Page 43 of Strike
I swirled the straw around in my drink, the ice cubes clinking against each other, then I stabbed the slice of lime repeatedly.
“That cake you posted online is amazing, by the way,” Justin said, attempting to change the subject.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know how you come up with your ideas, but it looks complicated.”
“It’s not really,” I said. “It’s just chocolate sponge with a boysenberry jam filling. Then fairy floss and lots of icing and lollies.”
“You lost me at sponge.” He flashed me a dazzling smile.
“So how long have you been a firefighter for?”
“Five years,” he said, his face lighting up. “It’s a really difficult selection process. There’s a written exam, a fitness test, medical, psychological evaluations…”
He began to rattle off his life history in the Melbourne Fire Brigade, and I stared blankly at him, nodding and smiling at the right intervals. He was nice even though he was a one-dimensional guy, so why did I feel so disappointed? The moment I left, I had the odd feeling running up and down my spine that I would burst into tears.
Deep down, I knew nothing would come of Justin and me. Nothing at all. When I looked at him, I didn’t feel the spark I’d felt when I looked at Mark. When he spoke, my thoughts drifted away, and when he asked me a question, it was an effort to answer. I was such a bitch.
Glancing at my phone, I saw it was ten p.m.
“I’ve got to get going,” I said, showing Justin the screen. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Shoot,” he said. “Me, too. I lost track there.” He smiled again and pushed his chair back. Holding out his hand, he helped me to my feet like a gentleman. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“Uh… I’m not far. I have to make a stop on the way, anyway,” I replied, deftly dodging his attempts at getting me alone. He would try to kiss me, and I would have to let him down. I just couldn’t do it.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’ll see you then?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Sure,” I replied as we walked through the bar and out onto the street. Damn, he even held the door open for me. Why couldn’t my bits zing for him? He was hot, sweet, and all the things a girl could ever want in a guy. What was the problem?
We hugged goodbye and parted ways, and the date was over.
Walking down Brunswick Street, my shoulders sagged. There had to be something wrong with me.
Standing outside my shop, I smiled when I saw the signs had been put up in the windows. The glass was still blocked out with newspaper, but the gold decals were in place. The Fitzroy Cake Company was that much closer to becoming a reality, and for the first time since the fire, my heart began to race with excitement.
Grabbing my keys from the bottom of my bag, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Darting behind the counter, I flicked on the light switches and took a deep breath. It was exactly as I’d envisioned it. Better, actually.
All that was missing was the shop fixtures. The counters, the shelving, display cabinets, tables, and chairs. And out in the kitchen, the ovens, fridges, and appliances were yet to be delivered. Then once the doors opened, it was time to start paying back my business loan.
I was on the downward slope of the speed bump. The one and only decline I was grateful to ride. This was the tipping point. The last month was an ugly pimple between my eyes, and now it had popped. This was it.Finally.
Turning, I envisioned the place where I would put the Twister-themed cake. Maybe I could do a special display every month and make a feature out of it. Spinning around, I could see the display cases lit up and stuffed full of colorful cupcakes and macaroons. Mix and match, pick and mix, twenty different flavors. Christmas-themed cinnamon spice, pumpkins at Halloween, mangos in summer, sparkles at New Year’s, rainbows for Gay Pride.
Turning, my elation popped and fizzed, then died completely as I came face-to-face with Mark ‘Storm’ Ryder. He stood inside my shop, his jacket half hanging off, his left arm in a cast, looking like a lost puppy that had been fossicking through a dumpster.
I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it.
“Before you get that restraining order, you need to know one thing.” He stared at me, his brow furrowed. “It was a lie.”
“What?” My gaze fell to the cast and back up again. I didn’t understand.
“What happened with that woman in America. It was a fabrication. I’ve never raised my hand to a woman in my life.”
