Page 39 of Until August
“Seven.”
“What are they into?”
“They both love surfing, and Everly loves art and ballet. Isla loves to play soccer, and she does jujitsu.”
“Got it.”
“You should go home and take a shower.”
“Not until I make my spun sugar creations.”
* * *
“There’s something I need to tell you,” August said, carefully placing the sugar plum fairy on Everly’s cake. It amazed me that those big hands could be so gentle and that the fragile spun sugar didn’t shatter to smithereens.
I let out a breath when he positioned it and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“She’s going to love it,” I declared.
“Not sure about the soccer ball,” he said, casting a critical eye on Isla’s cake. It was difficult to identify it as a soccer ball. It just looked like a ball.
“It’s not a soccer ball. It’s a snow globe.”
He closed one eye and studied it. “Or a fortune teller’s crystal ball.”
“She’d love that. She loves carnivals and Halloween and ghost stories.” I checked the time. If I wanted to make an appearance at the party, no matter how brief, I’d have to leave now. “I have to get going.” I also had to get these cakes to my car and all the way to Scarlett’s house without destroying them.
“I’ll help you get these to the car.”
“Thanks.”
August and I carried the cakes to my car, and after we ensured they were secure in the back of my Jeep Cherokee, I closed the hatch and thanked him. I rounded the car to the driver’s side and yanked open the door. “See you in a couple hours.”
“Wait.” He wrapped his hand around my wrist and tugged me back. “There’s… I need to tell you something.”
He’d said that earlier, hadn’t he? I’d completely forgotten. He released me and dropped his hand to his side. I looked at him expectantly, but his serious expression made me nervous.
Oh my God, was he quitting?
“What’s wrong?” I prompted. “Are you quitting?” Dread settled in my stomach. I’d come to rely on him so much already. Too much, maybe.
He shook his head, and I sighed in relief. Thank God for that.
“No. But when you hear what I have to say, you might kick my ass to the curb.” He let out a breath, and I tried to stay calm, but my stomach was churning.
This didnotbode well.
“The kitchen I told you I worked in for the past five years….” His eyes met mine, and I nodded, holding my breath until he spoke. “It was in prison. I served five years and just got out a few months ago.”
He studied my face while I tried to process his words. They came to me slowly at first and then all at once.Prison?
Did he just say he was in prison?
The man who had just woven spun sugar into beautiful designs was an ex-con?
The man I’d let into my kitchen six days a week, twelve hours a day, working side by side… had never thought to mention that he’d just gotten out of prison?
He’d looked me in the eye and told me I could trust him when all along he’d been hiding this from me?
