I need the cake to bring my nerves back to neutral. And I’ve already had enough alcohol to drown a small nation.

I whiz past waiters and trays and chefs with large hats. I scan the countertops, the cabinets until bingo—I hit the fridge. The rush of air is cold and refreshing, and my eyes are gobbling up every square inch of space.

Cake. Cake. Cake. Cake. Ah-ha!

But the cake is far too large, and I wouldn’t be able to sneak it out of here without getting discovered and dropping the large sheet all over the kitchen floor.

Think, Elena. Think.

Oh, yessss. Cupcakes.

They sit on the bottom shelf with champagne and creamy white hues of frosting, topped with decorative and shiny round-shaped sprinkles.

I reach for them like a crack-fiend. I’m no better than Lukas’s coked-out groupie in the ballroom, but I have no choice. I need this.

I grab two cupcakes, pulling them close to my body before closing the fridge completely. I shield them with my arms as I pass the unsuspecting and, frankly, unconcerned wait and kitchen staff.

I stow away with my stolen stash into a separate side-room near the kitchen, where I sink into a white and unused foldout chair with my treasure, ready to eat.

The minute I sink my teeth into the frosting, I feel calm. Mmmffff, I mumble through a mouth full of buttercream. There. That’s better.

Eating the cupcake gives me time to simmer down, time to think. Time to reconsider all of these crazy ass ideas that have been popping into my head.

Like kissing Lukas.

What… the hell… is wrong… with me? My subconscious is screaming at me at this point.

What are you thinking, Elena? You hate this guy. Hated this guy.

Wait… Is this past tense? Or present?

Have I all of a sudden stopped hating this guy? No… that can’t be right, but then…

Why did I want to kiss him? Why do Iwantto kiss him? Present tense.

As in now. Like, right now.

While my lips and teeth are sinking into this soft and succulent cake. Soft… So soft… Like Luke’s lips.

My thoughts meander.

His bottom lip looked divinely supple. I tried not to stare at it, but then I would have had to stare into his eyes, and that would’ve been infinitely more dangerous.

They’re a deep evergreen color… like a forest. They’re framed by lively, dark eyelashes that constantly move as his eyes look me up and down. I feel lost when I look into them: abandoned in an evergreen wilderness from which there is no escape.

I shake my head. I’m talking crazy. I’m drunk.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this drunk. And I’m a mess. Not on the outside, but on the inside. On the outside, I think I’m still passing off as calm and collected.

But internally, my stomach is going nuts, and I am secretly craving a taste of something else. Something stronger than alcohol. Something sweeter than confection.

Something like Lukas.

A loud sound rings out in the empty room, almost making me jump out of my seat. I start to panic from where I sit, my head rotating on a rapid swivel, when I realize that the sound is coming from me.

It’s my cell phone in my wristlet. It’s ringing. It’s Linda calling.

I’m a piece of shit.

I’ve been putting off returning her phone call for days and now she’s resorted to calling me at the party. She knows I’m here… so why would she call?

It must be more important than the fashion emergency that I had previously assumed. I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Elle? What the hell, girl? I’ve been calling you for days on end. Where have you been?”

I huff heavily. “In Tampa… trying to piece my goddamned life together. I’m sorry, Lin.”

Her voice softens. “Don’t be sorry for me, Elle. I have some bad news.” She hesitates.

“Looks like one of our pieces dropped out of the puzzle. Someone purchased the studio space we were buying.”

A long pause stretches out while I try to gather my thoughts. A minute passes. Two. Linda shows infinite patience.

I finally manage to find my words. “Wait… what? That can’t be… My offer on that space was pending.”

Linda sucks in a breath over the phone. “Not anymore. And as your friend, your attorney and your active representative, they broke the news to me a little over a week ago.

“I just didn’t want to break the news to you through voicemail or text. Just didn’t feel right.” She gives a small sigh, and it drops like a final axe, like the thud of a gavel, closing the case. Game over.

And there it is. That’s all, folks. Looks like I’m back to square one.

I don’t know what I feel. Hell… I’m not even sure what feeling is at this moment.

I’m too tipsy to process anything—too drunk to register any true emotions.

I wait for the additional kick to the gut, for the fiery onslaught of outrage to hit me, but neither one appears.

In fact, something totally unrelated starts to happen. I laugh.

The sound is almost hysterical, and I can hear myself cackling uncontrollably, but I can’t do anything to stop it.

I can barely hear Linda’s voice over the noise.

“Elle?”

“I’m sorry, Linda baby, but this is a party,” I squeak.

“Sure, I’m going to have to tuck my tail between my legs and go crawling back to my misery in Memphis. But tonight?

“I am fully fucking sedated. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get fully fucked as well. I’ll talk to you in person tomorrow.”

I hang up at the fading sound of my name, stuffing my cell phone back in the small pocket of the purse attached to my wrist.

I pick up my cupcake to take another bite. A minute passes before I consider what I just did. Shit. Did I really mean what I told Linda?

I just don’t know…

Maybe I’m using all of this hoopla to self-medicate. The party, the cupcakes… Lukas. It could all be a numbing method—a temporary anesthetic.

A large clatter from the adjacent kitchen interrupts my thoughts. I hear a voice soon after. A very distinctive voice.

I can’t avoid him. And if what I’m thinking really does apply, he may be just what the doctor ordered.

***

LUKAS

 

Despite being caught in a game of “Cat-and-Mouse” with the elusive Elena, I’m actually enjoying this party that we’ve arranged.

The drinks are cold. The women are hot.

But why the fuck doesn’t anyone here speak English?

I make a drinking motion with my hand. “White cognac,” I say. “White cog-nac.”

The kitchen staff stares back at me with blank eyes. I point to an empty glass on the counter. White… Clear…

They don’t understand a word I’m saying. Where’s the damn water?

They motion towards each other, speaking to one another in fluent French. I hear the word “tequila.”

“Tequila! Yes!” I slam an excited fist on the counter. “Tequila. I’ll take some of that.”

A chef in a large white hat nods, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of amber-colored liquid.

“Yes! No!... Not gold. Silver. Sil-ver.” I enunciate as if it will help them understand me any faster.

Ask me anything in Italian, and I’ll spit it right out. Talk to me in French, and watch my brain fry itself from the stress.

I start pointing at random staffers. “How about you? Ingles?” No, that’s Spanish. “Aleman?” Fuck. No.

What’s the French word for English?

Ang-something. Anglee. Anglass.

Ah! It’s Ang…

“Le monsieur veut savoir comment dire en anglais en français,” says a voice from behind me.