“That’d be me,” I confirm.
“So far, I’ve met the CEO, the lawyer, and you,” she states. “Three more, and I finish the quest.”
“We are people, you know. This town makes us sound like a bunch of action figures. The lawyer, the doctor, the business guy, the musician, the dead one, the military guy, and the hockey player. We’re not Ken dolls.”
She laughs at my joke and I glare at her, pretending to be offended.
“Sorry, I get your point, but I was picturing…” she stops. “Never mind. I know it’s hard to be the talk of the town. At least I’m taking the spotlight away from you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“I assume you haven’t seen today’s posts.” She taps her phone and then hands it to me. “There’s a poll. The town is wondering why I’m back without my big engagement ring. Am I pregnant with another guy’s baby? Did he leave me at the altar? So far the first one is winning.”
I check the phone to see Hadley, the baker’s daughter, is back. There’s even an option that says she’s here for her Dad’s funeral.
Rick Heywood died? I know he was in a car accident a couple of weeks ago. Vance airlifted him to Portland but he’s not dead, is he?
“What happened to your dad?”
“He was in a car accident. They flew him to Portland,” she answers, confirming my suspicions. “Mom didn’t tell me how bad it was until I arrived in town.”
“You’re Rick and Paige’s daughter?”
“They used to call me the baker’s daughter,” she answers with a sigh. “You get used to being called by a certain descriptor and never your name. If I were an action figure, I’d come with a fluffy white hat and an apron.”
She might be from Baker’s Creek, but she sounds like an outsider. I recall Paige talking about her. “Your mom told me once you work in hockey," I say, holding the laughter. I care about Paige but the way she says things is funny. “SMD for the team makes more sense.”
“Is that what Mom told you about me?”
“A couple of times,” I try not to laugh. “Her exact words were ‘my Hadley works in hockey too.’”
“Yeah, but I got nothing on Mills ‘Mean’ Aldridge,” she says, eyes narrowed
“I dropped the ‘Mean’ while I’m off the rink, but yes, that’s me.” I take a seat. next to her. “So, I take it you posted pictures for the team’s social media?”
There are some pictures circulating far and wide that were originally posted on The Trooper's social media. They’ve made its way to my chats. I’ve got to admit, the pictures of the general manager fucking his girlfriend are funny. The video on YouTube is priceless. Mostly the voice of the woman who caught it all on camera, she was hilarious.
“So, did the account get hacked, or how did that picture of the GM get into the social media story?”
She stares at the slide for a couple of beats before answering, “It’s confidential
information.”
“Which is why you got fired?”
“Nuh-uh. I quit and broke up with him after I found him doing his ex-wife in his office. The cheating asshole didn’t lock the door. You could call me ‘the scorned girlfriend.’ Now I’m homeless, jobless, and penniless—and about to get served with a lawsuit for posting that picture.”
I’d be suing her ass, too, if she posted a picture of me naked. However, I wouldn’t cheat on her to begin with. Not because I know she’d be bashing me online, but because no one deserves to be cheated on.
“So you’re currently down on your luck, huh?” I try to cheer her up, but I don’t know what else to say. She got herself into that conundrum.
“You’ve no idea.”
I have a theory, which is that women don’t think much when they’re dating a wealthy man. They see a dollar sign and ignore the problems that go with it. I hate to think this woman is a gold digger, but why go out with an asshole like Quinton?
“Who dates a GM of a team? Or any rich bastard?” I say that out loud and regret it right away.
She huffs. “If I tell you that I thought he was the mailroom clerk, would you believe it?”
I shake my head.
“I’m what you might call “distracted.” Also, I’m terrible at remembering faces and names.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Not for me,” she insists.
I cross my arms, frustrated by her lame excuse.
“While I can recite to you the periodic table of elements, I can’t remember names and faces,” she states. “It’s why I told you I should know who you are. I would study hockey teams, players, statistics, and faces like studying for a standardized test. It’ll be embarrassing to come face to face with Brock Dumas and not know that he’s the captain of the Vancouver Orcas.”
“You’d bruise his ego,” I say, joking. Brock wouldn’t give a shit. That guy is really down to Earth. I don’t say that, though. “So you confused Quinton with the mailroom clerk?”
“Yep. We dated. He was nice, just like the three-year relationship we had—until he fucked up.”
She doesn’t sound like a woman in pain. “It sounds like you’re over him.”
“For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been analyzing the last three years of my life. I think this wasn’t the first time he cheated on me. Also, there’s no lost love. The last six months, he was absent. He wasn’t the love of my life, but it was nice to date a grown man and have a steady relationship.”
“A guy with money?”
“I didn’t care about it. It was nice to live in a luxury apartment.” She lowers her voice. “Which he didn’t pay for. I paid half of it and the other half was covered by his parents.”
“Not him?”
“Nope. If it wasn’t for his family, he wouldn’t have a penny. I contributed to the house,” she says, almost offended.
Her phone buzzes. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then, placing that lovely smile on her lips, she says, “It’s almost midnight, and you’re listening to the loser of Baker’s Creek blab.”
“You shouldn’t call yourself a loser.”
“Oh,” she chuckles. “That’s how my classmates referred to me back in high school. Another reason why being here is like…hell or some kind of punishment. Tomorrow they’ll line up at the bakery to get a peek of me. But I’ll be baking while praying that someone calls me with a job offer.”
“There are plenty of jobs in the factory,” I offer.
“Will they pay enough to help Mom with the bakery before she loses it, recover Dad’s goats, and pay his medical bills?”
I shrug because I have no idea how much money she needs to accomplish all of that, or if we even have a position at the factory to offer her.
“Selling one kidney might get the goats back,” she chuckles, shoving her phone inside her purse and standing up. “Thank you for the company. Maybe next time, we’ll talk about what’s keeping you up all night.”