Facing West (Forever Wilde 1)

Griff thought about it for a moment. “I thought it would be, but I think it was just good timing really. I’d done the single-in-the-city thing and was ready to settle down. I love walking out of our cabin and being able to see the stars, you know? And realizing that our whole lives don’t have to revolve around our jobs. Now that we live at the vineyard, we spend more time outside, taking walks around the lake, hiking, even just eating out there by the lake for lunch breaks.”

He spun the cake stand around until it was repositioned to his liking before dabbing paint on his brush.

“I don’t know how to describe it, Nico. It’s almost like… without all the distractions of the city, we’re more relaxed and we can just focus on each other. Focus on Benji. I think if we were living in the city while trying to raise him, it would be a bit too chaotic for us. Plus I love the idea of raising our kids near my brother and his kids. Ella is only a year older than Benji, and if Jude and Derek ever follow through on their plans to build a house in Napa, we’ll have their baby nearby too. Wolfe is just six months older than Ben. Wouldn’t it be awesome raising kids around family like that?”

I wasn’t sure Griff realized who he was talking to when he mentioned how awesome his big family was. I knew he didn’t do it on purpose, but it still stung.

“It would be perfect, Griff. I’m really excited for you.”

I remained pretty quiet the rest of the time we spent painting side by side in the bakery kitchen, and when we were done, we had each produced several painted minicakes to put out front for sale. Griff’s had his version of cool superheroes on them that reminded me of some of the themes in his graphic novels. If any of our customers knew whose art they were getting on their cake, they’d flip out.

Mine were different. I’d painted recognizable scenes from around town on the cakes I’d done. One was the old cornerstone bridge over Hazlett’s Creek. One featured the small peony garden in front of the gazebo in the town square. My favorite one was the green Victorian home on Dogwood Street where West lived. I’d blushed deep red when I’d realized what I was painting, but I’d gone ahead and finished it anyway, tucking it discreetly into a bakery box to sneak out of there without anyone else seeing.

Rox ushered us out after raving over our creations and calling some of our regulars over to take a look at the specialty cakes in the display case. She assured me they’d be sold before closing in a couple of hours, and I’d smiled at her enthusiasm.

“Nico, before you guys leave, do you mind watching the place while I run over to the bank?”

“No problem.”

Griff decided to get a coffee and scone to take outside with him to the gazebo in the center of the square so he could call Sam and catch up. I busied myself cleaning and restocking the sugar and creamer station until the next customer came in. I recognized the woman as Mrs. Foley who had dropped off a casserole to me one of the first days after Adriana’s funeral. She’d also been my fourth grade teacher and I remembered her doing fun science experiments. One had something to do with balloons and whipped cream, but I was hazy on the details.

“Hi Mrs. Foley,” I said with a smile. “You in the mood for something foxy today?” I’d been thinking about the cupcakes with foxes painted on them and didn’t realize how my question had sounded until Mrs. Foley stood there blinking for a minute. “Oh my… no. I meant… What I meant was, would you like to see some of the painted cupcakes we have special today?”

The older women cracked a huge smile and winked at me. “For a minute there, I thought you were offering something else, Nicolas. I remember when I had you in class and you shook your booty to the school fight song Principal Hatter played over the intercom one day.”

I felt my cheeks heat at the reminder. “No, please,” I said. “Erase that from your memory bank.”

“Never in a million years. It was too good. I believe you chanted something along the lines of ‘Go, fight, weiner.’ Am I correct?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “We were the Flying Dachshunds, what did you expect?”

She giggled some more, tears appearing in the corner of her eyes. “Poor, unfortunate choice for a mascot. I think it was supposed to be Flying Dutchmen but someone messed up. The football players are still called the Hobie Hotdogs. They’ll never live it down.”