8

      WHAT THE HELL was wrong with men?

      Were they good for anything besides the occasional orgasm and spider removal?

      “Genna, your mom called. Again.”

      “I’m not here.”

      Macy huffed in the kitchen doorway, then made her way into the bowels of temptation as she called it. Genna called it therapy. She looked around the counters covered in pies, cookies, cakes and her latest experiment, cookie-pops.

      “You’re gonna have to take her call,” Macy said, her tone distracted as she stood a good foot away from the counter but leaning so close she was almost bent in half as she sniffed the coconut cake. “Otherwise she’s going to send the EMT over again.”

      Focusing all her attention on the ziplocked bag of graham crackers she was crushing with a rolling pin, Genna just shrugged.

      Since there was no impact in sending the cops, given that Genna’s dad headed up that game, Cara Reilly had taken to calling for an ambulance when her daughter ignored her. After all, the only reason Genna could ever not respond was that she’d fallen in the shower, or slipped down the staircase, or cut her head off while slicing tomatoes.

      Genna beat the bag so hard the seams exploded, sending graham cracker crumbs all over the counter. It was unthinkable that her daughter might not want to talk.

      “If you talk to her, she’ll quit calling,” Macy said with an impatient look.

      “If I talk to her, I might actually need an EMT.” Genna swept the crumbs off the counter into her hand, her moves jerky with irritation.

      “What’d she do that’s so bad?”

      Genna shrugged and grabbed a paper towel to clean up the mess instead of answering.

      What was the point?

      Macy didn’t get it. She saw Genna’s parents as poster-perfect, the epitome of what every parent should be. Attentive, helpful and always there to offer advice on their daughter’s life. What she didn’t see, or chose to ignore since Genna had pointed it out a few million times, was that they were smothering her.

      “I’m going to stay at Greg’s for a little while,” Macy finally said, sidling closer to a triple-layer coconut cream cake and swiping a fingerful of frosting.

      “Because my mother keeps calling?” Wow, maybe her parents’ nagging and interference had finally paid off. Not that she didn’t love Macy, but she was seriously tired of justifying her mood, choices and entire freaking life.

      “No. Because you keep baking. In the last three weeks, you’ve made enough food to stock a fancy bakery. I can’t take it. I’d rather stay with Greg and risk a big fight before the wedding than stay here and ensure I can’t fit in my dress.”

      Genna winced. Shaking the cracker crumbs off her fingers, she finally turned to look at her friend.

      Macy’s face was creased with concern. Another reason to leave, Genna supposed. No bride should have worry lines on her special day.

      “I’m sorry,” she murmured, glancing around the room and seeing what her friend probably saw. Holy cow. It did look like a bakery had relocated to her kitchen. “I have no idea what I’m going to do with all of this.”

      She’d been so focused on baking to avoid her thoughts, she hadn’t considered what to do with the results.

      Macy backed away as if the very question opened the door to the possibility of her eating it all. Then she stopped, sighed and scooped up another taste of coconut frosting.

      “You won’t burn yourself out before you need to make my wedding cake, will you?”

      Genna laughed for the first time in three days. What was Macy going to obsess over after mid-May?

      “Of course not. I love to bake. I can’t imagine ever burning out on it.” Of course, she hadn’t been able to imagine her heart being stomped on and her dreams trampled while she was still quivering from a mind-blowing climax, either. So what did she know?

      “Will you be okay here by yourself?”

      “I’ll be fine.”

      Better than fine, actually, since all she wanted right now was to be left alone. She didn’t want to talk, she had no interest in sharing her heartbreak or hearing advice. And if Macy wasn’t here, she could turn off the phone altogether. After putting in a call to the EMT center to let them know to ignore her mother, of course.

      Nope, she’d rather be alone, baking and contemplating the useless dissatisfaction that was her life.

      Fun, fun.

      “Go, live with your fiancé,” she said, shooing Macy out of the kitchen before she gave in to self-pity and changed her mind. “Have wild sex, play house, try togetherness on for size.”

      “Genna,” Macy protested, blushing. “We don’t have wild sex.”

      What was the point of getting married, then?

      Not wanting to prolong the departure, Genna kept that question to herself. Instead, she wiped her hands and helped Macy carry a half dozen bags and boxes to the car. A quick wave, a few warnings and reminders to call her mom from Macy, and voilà.

      Peace and quiet.

      Exhausted but not willing to go to bed at―she glanced at the clock and winced―7:00 p.m.? Pissed off, miserable and frustrated made for an exhausting cocktail.

      She stepped back into the kitchen and looked around.

      It did look like she was stocking a bakery with goods.

      Maybe she could set up a stand in the front yard. Three cookies for a dollar. A few hundred dozen and she might have enough money to afford a sheriff-approved storefront.

      Playing with that dream, a nice distraction from her earlier thoughts, Genna returned to building her cheesecake crust. Butter, graham crackers, ground almonds. All yummy goodness.

      She was entertaining the mental debate over decorating her dream bakery in modern teal and brown, or going with a fun black-and-pink palette when there was a rap at her back door. Loud enough to make her jump and almost drop the cream cheese. Her heart pounding just as loud now, she shifted to the side of the kitchen to look out the window.

      Brody?

      She blinked, moved closer to the window in case the porch light was casting illusions, then looked again.

      Tall, sexy and gorgeous. Yep, that was Brody all right.

      She scowled. What did he want?

      She debated for all of three seconds before checking to see that the lock was engaged, then jaw set, took the cream cheese back to the mixer. When the knock came again, she flipped the mixer on high to drown it out.

      “It’s usually better to hide in another room if you’re pretending not to be there when someone knocks.”

      Genna jumped, but managed to contain her scream. She was so proud, she gave herself a couple seconds for her heart to slow again before turning off the mixer. Had he learned lock-picking in SEAL school? Or was that a leftover from his badass days? Pasting on her most distant expression, she tossed a cool expression over her shoulder.

      “It’s usually better to take the hint. When someone doesn’t answer the door it means they don’t want to see you.”

      “I’ve never been good with subtleties.”

      No question about that. Brody and subtle didn’t even belong in the same sentence. Genna pulled her gaze back to the creamy mixture in her bowl, wishing