“Oh, Mom, is right. You’re lucky I don’t hop on a plane and visit you right this minute to give you two a huge congratulations hug. Now you better tell me everything and not leave a single thing out, or I’m going to make that threat a reality.” She tsks. “You tell me you have some huge order to fulfill when in fact you were planning a wedding.”

“I do have a huge order. One thousand cookies for a dog’s birthday party. That was planned. The wedding . . . not so much.”

“About that. I’m going to need some more details to understand this.” Silence falls on the line. “I’m waiting, young lady.”

Oh boy.

Let the lying commence . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Hendrix

The days blur together. Between the continuous orders coming in and the influx of people who suddenly care about my bakery—mostly looky-loos hoping to catch a glimpse of Jase when he’s never set foot in here to begin with—I barely have time to breathe, let alone revel in this newfound, albeit temporary, success.

Jase was right. I need help. I can keep up with the orders, but it’s the orders and the customers and the ridiculous questions being asked—so someone can snap a sneaky pic of me—that I can’t do.

So I placed an ad for help—one for an experienced baker and another for a storefront clerk. Needless to say, none of them seem like they hold any validity. From the ones I’ve sorted through on my computer in front of me, most of them are from women whose qualifications seem to be “Die-hard BENT Fan” and “Future Mrs. Gizmo.”

It’s ridiculous.

It’s exhausting.

It’s unfathomable.

But isn’t that how this whole experience has been? It’s not like I’ve had a ton of time to sit and actually acknowledge that I’m in a marriage of convenience with a rock star.

I mean, I have. I had the whole wedding and a few days at his house to come to grips with it, but now that the world knows, it’s a completely different ball game. There’s a whole lot of mental gymnastics to navigate.

I close my laptop, stand, and then catch my reflection in the bakery’s front glass. My hair is still up in a messy bun, I have a little flour on my cheek, and my apron has streaks of icing on it. I look exactly how I always do after a long day of baking and creating, with one exception.

The massive diamond on my finger.

The ring that Paul notices immediately when he walks through the open back door like he owns the place. I recoil immediately at the sight of him.