Chapter 5: Aftermath

No matter how much I drink that night, or how much I pour myself into my work the next day, I can't get him out of my mind. Get them out of my mind. For Emilia is every bit a part of the images that haunt me as he is. Waking or sleeping, I can't close my eyes without seeing the pair of them writhing together. Without their groans of pleasure ringing in my ears. Without the heat of humiliation flooding my skin yet again.

It's wrong, how much this hurts. How much it stings like betrayal - but that's unfair, because it's not like I expected him to be celibate all this time, even if I've been more or less a nun. But it brings up feelings that are a little too familiar, feelings that crept in slowly during those last few weeks of our relationship. Very pathetic feelings, I'll be the first to admit. But I loved him so deeply, so intensely, and I always wondered why a huge celebrity like Dante Fontaine - a guy who could have any woman in the world - would choose me instead of some starlet or supermodel.

In the end, he did choose a supermodel over me, which is why I walked away. Why in the weeks afterward, my heart stopped seeing him as the man of my dreams and instead saw him as the demon of my nightmares. Why catching him with Emilia, a gorgeous up-and-coming actress, hurts so damn much.

I have every reason to hate him. So why does he still have the same overwhelming effect on me? Why did I spend half the night remembering the many nights we spent together, teaching and exploring each other beneath the sheets? Why did I wake up this morning expecting to see him in the armchair across from my bed, working on his latest script as the light of dawn crept in through the window? It's been a long time since I awoke to that sight, and yet I can imagine every detail of it perfectly - his dark hair hanging across his brow as he bends his head over his notebook, his pen moving in a steady rhythm across the page, his gold-flecked chocolate eyes gleaming bright behind the dark-rimmed glasses he wears when he's working.

Just forget about him, I tell myself as I start the day's tasks. Maybe the after-party incident is God's way of telling me that it's long past time to get on with my life. If this isn't the closure I needed to remind me that Dante and I are over, then I'm not sure what is.

But why did I have to see them? And why did I have to drop my decorations and then fumble around like an idiot on the floor? And why did it have to be Emilia?

I think that's part of what's bothering me so much about this whole thing. I didn't stumble across Dante hooking up with some random girl - I stumbled across him hooking up with his brother's fiancée. Fiancée. Even years ago, when the pain was freshest and deepest and I hated him with every fiber of my being, I never would have expected this of him. While I never met his brother Luca, I know they are close - know the entire Fontaine family is close - and this is the worst sort of betrayal. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it in graphic detail with my own eyes.

At least I can comfort myself with the knowledge that I was right to dump him. I might be pathetic in many ways, but I was strong enough to trust my gut.

And I'm also fortunate to have a job that allows me to take out my emotions through my work. No one has ever accused me of being cool-headed or unfeeling. But it helps to have therapy built right into my daily tasks. There's nothing like working through angst with a batch of dough.

Today, my therapist is puff pastry - carefully folded layers of dough and butter that have to be reworked every couple of hours. I throw it down on my workstation, enjoying the slap of the dough against the metal surface of my table. And then my fists get to work, pummeling all of my anger and confusion over Dante into the puff pastry.

My movements are violent enough that they catch the attention of Mama Pat. Patricia DeCosta - or Mama Pat, as we call her - was the first person I hired when I opened the bakery. She is an empty nester who applied for the job after the last of her three children went off to college, and although she'd never worked in a bakery before, she showed more skill during the interview process than any of the bright-eyed, fresh-from-culinary-school applicants. And she's been a miracle in the kitchen, able to conquer any recipe I throw at her. She's also the oldest of all of us here at Ashlyn's Bakeshop - about the age my mother would have been, if she and my father hadn't died in a car wreck when I was nineteen - and over the past few years, she's evolved into the "mother hen" of our little team.

"Everything all right?" she asks, her eyebrow raised.

"I'm fine," I assure her, even though I'm anything but. My fingers shake as I fold the dough, and honestly, I want nothing more than to throw this puff pastry against the wall. Anything to make the images of Dante and Emilia go away.

Mama Pat is watching me in a way that says, I'm shutting up, but I don't believe you. My mom used to have a look like that. But my mom wasn't around long enough to see me get upset over any guys. And I'm not sure it's appropriate to ask a coworker what to do when you catch the man who broke your heart in the middle of a grind session.

I press my lips together and fold the puff pastry one last time. But I've been working it too hard, too long, and the layer of butter inside has gotten too warm and soft. It starts to squeeze out of the dough.

"Damn it," I mutter, stepping back and wiping the back of my hand across my brow. I've made puff pastry a hundred times. I shouldn't be screwing it up, even if I am upset.

But Mama Pat's already at my workstation.

"You're distracted," she says, peeling the dough up from the table. "Why don't you go work up front for a while? I've got everything under control back here."

I want to argue, but I know she's right. Working in the kitchen is just giving me too much time to think. So I wash my hands and head to the front of my shop.

Karen Sevelle is behind the counter today. She's fresh out of college, and though I initially hired her to work the register and answer phones, she's definitely stepped up - becoming more or less the front-of-house manager, and even joining us in the kitchen a couple of times when we've been in a pinch. My bakery might be small and still relatively young, but Karen, Mama Pat, Jilly, and I have become something of a little family.

Watching her work - and watching the line of customers walk away with smiles on their faces - calms me a little. Running a bakery isn't as glamorous as I expected - you spend horrendously long hours on your feet and the bulk of the work centers on mundane, business-running tasks rather than playtime in the kitchen - but I wouldn't trade it for anything. I love running a business. Love creating delectable treats out of flour and sugar. There's nothing like watching a child's eyes light up when I hand him a cupcake the size of his face, or hearing a bride squeal when she sees her wedding cake.

Yes, I love my job - even if I sometimes find flour in places I didn't even know existed.

I remind myself of this as I watch Karen. When I dated Dante, I was a completely different person. Back then, I still thought I wanted to work in the film industry. But I've come a long way in the past three years. Look at the life you've built for yourself, I think. Forget Dante. This is what matters. This is what makes you happy.

And just as I'm starting to feel normal and content again, my cell buzzes in my pocket. It's Jack.

"Hey," I say as I shove the phone beneath my ear. "Recover from last night yet?"

Jack sent me a handful of texts last night after I made my escape - and judging by the number of spelling errors, I suspected he'd been taking advantage of the party's open bar.

"Ask me tomorrow," Jack groans. "I'm already on my third coffee and I still feel like I was hit with a steamroller."

I smile. "I'm surprised you let yourself drink in front of Brockman." A couple of weeks ago, he was agonizing daily over which tie he should wear to work, convinced that one misstep would send him back to his old job making copies and getting coffee.

"Are you kidding?" he says. "Brockman was the one who kept shoving martinis into my hand. He was so impressed with what I'd pulled together that he said I deserved a break. And a raise."

My grin gets bigger. "You got a raise? That's awesome, Jack."

"And he loved the cake," Jack goes on, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Loved it. I mean, he was four Moscow mules in at that point, but I'm pretty sure you're going to have some repeat business."

I stifle a squeal. "Really?"

"Yes, really. And your check's in the mail, by the way."

It takes all of my self-control not to leap into the air. The money for that cake alone covers my bakery's rent for the next month. If the studio is regularly ordering cakes from me... I don't even want to think about it out of fear I'll jinx it.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I say into the phone. "I owe you big time, Jack. Let me take you out to dinner."

He laughs. "We're good. You helped me get a raise. I call that even. Frankly, I'm just happy to hear you in such a good mood. I was afraid you might want to strangle me instead."

"Strangle you? Why - " And then it all comes back. Dante and Emilia, entwined together, moaning in unison...

"Fuck, I shouldn't have said anything," Jack says, apparently realizing he reminded me of the thing I've been trying very hard to forget.

"It's fine," I say quickly, hoping I sound casual. "And it's not your fault."

"I promised you he wouldn't be there that early. I still can't believe that he and Emilia are - "

"I know," I cut him off, not prepared to talk about it yet. "I just want to pretend it never happened." Behind me, the bell on the front door jingles as someone enters.

"Got it. Lips are zipped."

"Thank you," I say, turning to make sure Karen has the customers managed. "I'll - " My words dry up when I see who just walked through the door.

"Ashlyn?" says Jack.

I know I should respond, but I'm too stunned by the sight of the figure in front of me. Even though it's summer, he's wearing a light jacket, and between the sunglasses and the hat, half of his face is hidden. But I'd know him anywhere. Clothed or unclothed. Dante Fontaine has just walked into my bakery.