“I see,” Sally says, and I have a feeling she sees more than my mother wants.
As for me, even from the depths of this well into which I’ve fallen, I am seething. I want to leap out of my chair and tell my mother that she’s never helped me, she’s only manipulated me. That she’s not interested in what I want, but only what I look like and how I act and if I’m presenting an image that stands up to the Fairchild name—a name that’s not worth what it used to be since she took over—and decimated—the oil business that she inherited when my grandfather passed away.
I want to say all of that, but I don’t. I just sit there, my plastic smile on my face, hating myself for not moving. For not telling her to get the hell back to Texas.
But what I hate even more is the fact that I’m now clutching the second fork in my hand, and it’s under the table, and the tines are pressing hard into my leg through the thin material of my skirt. I don’t want to—I know I need to stop, to stand up, to simply get the hell out of there if that’s what it takes—but whatever strength has been building in me over the last few months has scattered like dandelion fluff under the assault of a ferocious wind.
“Nikki,” Sally begins, and I can’t tell if the concern in her voice is because of my mother’s speech or if she sees some hint of my struggle on my face. It doesn’t matter, though, because her words are cut off by the electronic door chime.
I look up, then draw in a breath. The tunnel disappears and my vision returns. The fork tumbles from my hand to the floor, and I realize I’ve stood up.
It’s Damien—and he is moving like a bullet toward me.
I head around the table, unconcerned about anything else. He stops in front of me, his face hard, his eyes warm but worried. “Turns out I could work the cake thing into my schedule, after all.”
I try not to smile, but the corners of my mouth twitch, and I feel tears of relief prick my eyes. “I’m glad.”
He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “You okay?”
“I’m perfect,” I say. “At least, I am now.”
The worry fades from his eyes, and I know that he believes me. He takes my hand, then turns to face my mother. “Mrs. Fairchild. What a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the kind of overly polite voice that suggests there’s nothing remotely pleasant about this particular surprise.
“Mr. Stark—Damien—I—” She stops abruptly, and I am amused. My mother is very rarely rendered speechless, but the last time she and Damien met he sent her away, effectively getting rid of her by flying her back to Texas on one of his jets. And that was before she’d said the variety of nasty things she’s since uttered about the two of us. I have to wonder if she doesn’t now fear that her ride out of California this go-round will be significantly less pleasant.
Damien, however, is the picture of cultured politeness. “It was so kind of you to come with Nikki today. I think we both know how valuable your opinion is to her.” My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I can tell that she wants to reply, to lash out with the sweet sting of words that she’d want to cut him as deeply as a blade has cut me, but they clearly don’t come. I’m not surprised. My mother is formidable, but Damien is more so.
Her expression shifts from consternation to surprise when Jamie bursts into the bakery like a tornado. “I’m here! I’m here! Big ticky mark for the maid of honor!”
For a moment I think that she really is here simply because she promised me she’d try to make it to Love Bites on time. But when I see that it is not me she looks to first, but Damien, I realize that he called her—and that she is part of the cavalry, too.
A moment later, Ryan Hunter, Damien’s head of security, hurries inside as well, only to stop short when he sees Damien, then fall back toward the door, his eyes on my mother, as if she is a bomb about to go off. Laughter bubbles in my throat. I never felt loved by my mother. Damien not only makes me feel loved, but also cherished and protected and safe.
I understand what has happened, of course. Tony called Damien. Since Damien was in Palm Springs, he called both Jamie and Ryan in order to ensure there was someone with me to run interference. I squeeze his hand, then mouth, Thank you. The words are simple; the emotion is not.
He squeezes back, but his attention is focused on my mother. I look toward her, too, and as I do I realize that Sally has gracefully exited, leaving the drama of the showroom for the relative calm of the kitchen.
Damien’s voice is firm as he addresses my mother. “Between Jamie and me, I think we have it covered. I’m sure you have unpacking to do. Why don’t you let my security chief drive you to the hotel?”
“Don’t be silly,” my mother says. “I’m happy to stay.” She smiles at me, and my stomach curls. “I want to spend time with my daughter.”
“Awesome,” Jamie says. “Today’s her bachelorette party.” She glances at her watch. “In fact we’re supposed to meet the others girls at Raven in about half an hour. It’s a strip club,” she adds in a stage whisper. “It’s going to be awesome. Wanna come?”
My mother goggles at her, and it takes all my power not to laugh. I know Jamie is joking—I specifically told her I didn’t want to do the bachelorette thing—but in this moment it would almost be worth going through with it.
“Um, no. Thank you. I—” Her eyes cut to Damien. “I suppose I should get settled.”
“I keep a suite at the Century Plaza hotel,” Damien says. “I insist you stay there.”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”
He doesn’t say what I know he is thinking— You’ve already been that . Instead, he graces her with his most formal corporate smile. “No trouble at all. In fact, your car is already there. You’re all checked in.”
I see the confusion on Jamie’s face— she’s been staying at the Century Plaza suite.
“Oh. I see. Well, then.” My mother turns her attention to me. “I’ll go with you tomorrow to the dress fitting,” she says, and I remember with regret that I’d nervously prattled off my schedule for the week as I drove us from Malibu to Beverly Hills.
“Sure,” I say, though what I really want is to scream that there is no way in hell I want her in my head as I try on my wedding dress. “That would be great.”