being in closed quarters with Sam is messing with my head.

The bakery appears to be a little hole-in-the-wall place, but it’s clean and orderly. I’m hit with the smell of vanilla when we enter, and a little bell overhead jingles cheerfully. For a moment I’m transported back to this cheesy Christmas movie Sam made me watch with her—she cried through half the movie; it was rough—about a small town baker who fell in love with a big city chef. This bakery has the same vibes, even though we don’t live in a small town.

I don’t know what I expected—a plump, grandmotherly woman, maybe—but I’m surprised when a middle-aged man shows up behind the counter, wiping what looks like flour-dusted hands down the front of his apron.

“Good afternoon, good afternoon,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “What can I get for you today?”

“Hi,” Sam says, smiling back. “We’re actually here for a wedding cake tasting.”

The man rubs his hands together, looking excited. “Excellent,” he says. “Just excellent. This way, if you will.” He comes around the counter and directs us over to a cozy little nook off to one side.

Sam and I both take a seat, but not two seconds after sitting down, my phone begins to ring. I’m going to ignore it, but when I see that it’s Maya, I figure I’d better answer.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, wincing. “I need to take this.” For a second I feel like a rich businessman; they’re always saying that.

“Not a problem, not a problem,” the man says, and I’m relieved to see that he really doesn’t seem bothered.

“I’ll check on the allergy-slash-cross-contamination thing,” Sam whispers as I start to step away, and I nod. I want to remember she already informed the bakery staff about all that when she set this up, but I’m glad she’s here to check since I can’t at the moment.

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