Page 17 of Let's Be Forever

I smile, but it’s as empty as his promises were. “Worse.”

You’ve been warned. You come near Sylas again and he’ll make sure…

“Anna.” Understanding settles on her features and she stands straighter. “That guy, is he Rosie’s father?”

“Yeah.” I heave a sigh, picking at the dry butter cream and gold dust on my apron.

“The ‘fucks’ now make so much sense.” She fiddles with the strap of her apron tied around her waist. “Does he play with Marc too?”

“No, he’s living in Colorado, playing for the hockey team there.”

“I don’t know him, but I hate him. I hope he burns in hell,” she spits out. “If I ever see him, I won’t refrain from cussing him out.”

I laugh at her dramatics. “It’s fine, it was years ago. You don’t have to hold a grudge on my behalf.”

“Sweets.” She places a palm on my shoulder, voice condescending. “You think that’s a grudge? That’s nothing. I cut my father off years ago. He’s dead to me,” she states. “I mean it, Anna. Dead.”

A snicker sneaks past my lips. “Don’t hate on my behalf. It’s whatever.”

“Not whatever. I despise him, and what he did is unforgivable.” Her words burn with rage, and not an ounce of humor surfaces in her usual cheery personality.

I can’t imagine what she’d think of him if I told her what really happened.

When we hear the bell chime through the bakery, she pushes away from the table and walks backward to the sliding door. “If I ever see—what’s his name?”

“Sylas Lenoir Alves.” I can’t remember the last time I said his full name out loud.

“What a pretentious—” She comes to an abrupt stop with her hand on the door, eyes widening. “Sylas Lenoir Alves? Please don’t tell me he’s related to Clara Lenoir Alves?”

I nod, or at least I think I do. My neck feels too rigid, so I’m not sure whether I’m moving my head or imagining it. “Yeah, that’s his mom.”

“You datedClara Alves’sson…” She staggers back, studying my face. “Holy…Jesus…” Em gapes. “Sylas is Rosie’s dad?”

I look through the window and paste on a smile, waving at Mrs. Dawson.

Unlike most bakeries where customers point and you give them what they want, we have all of our pastries on display for them to grab. We have round wooden trays and tongs for the customer to use, making it a more interactive experience. I got the idea from working in a Mexican bakery, but it also helps since there’s only two of us working here.

I draw my gaze back to Clementine, smile dropping as it does. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve watched every movie Clara has ever directed. I’ve gone down some serious rabbit holes. I saw his pictures from the premieres and found his Instagram and, well…I hope that doesn’t sound weird. He’s hot, I couldn’t help myself.” She shrugs, a blush tinting her cheeks. “Anyway, she was the reason I wanted to study film in college and become a director. But that obviously didn’t work out, and thank God, or I wouldn’t have met you.”

Can’t say I blame her. I looked him up a lot when we first started talking, when everything was good.

“Looks like she’s dead to me now too.”

“Clementine, you don’t have to?—”

“Oh, I will. You think I’m kidding about grudges?” She cocks a brow. “It’s been years, I tell you,yearssince I last spoke to my father. I have his number blocked. Anyway, Rosie has all the love she’ll ever need. I am more than willing to step up. Platonically of course. You’re hot, don’t get me wrong. I’d be all over you in a heartbeat, but I’m sorry, I don’t ride that way or, like, scissor? Whatever, you know what I mean.”

The things that come out of her mouth.

I grin. “Go help Mrs. Dawson. I’m going to clean up. My next consultation is about to show up.”

Em and I both come in early to bake, but once we open for the day, she stays at the front and I in the back. She deals with the customers, makes sure the trays and tongs stay sanitized,and does a damn good job of drumming up special orders. Meanwhile, I decorate the cakes or other pastries, work on the consultations, occasionally test out new recipes, and clean up.

She salutes me and pivots, but glances over her shoulder. “Don’t forget I’m leaving a little early.”

“I’ve not forgotten.” I did once, but we’ve since bought a huge whiteboard calendar. It’s hung up on the wall.