Chapter 1
If Hunter had to eat one more bite of cake, he was going to fucking lose it.
Macy held another forkful up to his mouth. “This one has cream cheese frosting instead of buttercream. I think I like the other one better, but maybe you should try it. It may go better with the strawberry layer. Or maybe we could go with fondant . . .”
He opened his mouth to cut her off, but the iced confection hit his tongue instead, and he inhaled crumbs right into his windpipe. He gagged, choking on his words and the cake.
“Oh, honey,” Macy said, reaching for a glass of water and handing it to him. “I’m sorry. I thought you were ready for it.”
He coughed hard, the water sloshing over the rim of the glass, and hitting his chinos.
Ready for it? Ha. Wasn’t that the assumption of the day—of the year.
Macy patted his back as he tried to clear the last of the blockage. The cake lady, or pastry chef as Macy had insisted he call the woman, stared at him, her lips in a disapproving line—as if his choking was some statement on her baking.
He took a sip of water, his eyes tearing up, and finally swallowed down the last of the cake.
“You okay?” Macy asked, her hand now rubbing his back in gentle circles.
He nodded and then managed a hoarse, “Fine. I’m good.”
Macy gave him one last concerned look and then shifted her focus back to the tray of samples on the table. “Okay, so let’s go with the buttercream.”
Cake Lady nodded, made a note, and motioned for her assistant with a flick of her wrist. The younger girl who’d brought in the original tray of samples removed them and came back a minute later with another silver platter full. The girl eyed Hunter in that starstruck way he’d grown used to . . . and tired of. He much preferred the old days when it was only his dad people recognized on the street.
He mustered up a smile since it wasn’t the girl’s fault he was in such a foul mood, but her shift in expression said his smile must’ve come across more as a grimace than friendly.
Madame Pastry Chef waved a hand over the new tray. “Now it’s time to pick out the groom’s cake. Typically, it’s chocolate, but there are some less traditional options as well . . .”
Macy straightened in her chair, her hands folding primly around one of Hunter’s. “Let’s look at the chocolate options.” She sent him a smile. “We like traditional.”
The words, Macy’s always-sweet smile, and the smell of more cake had his skin feeling clammy, the room too small. Another half hour of this and. . . . he launched himself out of his chair, knocking the table with his knee and rattling the platter. “I’m fine with whatever you choose, sweetheart. You pick the rest. I need some air.”
Her brows disappeared beneath her bangs. “Everything all right?”
“Absolutely.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her blond head. “Take your time. I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
Ready. There was that word again. Like a cymbal smashing against his head, reverberating.
The wedding was three months away. He loved Macy. Shouldn’t he feel ready by now?
Would he ever?
He headed out of the bakery, trying to slow his racing thoughts and climbing anxiety. Cold feet. That’s what they called it, right? But he was far from cold. Hot all over was more like it.
Leave.
The word whispered through his head like a siren call. He climbed into his Audi and stared at the speedometer, wondering, not for the first time, what would happen if he just floored the pedal and didn’t look back.
Would the local media hunt him like a fugitive? Would his father send his congressional district out in a search party? Would Macy be more upset about losing him or about canceling the wedding she’d worked so hard to plan? Would he miss this life?
He put his hand on the gearshift, flexed his fingers, thought about where he would go.
Macy pulled open the passenger door and slid inside, her ponytail swinging. “Hey there, planning to leave without me?”
His grin was too quick, too bright. “Course not.”
She eyed him in that don’t-you-lie-to-me way women seemed to perfect by age seven. “What’s going on with you? You forgot your last tux fitting, you still haven’t picked a best man, and Brent said you turned down his offer for a bachelor party.”
He sniffed. Bachelor party. Right. He didn’t drink anymore, he didn’t party, and the thought of a strip club held about as much appeal as choking down more cake. Plus, wouldn’t the press have a field day over that? Straitlaced Astros pitcher and son of conservative congressman Tom Riley sighted stuffing dollar bills in G-strings at Tops Off before he married the former Miss Houston. “I’m sorry, Mace. I think I’m just exhausted after the end of the season. I’m used to getting a nice, solid break in the winter. With all the wedding stuff and the media buzzing around me after the back injury, I feel like I haven’t had a day to breathe.”
Macy tilted her head, her expression softening. “You do look tired, baby.”
Boy, was he. Only he wasn’t sure it was the kind of tired he could sleep away.
She stared at him for a moment more, wrinkle between her brows, and th
en her finger went to her lips, tapped. “Hmm.”
Uh-oh. Her idea face.
She turned in her seat, squaring her shoulders to him. “How about this? What if in lieu of a bachelor party, you take a little solo vacation?”
He blinked, the words sounding foreign to his ears. “A solo vacation?”
Was this his fiancée, the woman who’d insisted he attend ten different auditions for a wedding singer?