I flick a few strands of hair off my forehead.

Bitch.

My phone beeps in my pocket. I tug it out as the woman continues wasting my time.

Dylan: What was that? Is Brooke breaking shit now? I know she’s upset but she needs to remember where she is, Joey. HANDLE IT.

Sweet Christ. Why couldn’t she be on bed rest at her mother’s?

Me: Ease up on the shouty caps, cupcake. Everything is under control.

Dylan: BETTER BE. (I love you)

Me: BITCH. (love you too)

“Is this all fresh? When were these pastries made?” The woman taps two fingers aggressively on top of the glass. “They don’t look as moist as they should.”

I breathe in deeply through my nose, feeling the veins in my neck bulging, reminding myself again how much I love this job and the woman upstairs I don’t want to piss off by murdering someone in the middle of her shop.

The woman sighs exhaustedly. “Do you offer any beverages here? Coffee, at least? Most upscale bakeries do nowadays.”

That’s it. Fuck her and the stick up her ass. I am done.

Forcing the fakest smile I’ve ever worn, I put my phone away and gesture at the case. “No, no coffee. This is a bakery, not a Starbucks. And everything in front of you is fresh and made daily. We here at Dylan’s Sweet Tooth are all big fans of moist things. I myself am like a ripe peach, if you know what I’m saying.”

Her overly plucked eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “A peach. You know, the fruit. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tarts on the middle tray in the case you’ve been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. Those are indeed peaches right there. Now, if I can interest you in a cupcake or anything today, please let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to take your fresh little attitude and that knock-off Coach . . .”

She gasps.

“Yeah, I see you . . . and head on down the street. This here is an establishment where people come in and purchase things. I know, I am stunning, but unfortunately I am not an exhibit, and neither are the treats in front of me.”

The woman blinks rapidly, looking affronted.

I feel like I just came.

“Well.” She tightens her grip on her handbag and glares at me, her nostrils flaring with her breathing. “I suppose if I’m being rushed, I’ll take three of the mocha chocolate cupcakes,” she huffs, tipping her chin. “Those look the most appealing.”

Grinning, I grab a box. “Excellent.”

After taking her money and walking her to the door, just to make sure she gets the fuck out, I spin around and head for the kitchen.

Brooke is sitting on a stool, her head lowered and her fingers rubbing in slow circles against her temple. The sheet tray I thought I heard is on the floor near the supply shelf. As for the rest of the kitchen, it’s a mess. The worktop is covered in baking materials. Flour is spilled. A stool is turned over. Brooke’s practice wedding cake, which looked pretty damn perfect yesterday, now has a chunk missing out of the top tier.

Did she eat some of it? I wouldn’t be surprised.

I notice as I move further into the room the tiny flower petals made out of gum paste dropped on the floor near the tray. A few are still on it. She must’ve been trying to construct the gardenias again. Each attempt she makes leaves her more and more frustrated and doubtful of herself.

Her head isn’t in this. That’s the problem. It’s across the street.

“Hey. You need me to help with anything back here?” I ask, picking up the stool and righting it. I brush some flour off the wood and scoop it into my hand, dumping it in the nearby trash bin.

Brooke shakes her head. She lowers her hands to her lap and looks down. “How are we doing on treats? Do I need to make more?”

“Not right now. We’re good.”

“And they’re . . . people are buying them? They want what I made?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.”

She slowly looks up at me.

Sighing, I move around the worktop and stand beside her. “Everything out there is fabulous. Including me. We are selling as good as we always sell, because you are an exceptional baker. In fact, don’t tell Dylan this, but I actually think your red velvet icing tastes a little better than hers.”

I quickly glance behind me. The stairs are vacant. Good. She isn’t disobeying doctor’s orders and hearing my blasphemy.

“Yeah, right.” Brooke gazes up at me skeptically. Shadowy smudges line her eyes, which appear dull and lifeless. Her face is pale and a bit puffy.

How much has she cried today? Too much, I’m guessing. It’s all she’s been doing. Here. At the condo. In her bed. In mine.

She isn’t the only one running on minimal sleep. Three people to a queen bed isn’t the most comfortable arrangement.

I’ve suggested a king to Billy. He seems to think Brooke won’t be spooning with us for much longer.

I’m doubtful.

“Do I look as shitty as I feel?” Brooke asks, her chin trembling and tears threatening to fall, her hair a mess all around her, some of it tied back haphazardly while chunks tangle together along her back.

Does she look a hot mess? Yes, absolutely. But having two women as my best friends has taught me a very valuable lesson over the past decade.

Lie when you need to. And lie good. The truth is not worth the headache sometimes.

I rub her back. “You look amazing, as do I. I was actually thinking of taking a few selfies later if you want in. Capturing our first day together as a dynamic duo running this shit like we were born to do it.”

“If you put a phone in my face, I will smash it against the wall,” Brooke growls. “And then I will stab you with something for suggesting we capture this god awful moment.”

Inhaling slowly, I slide my hand off her back. “Noted. And for the record, you are definitely becoming more and more like my little cupcake upstairs.”

For fuck’s sake. How many times have I been threatened in this shop?

“Actually, I’m not. That’s the problem.” Brooke stands from her stool and picks up the sheet tray. “You see, Dylan would be able to construct these stupid fucking flowers with no problem. I can’t. I’ve tried, and I’ve tried.” She drops the tray on the wood. “And I’ve tried. None of mine are turning out right. That bride is going to be getting a cake with no flowers on it on Saturday because of me. Her cake will end up being the most boring looking wedding cake in the history of wedding cakes, because of me. And bonus, it could also taste like shit. Happy fucking wedding day.”

I walk over and grab her shoulders. “I think it’s time for a little break.”

She shrugs away from me. “A break? And where would I go on this break, Joey?” Brooke grabs a large mixing bowl off the shelf and tosses it onto the worktop. “The coffee shop? Where Mason isn’t waiting for me? Or maybe I could go to that park he took me to with the water fountain. Or the campsite. That seems like a nice break spot.” She goes about retying her apron, although I’m not sure she needs to. It seems pretty damn secure. “Or maybe I’ll just march across the street and take my break over there? See if he looks as bad as I do. See if he’s feeling anything even close to what I’m feeling, because he fucking should! He should be the one crying, and losing sleep, and,” she gives up on the trying to tie the apron and rips it off, tossing it on the floor. “And heartbroken. He should feel like he’s dying, because that’s how I feel!”

Oh shit.

She huffs out a breath and wipes at her face. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t even want this!”

I watch Brooke turn away from me, her shoulders hunched forward, her hands coming up to cradle her face as she cries and cries and cries.

Fuck! I can’t take this! I can’t take anymore more of this. It’s killing me. I love Brooke. Wild, crazy, fun to be around, Brooke. This isn’t her. This isn’t even a dulled out version of her. I have no idea who the shattered woman is in front of me, but I know who’s responsible for it.