“Yes. Those are the cupcakes from her shop.”
“Pfft. She better enjoy them now because that place will never make it. Never.”
I freeze at the last comment. The one from the nasally voiced girl at my back. I blink several times, almost as if I’m trying to see if I believe what they’re saying is true when you can’t see words to begin with.
“How can it with a name like Sweet Cheeks?”
“Sweet Cheeks. Ugh. What a tacky name. Makes me think of . . . of unsavory things.” Disgust laces her nasal drawl and I sit in disbelief. In anger. In I don’t know what because a part of me wants to shove my chair back, turn around so they can see my face, see who I am, and let them know exactly what I think of them.
But the other part of me slinks lower in my chair. I want to hear more about what is being said behind my back, yet don’t want to hear any of it at all. The whole situation seems contrived. Like there’s a hidden camera somewhere filming my reaction and the joke is on me.
“Well, she seems to like it,” the higher-pitched, squeaky-voiced one says. I assume she means the lady across from me currently taking a huge bite of chocolate heaven.
Nasal tsks. “At the monthly luncheon the other day, Mrs. Layton told the ladies that her cupcakes were dry and crumbly and . . . and unoriginal. She explained she’d tasted them before the whole . . . situation.” She lowers her voice on the last word as if she’s talking about some huge scandal. “You know . . . poor Mitch. That Saylor put him through so much.”
Dumbfounded, I subtly shake my head and try to wrap my mind around the coincidence of this happening—me sitting where I am to hear this conversation.
This has to be a joke. A trick by Ryder to get me to go to the wedding because I feel like these two women have taken a page right out of his playbook.
Is that why I’m sitting here cowering in disbelief instead of standing up and telling them to go to hell?
I hate that I don’t know the answer.
“He’s definitely better off without her.” Squeaky sighs out loud and I swear I can hear her eyes rolling with the sound.
“Right? They never fit together in the first place. The funny thing is people like her would kill to live the life Mitch could have provided.”
People like her? My blood boils and body vibrates at the insult that I wear proudly like a badge. I don’t want to be anything like them if this is the kind of person they expected me to be.
“So stupid on her part. Something has to be wrong with her. I mean, she’ll never get a chance again at a catch like him.”
“That’s the truth. Could you imagine how embarrassing that was for Mitch? And for his family to be rejected by trash? Good riddance.” Nasal draws the last word out.
My fist clenches on the pen in my hand. Cupcake girl across the aisle is oblivious of the decimation of my character and criticism of the crumbs she’s licking from the tips of her fingers.
“Not to mention the amount of money in deposits his family probably lost on the vendors because, you know, she didn’t care. She was originally from the valley so you know her family wasn’t paying for it.”
A snort that doesn’t fit their upper crust, snooty tones. “Most definitely not.”
“Good thing karma’s kicking her in the ass for it.”
And I’ve got to give it to Nasal because she just gave me whiplash with that comment.
“Wait! What do you mean by karma? Are you holding out on me, Tish?” Squeaky asks, now giving Nasal a name that is familiar but that I can’t quite put a face to.
“Not really. Just chatter I heard from the ladies at The Club. I guess Saylor started her bakery with the understanding that Mrs. Layton was going to encourage her friends to hire her to cater the desserts at their never-ending events.” I can all but see their lips forming into smug smiles.
Seriously? That’s the bullshit Uptight Ursula is telling people?
“Yeah, but since she left him and called off the wedding—”
“Thank goodness,” Squeaky interrupts.
“Totally. Think of the bullet he dodged with that one. Marrying someone that’s not one of us? What was he thinking? But back to my story. I guess since the breakup, rumor from one of her suppliers whose dad knows one of Mrs. Layton’s house staff, is that business has slowed down considerably. Like making-no-profit slow.”
“Oh, poor thing.” Her laugh is pompous as I blink rapidly trying to figure out where the hell they’re getting this shit. I am the supplier. Me and my weekly runs to Costco. “Go back to how the other half lives, sweetheart.”
“God, yes. Leave the upper class alone, little girl.”