My phone buzzes again before I’ve had time to shove it back in my purse. I don’t even look at the message. I just roll my eyes and type a response.
Are you done? If I block your number again, are you just going to harass me from another phone? You left me high and dry. Plus you had your sidepiece the entire time. Just stop.
I flip the screen down and don’t look at it again until it vibrates. I’m relieved when I see Lincoln’s name until I read the text.
Lincoln: That was a loaded message, Nevermore. Don’t block my number and make sure you get the cinnamon rolls. I’m on my way now.
I blink and look at the message again.
Oh, crap. Can this get more embarrassing?
The only safe thing to do is brush it off, so that’s what I do when I send, Sorry, bossman. My bad, that wasn’t for you. I have to ask, what’s in this long slender box? The guy at the supply store wouldn’t tell me. I’ll get your stupid rolls.
Lincoln: You’ll see. And make sure you do get the Regis roll even if you have to buy them off some crazy biker chick.
I snort, thankful he doesn’t dig at me over the hate-text meant for my ex.
Dakota: Whatever. You’re the psycho.
Lincoln: Dakota, are you okay?
I frown, wondering what he’s getting at. The message meant for Jay?
Dakota: I’m fine. Why?
Lincoln: You’re slipping. First the wrong attachment, now you’re texting the wrong person. What will you do when it’s a client instead of me?
Ah, there it is. Any illusion that he cares about my well-being vanishes when I realize he’s just sending me his usual BS.
Oh, please, I punch in. The only people who text me besides Eliza are my boss and moron ex-fiancè.
Another minute of silence.
Another reply that leaves me floored when it finally comes, rattling my hand like a mini earthquake.
Lincoln: You’re better off without the little shit. You can do a million times better. I’m sorry he cheated, Dakota.
Holy hell. My throat goes tight.
Thanks, I send back. I just wish he’d f-off and leave me alone.
When my phone pings again, I can’t help but smile as I read.
Lincoln: Say the word and I’ll shut his yap for you. No dismemberment involved, unfortunately, but fully legal, of course.
I actually laugh. When I look up, the car slows as we pull into a familiar, cramped side street lot parallel to Sweeter Grind.
It’s evening, not long before close, so the place isn’t as packed as it is in the mornings. I go straight to the counter.
“Can I get half a dozen Regis rolls, please?”
My phone buzzes again.
Lincoln, chill. I’ll text you as soon as I’m back in the car.
But the vibrating barely stops.
“Regis rolls. Got it.” The barista boy behind the counter kneels down in front of the bakery case and pops back up with a tense look. “Uh...looks like we’re out.”
Oh, God. Not this mess again.
“Let me guess...cinnamon shortage?” I ask, pained.
“Nope, we just cleared out the last rolls we had about an hour ago. We could make more, but it’s an hour until close.”
“Do it. I’ve been instructed not to leave without Regis rolls even if I acquire them at insane prices from a biker gang. How long will it take to make more?”
“Maybe thirty minutes? Only thing is, you’ll have to buy them by the dozen. New rule for orders like this after two o’clock,” he tells me.
“Fine. Hang on.” I pull my phone—now buzzing again, argh—out of my purse. “You’re sure it’ll just be half an hour?”
“For sure. Made fresh. They just have to defrost for ten minutes before I can pop them in the oven,” he says with a grin.
I have four new messages I don’t have time to read just now.
Lincoln damn Burns, get a life. Ideally, one that doesn’t revolve around pastries.
I’ll catch up on whatever’s so important in a minute.
Right now, I need to know if he’s willing to buy twice the cinnamon rolls and wait half an hour, so I text, I can only get the rolls by the dozen. It’ll be half an hour before they’re ready. Are we good?
Sure, if you are, he replies a minute later. What’s a Regis roll? Are you ever going to give me another chance?
Wait.
That’s not Lincoln.
Frick.
I did it again, scrolling up as bile rises in my throat. Sure enough, Jay sent three more messages I missed while ordering.
Dakota, it was a year ago. Talk to me. We can work this out.
Yeah, no. Opinions and bad behaviors can be worked out. Leaving a woman virtually at the altar is pretty much final.
You owe it to me...to us...to all the time we spent together.
Right. If only he’d thought about what he owed me before blowing our wedding off to chase his dumb music and his dumber bandmate’s ass.