Perfect Match Enemies to lovers romance - Leia Stone Page 0,2
things be? Why do you have to play detective?” I snapped, tossing an edamame bean at her face. She dodged it and chewed her lip, bouncing in her seat, grinning.
“When is he doing it? Is the ring big? I mean I don’t care … I love him either way, but I’ll bet it’s big.”
A smirk pulled at my lips. “I’m not saying shit.” I crossed my arms.
Julie scowled behind her lo mein. “Excuse me? Best friend? You will tell me so I can make a waxing appointment and be sure to wear a sexy dress that night.”
She was right. No one wanted to have hoo-hah stubble on the night they got engaged.
I sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow night on your four-year anniversary and you better fucking act surprised.”
She bopped up and down in her chair, eyes alight with joy. “I totally will. Super surprised. So, it’s big right? Because these bitches at work all married surgeons and have rocks the size of cars on their hand.”
I chuckled. John was a corporate litigation attorney, junior partner at the firm. It was big.
“It’s decent.”
Her face fell. “Decent is fine. I just love him.”
Laughter pealed out of me. “Girl, it’s huge. You’re going to have to hire a bodyguard to walk you to your car.”
“Really?” Her face lit up again, and for the first time in a long time happiness exploded in my chest.
For like five minutes, I’d forgotten about Colin. I’d forgotten that I was a tragic twenty-seven-year-old widow. I’d allowed Julie’s happiness to make me happy. But then my fingers came around the chain at my throat, the place where Colin and my ring hung together right over my heart.
Julie noticed the shift in my face. “Mill, I know this must be hard for you. The one-year anniversary of Colin’s death is tonight and with my—”
I sighed deeply. “And nothing. We’re going to get shitfaced and watch Netflix and I’m fine.”
She nodded. “Yes, we are, but it’s okay if you’re having a hard time with me and John…”
I waved her off. “I’m not. I’m really happy for you. He’s amazing … for a Republican.”
We both laughed at that, and then the conversation navigated to equally choppy but different waters.
“So … closing the cupcake shop?” She winced and looked down at the paperwork stack that I had perched at the edge of the counter.
We hadn’t really talked about my business failure much. I didn’t want to be that friend, the friend that constantly complained or cried or was depressed. No one wanted to hang out with that friend. John had been nice enough to get me out of my three-year lease agreement without having to get evicted for non-payment. For that I was grateful.
I waved her off. “It’s fine. A new restaurant idea was an ambitious choice after everything. I was able to get out of the lease without being in debt. That’s a plus.”
Colin’s parents had gifted Colin and I ten grand to open the cupcake shop. The problem was that Colin had gone to school for restaurant management and I was just the pastry chef. A Cordon Bleu, French-trained, pastry chef, but still … I knew nothing about business. It was doomed from the start. I should have gotten out of it when I’d learned of his death, but his parents wanted to see it come together. Colin’s dream. We’d worked on it at the same time as we planned our wedding. We were set for our grand opening the day after we landed from our honeymoon.
Cupcakes and Whiskey.
A bar with dessert that matched the drinks. The perfect pairing. Colin got the best bartender in New York City and I curated the menu, inspired by my time in Paris. Chocolate croissant cupcakes with Kalua mudslide or bacon maple scones with caramel rum.
Sigh.
If I hadn’t fucked it up, it would have been amazing. I missed more work than I attended. Shit fell through the cracks. The line out the door died down when they realized I hadn’t ordered or baked enough to feed them. One day I’d been so despondent, I just closed the place early and went home.
I had to hear about it on social media. Some bitches showed up to the closed shop and made a whole Instagram story about it.
Reputation was everything and the restaurant suffered after that.
Julie pointed an accusing finger at me. “Are you thinking about that Instagram bitch?”
I grinned. “Just a little. She had a million followers. A million!”