Love Bites: An Angsty Contemporary Collection, page 1
Love Bites
A collection of bestselling contemporary love stories to sink your teeth into.
Carmen Jenner
Contents
Title Page
CAKE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
PUCK LOVE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
WELCOME TO SUGARTOWN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CAKE
Carmen Jenner
Cake
Copyright © 2017 Carmen Jenner
Published by Carmen Jenner
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work and not pirating this book. Pirates suck!
Cake: © Carmen Jenner February 17th, 2018
carmen@carmenjenner.com
Editing: Creating Ink
www.creatingink.com
Cover Design: © Tall Story
www.tallstory.design
Illustrator: © Yehuda Devir
www.yehudadevir.com
PROLOGUE
Poppy
Do you ever have those moments when the whole world seems to stop? You know what I mean. Something disastrous—and I do mean monumentally, epically disastrous—takes place and time ekes out in front of you. The world ceases moving in slow motion, and instead, it just . . . stops. Pause. Freeze frame.
If this were a Reese Witherspoon movie, you’d laugh. But this is not a Reese Witherspoon movie. This is real life. My life, and that cake you see careening toward the floor with my ass right behind it? It’s a four-tiered, pink-champagne-with-raspberry-mousse-filling-and-white-chocolate-ganache masterpiece. Or, it was. Now it’s destroyed. Ruined. An unsalvageable pile of mush—much like my dignity. This cake is the last nail in my coffin, and the giant buffoon who I was running from is the one to hammer home the final blow. His full weight rests on top of me while I lie ass-deep in two thousand dollars’ worth of cake and frosting. Along with what’s sure to be the ruin of my career.
I know what you’re thinking: it’s an accident, they’ll understand. They won’t. Jacinta, my boss and longtime mentor, will never understand. Not if the clients aren’t happy.
And the clients won’t be happy. You see, the groom, Chase Vanderbilt, is my ex. The bride, Claire Schaefer? My ex-best friend. Do you see a pattern here? Chase will never understand. Claire will never understand. This story will be one they tell their grandchildren. For the rest of my life I’ll be the wicked witch of the Upper East Side, the disgruntled ex-lover who ruined the happiest day of their lives. And not only that, but brides everywhere will shun me. I’m a wedding planner, and not just any wedding planner, but the junior associate to the most sought-after firm in New York. I’m also up for a promotion, but if this gets out, I’m screwed, along with the cake we’re lying on.
Time snaps back into place like a rubber band from a slingshot. I glance at the ceiling, panicked and praying that this is all just some terrible nightmare. “Oh my God.”
“Oh, shit.” Leo. Freaking. Nass. The man who’s tormented me since we were kids in high school. The man who drove a wedge between the groom and me. The man who puts the whore in man whore, and who doesn’t believe in marriage, true love, or even a second date leans up on his elbows and looks upon me with the sort of hunger akin to a wild lion’s. Well, Simba be damned. This little lioness is about to show him the meaning of fear.
“GET. OFF!” I shove at his chest. Leo scrambles to his feet and offers a hand to me. I sit up, slap it away and hiss, “What the hell did you do?”
“What did I do?” He straightens, and surveys the crime scene around me. “I didn’t do anything. You’re the one laying in five pounds of buttercream.”
“It’s ganache, you ass.” I shake my head. Leo chuckles. He freaking chuckles. “I’m sorry, but I don’t find any of this funny.”
“Well that’s because you’re not looking at it from the right angle.” He tilts his head as if he’s trying to get a better look at my lady bits. I snap my knees together so I’m not giving him a show, then—not without a few attempts on the Slip ’N Slide—I finally get to my feet. Frosting flies from my hands all around the small room, as I make like Taylor Swift and shake it off.
“Oh my God, I’m ruined. This is . . . I’m never gonna work again. That promotion is going to go right out the window and I’ll have to resign. I’ll wind up alone, a crazy cat lady who ruins weddings.”
“Okay, Pop Tart, breathe.”
“Don’t call me Pop Tart,” I shout, then lower my voice so as not to draw any of the revelers from the ballroom. I point my finger in Leo’s face and a chunk of frosting flies off and lands right next to his mouth. His tongue darts out to lick it away, and my breath catches. “This is all your
Wait. Back up. Hold on a goddamn minute here. My breath doesn’t catch when I’m with Nass the Ass. It doesn’t … I don’t … oh my God. What is he doing?
Leo takes hold of my hand and sucks my finger into his mouth. I make a sound halfway between a gasp of horror and a moan, and he releases my finger with a pop and leans in.
For the second time in as many minutes, time slows down. Leo moves in slow motion toward me, and what happens next? Well, I don’t have words for the horror that comes next.
CHAPTER ONE
I just hallucinated. Could you repeat that?
Poppy
I stare down at the vanilla envelope in my hands and tenderly run my fingers over the embossed letters. I’ve always known this day was a possibility. On some far-off indeterminate date, I even expected it to happen. Of course, in my head when this day came I’d be happily married to a successful, gorgeous man, and I’d smile fondly at the envelope and know that this was right. It was good, and it was meant to be.
None of this is supposed to happen three months after breaking up with my ex. Not when my best friend began dating said ex just a month later, and certainly not while I was still single.
I hadn’t meant to down half a bottle of wine in my tiny kitchen after I’d walked through the door of my apartment in the West Village. I’d stared at the offending envelope for entirely too long as it lay on my counter, and then I’d started on the rest of the wine before deciding I couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d slipped a letter opener in one corner and yanked the blade through. The heavy paper had opened on a sigh and I’d stared down at the card inside.
Poppy,
I can’t say I do without you.
Be my maid of honor?
I let the invitation flutter to the ground, and I reach for the bottle. Again. My phone rings, and for a moment I contemplate throwing it out the window, but I just got it. Instead, I glare at it along with the rest of the contents that have spilled from my bag. Breath mints, my planner, a planner with my boss, Jacinta’s, daily schedule, headphones, lipstick, compact, Tampax, candy … ooh, candy. With fumbling hands, I rip into the York Peppermint Patties and shove a few in my mouth—I always keep a packet of minis in my purse for those brides who like to skip meals and who might need a sugar hit to avoid passing out.
I pick up my phone, set it down, and then I lift it to my ear and finally hit answer before I can chicken out. I have a mouthful of Pattie all smooshed up around my teeth and gums, so it sounds like Scooby Doo took to answering my calls. “Harrow?”
“Oh my God, Poppy! I thought you were never going to answer. Did you get it?” The overly excited voice belongs to my best friend, or former best friend. I’m not really sure what we are now considering she’s marrying my ex-fiancé.
I’m not bitter about it. I mean, I might have been if he’d cheated on me, but Chase and I didn’t end that way. We’d been together so long we finished each other’s sandwiches, but somewhere along the way Chase and I just fell apart. I had a great career, and a great apartment in the city I loved, but a great fiancé? Not so much. If I hadn’t been so focused on my job, if I’d paid more attention to us or if we’d just made more time for one another in our busy schedules, then maybe we’d still be together. Perhaps I just couldn’t give him what he needed.
“Poppy, are you there?”
I shoo Castiel—one of my three cats—off the white leather dining chair and sit heavily on the seat. “What?”
“Did you get it? My invitation?”
“Er, no. What invitation?” I don’t know why I’m lying through my teeth. The thing was delivered to my workplace, and I had to sign for it, so there’s every chance she already knows I have it.
“The invitation to be my maid of honor? Are you sure you didn’t get it, because the messenger service said it was delivered.”
“Oh, that.” I nod as if she can see me, lift the wine bottle to my lips and gulp back more of the refreshing Moscato. “I . . . isn’t it a little . . . soon? I mean, you just started dating Chase a month ago. That’s an awfully big commitment to make in one month.”
“Two months,” she corrects, and again, I nod. Only when I do the math, that can’t be right. I distinctly remember she told me a month.
“You said one.”
She makes a scoffing sound. “Who cares? I’m getting married!” she shrieks. “Poppy, you have to say yes. I can’t get through this without you.”
“Yes, you can,” I mutter. It seems Claire has done just fine without me.
“What?”
“Um, sorry, my head is in the clouds today, but I’m so excited for you. Of course I’ll be your maid of honor. I’m honored. Huh, honor, honored.” I laugh nervously. I think I might pass out, or puke up the sushi I ate for lunch.
“Great. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“Never.”
“Okay, God, we have so much to organize. So, the wedding is in a month—”
“A month?” Was she crazy? No one plans the biggest day of their lives in a month. It’s wedding suicide. You can’t even get a decent cake in New York in that time, let alone flowers, invitations, the venue, cars, a dress … oh my God … who is she going to wear?
I tear the wrapper off another Mint Pattie and stuff it in my mouth so I don’t faint, breathing through my nose as calmly and evenly as possible.
“Yep, one month. I’ll have the planner email you everything you need to know about rehearsals and fittings and—”
“Planner?” I say, and my voice sounds very far away. The one thing I was put on this earth for. The one thing that I’m successful enough to be up for a promotion as partner for, and she takes it away from me?
“You hired another wedding planner?”
“Well, we’re still using your firm, but Jacinta is apparently already working a high-profile wedding that weekend, so … she mentioned Katherine was going to be our senior planner.”
“Katherine,” I say in a calm, even tone, but on the inside? I’m plotting all the ways I could fake my own death before the month is out.
“You’re mad, aren’t you? I told Chase you’d be mad. It’s just with you being in the party, and given that you dated the groom, I didn’t want to make it any more awkward than it already is. It’s not awkward, right?”
Dated? Dated? I was with him for seven years. I was going to marry the man, and spend the rest of my life with him … well, before I discovered that I didn’t always like Chase telling me what to do, and the man could throw some Russell Crowe-sized temper tantrums—only without all that rugged facial hair and gruff Australian accent.
“Poppy?” she prompts.
“No, it’s not awkward at all.” Not. One. Bit.
“Oh, I knew you’d understand. It’s going to be amazing, Poppy, just like we talked about as kids. We’re getting married in the Maldives.” My stomach twists with rage and there’s a strange acidic taste in my mouth that wasn’t there before. Breathe, Poppy. In and out. In and out. In and . . . the Maldives? The fucking Maldives. I’m getting married in the Maldives, or at least, I was. That was my dream wedding-cation. Mine.
Ever so slowly, a ringing starts up in my ears. It’s soft at first, a low hum, and then, as my blood begins to boil, the ringing increases. I drop the phone. Just drop it and walk calmly over to the freezer where I keep a bottle of vodka. I slowly unscrew the cap, lift it to my lips, and guzzle as much as I can without throwing up.
When I’m done, I unleash one hell of a scream and circle back to my phone where I proceed to stomp on it in my new Alexander McQueen velvet pumps until the screen dies and gives way to black. I’m not proud of this moment, but sometimes you just have to stand your ground—or stand on your smart phone, as the case may be. I drag the bottle of vodka to my bedroom and lock myself away where not even the judgmental glares from Sam, Dean, and Castiel can find me.
CHAPTER TWO
Here comes the maid of honor, all dressed in . . . pavement frosting?
Poppy
Two days later, I emerge from my blanket igloo and stumble over to the refrigerator. I’ve watched reruns of Supernatural all weekend, fallen down the rabbit hole of Dean and Cas fanfiction, eaten my weight in Ben and Jerry’s, and ignored the pleas for attention from my cats. I decide the only way I’m going to feel even somewhat normal again is through the divine intervention that only a Magnolia cupcake can provide. Also, I’m out of liquor and surprisingly, getting so schnockered on peach schnapps that I can barely stand is still not drunk enough for Poppy Porter right now.
