

My Cup of Tea

Summer of Love

Volume 1

KAT LIEU
Copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Lieu

Published by Nummyz Productions at Smashwords

All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Lieu

Cover art copyright © 2014 by Evelyn Lieu

Cupcake stock images belong to Alice Chuang

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by _Nummyz Productions,_ New York City

www.nummyz.com

eISBN-13: 9781310306587

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word marks mentioned in this fiction: Beano, Bentley, Cadillac Coupe Deville, Cake Boss, Chiclet, Chef Boyardee, Darth Vader, Facebook, Google, Hello Kitty, Hester Prynne, H&M, Junior's, Macy's, MetroCard, Michelin, Old Spice, Peter Pan, Ponzu, Raybans, Rite-Aid, Sherlock Holmes, Smaug, SpongeBob, Starbucks, Strawberry Shortcake, Swarovski, Vera Wang, Victoria's Secret, and Wicked Witch of the West

Dedication

I dedicate this novella to all my Nummyz Moderators, fans old and new, and to all the dreamers out there. This series is also dedicated to patients with breast cancer. For the entire month of October in 2014 (and in subsequent years) 50% of sales of this book will be donated to Susan G. Komen For the Cure ®.

Table of Contents

  1. Prologue

  2. Sara, June 21st, afternoon

  3. Ian, June 21st, afternoon

  4. Sara, June 21st, evening

  5. Sara, July 21st, late morning

  6. Ian, July 21st, late morning

  7. Sara, July 21st, noon

  8. Ian, July 21st, afternoon

  9. Sara, July 21st, afternoon

  10. Ian, July 21st, evening

  11. Sara, July 21st, evening

  12. Ian, July 21st, nighttime

  13. Sara, July 21st, nighttime

  14. Sara, July 22nd, noon

  15. Ian, July 22nd, noon

  16. Sara, July 22nd, nighttime

  17. Ian, July 23rd, morning

  18. Ian, August 8th

  19. Sara, August 9th, afternoon

  20. Ian, August 9th, afternoon

  21. Sara, August 9th, nighttime

  22. Ian, August 10th, midnight

  23. Ian, August 10th, late morning

  24. Sara, August 10th, nighttime

  25. Excerpt from Blood Angels

  26. About the author

Prologue. Ian, May 18th, morning

Jesus Christ... is that an ass pimple?

This is just something you wouldn't notice or expect when you're piss drunk and f*cking a girl you've just met a few hours ago at a bar.

What's her name, Karla maybe, has a fine tushy otherwise–once you overlook that little monster of a bump in the middle of her right butt cheek. Shudder. I cover her exposed body with the comforter. Her blond hair is a mess. From the way she's snoring, she probably has sleep apnea. She was definitely cuter last night when she was clothed and her makeup wasn't smeared all over her face like a kindergartener's painting.

I walk into the bathroom of our hotel room. Cold water hits my face in the shower. Damn it–my head feels like it's about to explode.

Wake up, Ian. This isn't numbing your pain. This isn't helping you move on.

I can't continue to live like this. Losing days of my life to pot. Nights like yesterday's, lost to drunken sex with strangers with ass pimples.

A part of me just wants to end all of this. A bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of wine.

Life without Sarah–it's just life not worth living.

Water hitting my face washes away my tears. Her last words echo in my head.

"Live on for me, my love. Live on, so there's someone who will always remember and love me."

A promise is a promise. And so I continue to live, holding on to memories of her. Until I breathe my last breath, I'll love and treasure Sarah, my first love and the love of my life.

~*~

"Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated." –Confucius

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." –Mother Teresa

1. Sara, June 21st, afternoon

What does it feel like to be in love? Are kisses sweeter than white chocolate? When there's someone special in your life, do butterflies really dance in your stomach? Does your heart skip beats in this person's presence? If that's the case, then can being in love give you cardiac arrest?

I hope not.

My gorgeous cousin Millie gazes into her fiancé's eyes. I wish I could feel what she's feeling as he holds her hands, caressing her fingers. With him by her side, she looks calm and graceful like Mona Lisa.

Now don't think for a second that I'm jealous of Millie. I don't have a crush on her fiancé either. He's not my cup of tea. I'm just as curious as a kitten born days ago. I yearn to feel what Millie is feeling. I want to experience her euphoria and giddiness.

Spring becomes summer today, and Millie is marrying her best friend John. They stand before a hundred and two guests like characters from a romance novel.

I wish that Millie had given me a bigger role in her wedding. I was sure that she would pick me as one of her bridesmaids. Or I could have baked her wedding cake. She always tells me that I'm the best baker she knows.

Millie and I have always been close, so it disappointed me when I found out that I would be nothing more than a guest today. I guess it's okay. I have no experience with wedding planning. Bridesmaids have to spend a lot of money, and Millie knows that I'm poor. With her perfectionist ways, she just wanted everything to be absolutely perfect today. So I respect that.

I watch John smile at Millie and only Millie. In his blue eyes, he can only see her, his blushing bride. She's so stunning, just like a model in a bridal magazine wearing a flattering Vera Wang wedding dress. Millie's black hair, decorated in swan feathers and a large white peony, is coiffed in an elegant updo. It's so pretty... Her veil, studded with hundreds of tiny Swarovski crystals, barely sways in the air. The crystals sparkle like baby rainbows, making Millie look like a fairy princess.

I fan my face. The weather is perfect for spending the day picnicking at Central Park, or sunbathing at the beach in Coney Island. Of course, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else but here by the Rose Garden in Planting Fields, witnessing the holy matrimony between two beautiful people. Happy bees buzz and dance before fragrant pink, white, red, and yellow roses. Nothing smells better than flowers toasting in summer sunlight. I think I can even smell honey from the butts of the bees.

For over a year, Millie had prayed for the weather to be pleasant today. Someone up there must have heard her, blessing the day with robin-egg colored skies, scant puffs of clouds, not a drop of rain, and beautiful sunshine.

Millie couldn't have picked a better place to have her outdoor wedding ceremony. Planting Fields is one of the most romantic public gardens in New York. All around us is an abundance of greenery: pretty flowers, large trees, shrubs, and grass. I love Planting Fields' historic mansions complete with classical colonnades. Being here makes me feel like I've been transported to Pemberley, Mr. Darcy's country estate.

I look around, wondering if there's a modern-day incarnate of Mr. Darcy amongst this crowd. There are some guys my age sitting on the groom's side. Since they're all facing forward and wearing similar tuxes, I can't really tell if they're cute or not.

Then again, if a real life Mr. Darcy exists, he wouldn't be interested in a girl like me. That's no surprise since I'm no Lizzy Bennet. She's smart, witty, and amazing whereas I am none of the above.

The guests are quiet like cicadas during the wintertime. Even the bees have stopped buzzing loudly, and the children are behaving. I watch with eyes unblinking as Millie and John exchange their personalized vows. Tears of joy spill out of Millie's brown eyes, making her makeup run just a little bit. She tells John how much she loves him. How he completes her. How she had always felt that something was missing until he came into her life.

I sigh. This is all too romantic to be real. Millie doesn't seem to care that her makeup is running. John looks teary even though he's smiling with his Chiclet-teeth bared. Millie and John embrace for a long, passionate kiss. Everyone cheers for them, some rowdier than others.

Happy for Millie, I can't help but cry too. Weddings–they could turn even the worst curmudgeon into a romantic.

Marrying at the age of twenty-eight to the love of her life seems like a great accomplishment. I touch my palm to the middle of my chest. I know there isn't one, but I feel as if there's a hole in my heart. A missing puzzle piece. At seventeen (almost eighteen), I've never been kissed before. I've never held a guy's hand. On Valentine's Day, I've never received any presents, not even a cheap piece of candy.

Will I find someone who will complete me when I turn twenty-eight?

Filled with doubt, I sigh again. No sparkling pink diamond is going to adorn my left ring finger anytime soon. But that's okay. I don't mind being alone. I don't have to worry about someone else. I can be myself: silly, kooky, plain old Sara Lee-Affen. It'll be hard to find someone who accepts me for me. I have too many quirks and not all of them are lovable.

It would be nice though to be standing where Millie is standing a decade from now. I imagine my groom to be tall. He doesn't have to be too tall though because I'm just sixty-one and a half inches tall (5' 1.5"). He doesn't have to be incredibly DH–dark and handsome. I'm not picky or incredibly superficial. I just have a sliver of superficiality in me. Hey, who doesn't?

I think I would wear a short wedding dress when I get married. Today I'm wearing a strapless teal-colored cocktail dress. It's like a prom dress. It's tight around the waist like a corset, which helps conceal my "baby fat." It also deflates my boobs a little, which is good since I'm quite well endowed for a half-Asian American girl. I have knockers, and yet I'm not too proud of them. They stick out like two fat torpedoes and aren't exactly attractive like the racks on Victoria's Secret models. I just don't get it. Why do girls always want big boobs? I'd be happy with a B-cup.

I also hate my short hair. It takes forever to grow. Last year, I chopped off all my hair, thinking that I would look cuter with a pixie cut. How wrong I was. Pixie cuts only work for celebrities with small, angular faces. My short hair made me look like a chubby Peter Pan. After a year of wearing hats to conceal my bad hairstyle, I finally have wavy, shoulder-length hair. My bangs (surprisingly, I can rock bangs) are side-swept. This morning, I decided to put my hair up in a ponytail. Only touches of makeup exist on my face: cherry lip-gloss, mascara, and a thin layer of foundation. All my makeup is from the discount counters at Rite-Aid.

The ceremony concludes and the bridal party follows the happy bride and groom. The shutters of dozens of cameras click. Rice and iridescent bubbles fly in the air. Children run around, not knowing that this park isn't their playground. Everyone makes their way toward the Dahlia Garden to take pictures with Millie and John. Getting up from my seat, I hear bees buzzing by my ears. Having never been stung by a bee before, I don't know if I'm allergic to bee stings. Could bees kill me? Not wanting to take a chance, I shoo the bees away from my ears with my hands. Not smart. I should have remembered that bees don't attack if you stay still like a good little gerbera daisy.

Walking away from my seat, I feel a tickling sensation inside my right ear. Loud buzzing sounds echo in my ear. I can feel a bee burrowing into my ear canal, frantically flapping its tiny wings. Crap! Please don't enter my brain!

I feel pain–sharp crazy pain, stemming from the prick of a thick stinger, makes me scream and flail my arms. What the heck does the darn bee want? There's no honey in my ear, only earwax and little hairs.

I run around in circles like a crazy Chihuahua on fire, suffering from the pain. After touching my ear, I notice a spot of blood on my finger. I know one thing's for sure: I'm going to die from this bee sting. This wedding is about to become my tragedy.
2. Ian, June 21st, afternoon

Bah... weddings. They're only fun in movies and on TV. In real life, weddings are snore-fests, bore-fests. Case and point, I'm at my cousin John's wedding and for the past thirty minutes (or longer), his wedding officiant has been reciting some Jesus lines about love and blah, blah, blah.

I feel like I'm attending Sunday mass.

John and his girl Millie have these lovey-dovey looks in their eyes. It's touching, I'll admit. I always thought that John would be a bachelor for life, like me. I guess people do change when they finally grow up.

I squint. The sun is blinding, and damn bees are buzzing like there's no tomorrow for them. If I'm ever getting married, there's no way in hell that I'm going to have an outdoor ceremony. I'll just get married in a little air-conditioned chapel in Las Vegas.

The officiant drones on and on and on. Typically, when I'm bored out of my wits like now, I people-watch and take pictures. Both activities are free and entertaining. I can't think of better ways to pass time.

The wedding ceremony is a standard affair. The groom's side sits to the right and the bride's side sits to the left. Sitting next to me is an aunt who smells like a perfume counter at Macy's. She wrinkles her nose at me. I snap a picture of her with my DSLR camera, immortalizing the royally pissed look she's giving me on digital film.

"Ryan, stop taking pictures of me. And you should have shaven today." She rolls her eyes at me, looking like she's about to have a seizure.

"Shaven? You mean I should have shaved? And it's Ian, Aunt Tootie, not Ryan." I snap another picture of her.

"I'm Aunt Tara, not Tootie! And where's that mother of yours?"

I shrug. My mother usually stays away from events involving my deceased father's relatives.

I swear, there are fumes coming out of Aunt Tara's ears. I can barely suppress a chuckle. "Calm down before you pop a vein or two, Aunt Tootie."

She gasps. "Why can't you be more like John? Why do you always have to be the black sheep of our family, Brian?"

"Cause once you go black, you can never go back..." I can't believe I just said that.

"Why I never!" Auntie Tootie crosses her arms and ignores me. Boo, that got boring fast. I like making her seethe. Wait, wait... I think she just farted. I squeeze my nose and make a face at her. She does the same to me, trying to pin me as the origin of her gas.

"Oh, Aunt Tootie, did you forget to take your Beano again?"

"You are... despicable. Just like your mother!" With that, Auntie Tootie crosses her arms and turns away from me.

I decide to leave her alone. Poor old girl will probably have a brain aneurysm if I continue to provoke her.

I look around us and see mischievous little munchkins, dressed like dolls, refusing to stay still on their parents' laps. There are the older folks holding their canes and rolling walkers, sitting in the front rows. There are men in stuffy suits and tuxes, like me, sweating like a bunch of sweaty men trapped in suits in the summertime.

Looking at the bride's side I notice a girl with a simple ponytail wearing a teal dress that looks a bit too small for her. I wonder how she's breathing. She has this goofball look on her face as she stares unblinkingly at the bride and groom. She looks like she's about to cry. Oh yeah, there go the tears. Weddings always make females sob like little babies.

This girl has a rounded, flushed face and large, almond-shaped eyes that give her a startled, doe-like appearance. Reflecting the sun, her hair is dark brown. She isn't strikingly beautiful and yet there's something appealing about the animated expressions on her face. She's like an anime character. Blinking, she wipes the tears off her face and smiles. Lush lips allow her to have a pretty smile. I think she has freckles, but she's too far away for me to confirm that.

In New York City, you typically see more than a hundred faces a day. Actually, on any packed street alone, you probably pass by more than a hundred faces. In the subways, on the streets, at Starbucks, and in Central Park–all those faces, albeit unique, never make me do a double take. Those faces are bland, never smiling, and often too forgettable as the faces of strangers tend to be. NYC doesn't need some sort of deadly viral outbreak; it's already full of zombies.

This girl, however, draws my attention and keeps my boredom at bay. I like seeing her eyes widen to twice their size. That warm smile of hers is infectious, making me want to smile like a doofus. I capture her with my camera.

I wonder how old she is and guess that she's probably sixteen.

Claps and cheers take my eyes away from the girl. Finally the ceremony is over. Everyone starts walking away from the roses to take pictures by the dahlias. Flowers–they all look and smell the same to me. Transiently they're beautiful and then they just wilt and die.

Like the rest of the zombies here, I stand from my seat and take steps toward the dahlias. Formalities, Ian. Soon this day will be over. Let's snap some photos of these pretty flowers and the bees.

The sound of a girl screaming and screeching freezes my feet. It's the girl with the doe eyes who's suddenly flapping her arms and running around in circles as if her dress were in flames.

Damn, she looks like she's in pain. I should feel bad for her. Instead, I let out a hearty laugh, slapping my knee and all. I haven't had such a good laugh in the longest. My laughter dies when she runs straight toward me with her arms still flailing. She's wailing profanities that would make sailors blush like embarrassed nuns. Mothers around us cover their children's ears, tsking disapprovingly.

"Get this #$@$*^% bee outta my ear!" the silly girl hollers. She drops to the grassy ground and rolls around, hands clapping on her ears. She'd probably give herself a concussion before she convinces that bee to leave her be. (Pun intended.)

I'm no expert in removing bees out of ears, so I shrug at her and take my smartphone out to dial 911. She has this odd look on her face. I bet she's upset because I just laughed at her. Now I'm nonchalant about her dreadful predicament.

The truth is, I really don't care about her little bee sting. Unless she's allergic to bees, she's going to live.

"I just called 911," I tell her. "Take a deep breath and try to relax. If you stop squirming and screaming, maybe the bee will come out on its own."

She frowns at me with her brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. I was right; she does have freckles on her face. They're sprinkled prettily across her cheeks and nose. What do you know? She's a cutie when she's still and not flailing her arms around like a nut job. Her eyes are light brown, a little exotic I must say.

Close up, she looks no older than sixteen. Then again I'm not good at judging people's ages.

She takes a deep breath. Now there are tears in her eyes as she struggles to keep still.

Seconds tick away. Lo and behold, a little bee flies out of her ear. The bee appears drunk, buzzing weakly and flying in zigzag motions. Then its wings stop flapping as it drops, falling to the grass before it croaks.

RIP, little bee. You're in a better place now.

I pick it up, studying its limp body before showing it to the girl, waving it in front of her face.

She squeals like a piglet in pain. "What's wrong with you?" she asks as fat teardrops roll down her cheeks. I shrug. I ask myself the same question all the time. I flick the bee away. Eventually its body will decompose and turn into nutrients for the grass beneath our feet. Ooh, and that's the cycle of life.

"Hey, the worst is over. The bee is dead and you're alive. Get over it and enjoy the rest of the wedding."

She stares at me with a piercing look. I'd be dead if her eyes were daggers. I shrug and walk away, not bothering to help her stand up. The ambulance will arrive soon and take the squealing princess to a local hospital's emergency department where she will be treated for a little bee sting. She doesn't need my help. This stranger can't afford her any kindness. His heart is blacker than tar and colder than a drowning polar bear. Which reminds me; global warming sucks bollocks.

The girl rises from the ground on her own. When she catches up to me and kicks me in the shin, I immediately regret being a jerk to her.

Dammit. Maybe I'll need to go to the hospital too.

3. Sara, June 21st, evening

What the flying heck is wrong with men these days? Why did that guy wave the dead bee in front of my face, especially after said bee had nearly ripped out my eardrum? It caused half of my face to swell up like a deformed tomato. I wish I had kicked him harder, so that he would be the one half-dead and lying on a plinth in Plainview Hospital's emergency department now.

I could have enjoyed the rest of the wedding. Instead I'm out of commission for the remainder of the day. Maybe for the rest of the week even. Normally, I don't complain, but why do these silly things always happen to me? I mean, I'm sure that bees have flown into other people's ears before, but sometimes, it's like Lady Bad Luck makes it her goal in life to handpick the crappiest things to happen to me.

Okay... so I'm exaggerating. I know that I only faced a first world problem today. I really shouldn't be complaining so much. In other parts of the world, bed bugs crawl into little kids' ears. Every single night. Rats bite off their toes and mosquitoes attack them relentlessly. The true victim today is that dead bee, not me. Unless of course I'm allergic to bees, which I'm not, thankfully. Otherwise I'd be dead too.

I sigh and wait patiently for a nurse or doctor to treat me and stop the ringing in my ear. Hopefully someone can give me something to decrease the swelling in my face. Dad sits at the waiting area. I bet he's playing one of those addictive games, Candy Smoosh or something, on his smartphone. I know he doesn't mind being here with me. He didn't enjoy the wedding since he doesn't like the relatives on Mom's side.

They don't like him either. To them, he's anti-social and too quiet. Too mysterious. Too stingy. Too cold. They still remember how he didn't shed a single tear at Mom's funeral.

What they don't know is that Dad didn't want me to see him crying. He wanted to be strong for me because I was still a child when Mom passed away.

Dad shows love a different way; however, I still wish that he would just come in here and stand next to me. Maybe hold my hand. Pat my head. Give me a cup of water. I know I'm going to be okay but his reassurances would make me feel a million times better.

I guess I can't expect a fifty-year-old man to be sensitive and caring like a mother. The last time he held my hand was at Mom's funeral. He kept my hand in his all that time.

If only Mom were still here. She'd hold my hand and pat my head. She'd make me feel like I was ten years old again. That was when the world was full of rainbows, sunshine, shooting stars, and unicorns. My parents were my invincible heroes then. Cancer was a disease that only other people had.

Being in this hospital brings back so many painful memories. It was at Maimonides Hospital in Brooklyn where we said our goodbyes. I can't believe that Mom has been gone for so long now. Eight long and lonely years. The passage of time only eases pain slightly. God knows how much I still miss her.
4. Sara, July 21st, late morning

a month later..

Wearing a frumpy one-piece bathing suit, I feel out of place at Millie and John's pool party. I'm the only female not wearing a bikini. Toddlers and even John's granny are in bikinis. She's one hot granny, I have to say.

John and Millie are tan like baked fish sticks. They had a two-week long honeymoon in the Maldives, heaven on earth, where the water and skies are impossibly blue. Shortly after they returned from paradise, they moved into their new two-storied house in Staten Island. I'm not going to get a tan today. I'm going to turn spinach green with envy.

Their house can pass as a mansion. It has three large bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. Why a couple would need three and a half bathrooms is beyond me. They even have a pool, a garage, and both a front yard and a backyard.

It's the day before my birthday and Millie has decided to throw me a birthday party. A pool party. I appreciate her thoughtfulness but I've never been a party girl. If I had to go to a party, I'd prefer going to one where people aren't so scantily clad.

Last year, I spent my birthday at home baking red velvet cake pops and eating a baker's dozen by myself. I had probably given myself a diabetic episode that day, but hey, it was worth it. Temporary diabetes tasted heavenly.

I can't help but stare at my cousin's amazing physique. I bet Millie never eats thirteen cake pops in one sitting, though she did eat a lot during her honeymoon. Darn her good genes and superior metabolism. She leaves little to the imagination, wearing a lovely black bikini. My dark green one-piece bathing suit wraps around me like seaweed over a piece of sushi. It doesn't hide my lumps of fat, but it's better than exposing said lumps to the world. I don't want to blind anyone here, especially since they're all strangers to me, save for a few relatives whom I've lost touch with since Mom passed away.

I guess Millie was just being nice when she said that we're celebrating my eighteenth birthday today. They're just stacking my birthday celebration on to their housewarming party. Their guests brought over house gifts: pots and pans, a robotic vacuum, ceramic dishes, a teapot set, a wine cooler, etc...

I guess it's the thought that counts, so I appreciate Millie for celebrating my birthday this year. Maybe she feels guilty about not making me one of her bridesmaids.

She also pities me. I'm not as tall and pretty as her. She knows that I don't have many friends. Real ones at least. It's hard to make friends in a huge city where everyone has a _me-me-me_ mentality. Everyone's egotistic and egocentric.

Though that's true, it's not the real reason why I don't have any good friends. I've been a recluse since I was ten years old. I've always been socially awkward, and it wasn't until two years ago that I've been able to step out of my shell, step by step, bit by bit.

So as always, like the past seven years, no one will celebrate my birthday tomorrow. Dad always forgets. Or chooses to forget special days. Without Mom in our life, he doesn't believe in celebrations anymore.

I sigh and glance over at Millie. She's the shining star on Mom's side. Celebrations aren't rare in her life.

Me on the other hand... I'm just a shadow. People don't celebrate shadows. But then again, being a shadow has its benefits I guess. No one is jealous of me, which means that no one hates me. I'd rather be forgotten than a constant target on some hater's mind. No one hurts shadows. No one bothers them. Being a shadow has its benefits as there's safety and bliss in loneliness.

While people chat, laugh, perform crazy cannonballs and sip bubbly beneath the sun, I hide myself beneath a gigantic brown umbrella that's atop a round black table on the patio. Around my torso and thighs is a thick beach towel with watermelons all over it. Alone and under the shade, I browse through the e-books in my e-reader. Nothing relaxes me more than reading. Immersing myself in an exciting thriller, I drown out the world around me.

5. Ian, July 21st, late morning

John should be a real estate agent instead of a dentist. For an hour, he talked my ear off over the phone, gushing about his new home in Staten Island. He and Millie are having a housewarming party today. I have no excuse not to go since it's a beautiful Saturday, I'm single, and their home is right over the Verrazano Bridge.

As beautiful and impressive as it is, that bridge scares me. I always wonder if my car would fly off of it on a windy day. After all, my car is just a hunk of rusting metal with a rotting engine against Mother Nature herself.

So I always end up driving on the lower level of the bridge. John thinks that I'm a wuss for being scared of driving on the upper level, which makes the drive a hundred times more scenic. Hey, at least I'm not whipped by a girl.

Ever since John has been married, he barely hangs out with his bros. Millie doesn't like his friends. She tolerates me because I'm family. She hates go-karting and snowboarding, unlike John. She doesn't like sports in general. She likes puppies, diamonds and playing house. Her husband is her best friend now, and a girl's best friend must do girly things. Welcome to the end of your life, bro, I told John.

"Soon, she'll buy a prissy yorkie and make you take care of it like it's your son."

His laughter filled my ear over the phone. "Joke all you want, Ian," he said. "You know this would have happened to you too, eventually, if Sarah were still here."

The truth stings. Just to see Sarah smile, I would have driven off the Verrazano Bridge if that were her wish. In fact, if I could see her again in heaven, I would happily jump off that bridge myself.

Of course, once I hit the water, I'd go straight to hell. Either way, I'm never seeing Sarah again.

"Sorry, man... didn't mean to remind you..."

"Don't worry about it, John. It's been a year already. I've finally gotten over it," I lied.

Two hours after John and I ended our phone call, I'm bored out of my mind at his fancy-smancy, fit for a summertime socialite housewarming party. John barely has time to talk to me. He has to man the grill like a BBQ pro. Leave it up to me and everyone here would be eating salmonella-infested raw burgers and wings, and going home with explosive diarrhea.

I would rather spend my day shooting pictures of the city like a tourist than mingling with John and his wife's friends and my boring relatives. Every now and then, I don't mind social gatherings, but these housewarming parties are too stuffy. They force you to be friendly. You can't just stand in a corner by yourself sipping beer. Once you make eye contact with someone, you have to smile and make small talk with him or her. And after you make small talk, you become Facebook "friends" with each other.

I like parties at clubs where you can make small talk with an attractive girl, buy her a drink, dance with her, and then end the night with her in bed. You say your goodbyes in the morning and watch her scuttle off before you take a shower. A glorious new day begins.

None of that's happening here today, not that I'm looking forward to having a one-night stand tonight.

To cool off, I jump into the pool, thinking I'd be able to swim a few laps. It's too crowded with little kids at one end and couples at another. What a strange mix of people here. Oh hey, there's Aunt Tootie (the strangest of them all) staring daggers my way. Holy, she should not have worn that teenie-tiny yellow bikini with red polka dots. It looks like she has jaundice and chicken pox at the same time. I think I'm going to have nightmares for a week. Oh the horror. How she jiggles!

When she notices me, I wiggle my eyebrows at her. She shakes her head at me and quickly looks away. Ha.

I exit the pool and dry off with a soft navy-blue beach towel. As I'm staring straight ahead, someone catches my eyes.

She's that silly bee-in-the-ear girl from the wedding. Sitting alone under a large umbrella on the patio, she's holding what looks like an e-reader. She's wearing an unattractive one-piece bathing suit that reminds me of seaweed. Auntie Tootie and the girl should swap outfits.

Over the girl's lap is a towel with watermelons all over it.

I shake my head. She's the most covered-up female at the party. Even Granny Fran is wearing a stylish blue bikini. You go girl, Granny Fran. Rock that thong.

Anyway, whatever that girl is reading creates different expressions on her face every few seconds. She bites her bottom lip and furrows her brow. Then she widens her eyes.

She's just so darn animated. I'd like to know what kind of meds she's taking and get some for myself. I walk toward her. What do I hope to accomplish from this encounter? Just to say hi and maybe apologize? I'd like to know how the hospital treated her little bee sting. Might as well keep myself entertained for the rest of the day. Time will pass faster that way.

The girl looks up as if sensing my approach. Her jerk-alert senses must be tingling. Our eyes meet. Hers widen like a startled lamb's in the presence of a wolf. Then they narrow into unhappy slits when she recognizes me. I prepare to duck just in case she decides to chuck that e-reader at my head. That thing has hard edges. It's guaranteed to hurt if she has a mean throw. Though I highly doubt that, seeing how she has un-toned arms and small hands.

6. Sara, July 21st, noon

A minute ago, when I noticed someone approaching me, I couldn't help but ogle at perfectly formed man pecs and a tapered waist complete with well-defined washboard abs. Droplets of water glisten on his tan skin. Said tan skin belongs to a hot guy walking toward me. Water from the pool drips off his dark hair. His lean and muscular legs are made for running. His blue swim trunks, wet and plastered to his skin, leave little to my imagination. I gulped before holding my breath and sucking in my belly. I felt his eyes on me, all hot and smoldering. Having a feeling that a handsome face goes along with his hot bod, my eyes traveled upward to confirm my theory.

Sharp features. Chiseled jawline. Straight nose with two nostrils that are perfectly shaped and sized. Cellophane forest-green eyes filled with intelligence. He's so hot, but shoot...

Too bad it's him, that jerk from Millie's wedding. The heat spreading across my face dissipates. Drool stops flooding in my mouth. I struggle hard to restrain myself from chucking my e-reader at him. He's lucky that I can't afford another e-reader. I have to save money, considering the cost of textbooks, commuting, meals, and other fees as a college student.

Instead of throwing something at the guy, maybe I should stand up and kick him where it hurts. And this time, his shin wouldn't be at the receiving end of my kick. Then again I could just ignore him. Jerks like him don't know how to react when they're ignored. I remember being bullied in elementary school. I just ignored the bully. Eventually he stopped picking on me because I bored him. Of course by then, he had already scarred me for life.

I could pretend that this jerk in front of me doesn't exist. Like a character from a novel, he's just a figment of someone's imagination. I look back down at my e-reader, hoping that he will just get the clue and turn away.

Instead of going away as I had hoped, he says, "Hey you," and then asks, "How's your ear?"

Maybe he's not talking to me. I look up and darn it he is, unless he's crazy and talking to some imaginary person with an ear problem. He looks at me with those piercing eyes. They're so green that I can see a forest in them. Despite disliking him, I have to admit that he has a pair of gorgeous eyes.

He has gorgeous everything, save for his personality and that crescent-shaped scar on his stubble-covered chin. It doesn't mar his appearance though. It just gives him a dark, almost dangerous edge. He could make any girl's knees weak and turn her into a puddle of nothing.

Sara, build your immunity against him!

I wonder how old he is. He's probably in his early twenties. He still has this boyish look, one that only growing men have. His voice is pleasant and has richness to it. It definitely belongs to a man. I gulp.

Looking at me, he doesn't blink. I guess he's not going away until I answer him.

God! Why does this guy have to be so darn good looking? He has the full lips of a model. Super kissable. You know, like those guys who show off their hot bods in brand name underwear, sporting these sultry looks and kissable pouts on their perfect faces? Those lips of his curl into a smirk, one that belongs to a-holes and d-bags.

I pat my ear and pretend that I'm deaf. Dude, get a hint and leave me alone. I just want to finish my e-book! I'm just about to find out who the psycho killer is!

"You heard me just fine. Bee stings can't deafen you," he says, cocking his head and smirking. "Besides, bees can't crawl all the way to your eardrum..."

I part my lips, ready to disagree with him, but before any words can leave my mouth, he adds, "I just wanted to apologize. I'm sorry about being an ass to you that day. My name's Ian Forrests. I'm John's cousin." He extends his hand, waiting for me to shake it. I look at his hand, imagining that it's covered with blisters and hairy warts. That fails me. Even his hands are gorgeous. Such long piano-playing fingers. Snap out of it, Sara!

"I'm sorry. I mean it." Though he looks serious, there's a hint of mischief in his eyes.

I didn't expect an apology from him. Should I accept it? It just doesn't seem that sincere. I shrug. "Good for you," I say, not really knowing how to react to him. I know that didn't make any sense, but who cares? And why the heck is he trying to be nice to me now?

"Good for you?" He looks confused and then grins, obviously amused. "Okay... if that's how you accept apologies. Anyway, what's your name?"

I figure that if I reply with simple answers, he'd eventually get bored enough to leave me alone. I clear my throat. "Sara."

"Excuse me?" He narrows his eyes.

"Sara. S-A-R-A. No H."

Hearing me repeat my name, he looks down at his bare feet. Yes, even his feet are gorgeous. He doesn't have gross toenails. Does that mean he gets pedicures? Ugh, a high-maintenance guy.

He raises his head and stares at me with a spacey expression on his face. Why is he doing this, looking at me with his eyes unblinking and his lips slightly parted?

"Sarah," he stammers and runs his fingers through his wet hair. There's a look of pain in his eyes. I've seen this look before. It's the same expression that Dad's eyes held when Mom left us. It's not just pain. It's sorrow.

I scratch my head. Ian is still staring at me with that doleful look. I don't know why but I want to hug him. How can someone like him suddenly appear so vulnerable? "Something wrong?" I ask him.

Ian finally blinks and shakes his head. "No... nothing." He dismisses himself with a wave of his hand and walks away.

"Okay... what a strange guy," I mutter. Strange, high-maintenance guy with perfectly pedicured feet and beautiful hands.

I can't help but still think that something was wrong. But what can I do for him? I sigh and return my attention to the e-book.

Aha! As I had suspected, the evil twin did it. It's always the evil twin... how hackneyed. Then again, what's original anymore these days?

7. Ian, July 21st, afternoon

Sipping a beer, I look up at the skies. Which cloud is Sarah hiding behind? I wish a white feather would fall from the heavens and float into my hand, so I know for sure that she's an angel now, and that she's looking down at me and missing me like hell.

Because I miss her like hell.

She's been gone for a year now, and yet nothing eases the pain of losing her. Time, alcohol, pot, and sex–they're all just temporary distractions.

"Daniel?" says a girl with a high-pitched voice, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Oh my god! I can't believe I'd bump into you here."

With my right eyebrow raised, I turn my attention toward a girl approaching me. Before me stands a hot chick with long ginger hair and amazing assets barely hidden by a magenta bikini. My eyes approve, though someone should ban what she's wearing, especially at this kid-friendly party. Damn, those breasts of hers can't be real. Overtly I check her out before forcing my eyes to travel upward toward her face. Her cheeks are rosy from the sun, and her eyes are bright green and full of impish mischief.

Normally, I don't go for redheads with squeaky voices, but hey she's one smoking hot redhead. Plus, she just hit on me with an unoriginal but effective pick up line. If she's eighteen and over, then she's game.

"I'm Ian actually," I say, flashing her my best smile. "You must be mistaking me for my twin brother, Daniel."

She knits her brows together for a second before smiling. She knows that I know that she doesn't really know a guy named Daniel who looks anything like me. And that I don't really have a twin brother named Daniel.

But she plays along. "Really?" She twirls a strand of her shiny hair. "Up close, you don't look like my friend Daniel anymore... You're much hotter..."

"I am hotter than Daniel, my un-identical twin brother who is also your friend. I got all the good stuff in the womb, along with the superior genes."

She giggles at my comment.

Grinning, I edge a little closer to her. She smells delectable like a freshly baked coconut cupcake. She must have slathered scented lotion all over her silky skin. She's the type of girl that's unhealthy for you, like processed carbohydrates to diabetics.

"Okay, I admit that that was a lame pick up line." She shrugs nonchalantly and runs her fingers through her hair. "I'm Sandy by the way. Nice to meet you, Ian," she drawls. She looks like a Sandy. That Sara, on the other hand, does not look like a Sara.

With feline-like reflexes, Sandy grabs my bottle of beer and drinks it before suggestively licking the mouth of the bottle. Damn, she's bold. I bet she does this to a lot of guys and drives them nuts.

"So, how do you know the hosts?" she asks me.

"You mean John and Millie? John's my cousin."

"Cool. I'm just their neighbor's grown-up kid home for the summer." Sandy shrugs. "Anyway, their party kinda sucks, don't you think? Wanna have some fun elsewhere?" she asks, chewing on her bottom lip while staring at my mouth. Yes, I know I'm sexy. You don't have to be so obvious about it, Sandy.

This party doesn't just kinda suck. It reeks. I'll have to let John know later and heckle him for inviting me. Then again, I knew this party would suck. Major suckage, well until now. Sandy is still staring at my mouth. If she keeps doing that, I'm going to have to use my mouth on her right here.

"What are you suggesting?" I have an idea of what she's hinting at. I wouldn't mind having fun with this little vixen. Beats standing around here people-watching and getting skin cancer from the harsh sun.

She turns to look at John's house. "We can start by exploring their home."

"Sounds fun." The fun part is that I'm sure we'd be exploring more than John's place. I've already been inside before to change into my swim trunks. John's house is nice, but his furniture and decor are too girly and chic for my tastes. The place is also smaller than I thought it would be. Then again, not everyone lives in a mansion.

Sandy takes my hand, leading me toward the house. My feet freeze when I hear people singing the Happy Birthday song. Both Sandy and I turn around to look at a group of people gathering by the poolside. There's a small pink cake atop a table covered in a white plastic tablecloth. Next to the cake is that silly girl, Sara. Surrounding Sara are Millie, John and a bunch of little kids all eyeing the cake. Mmm cake.

I spot a look of embarrassment on Sara's flushed face. John lights the candles on the cake. That look on her face transforms into a delighted one as her eyes fix upon the flickering flames. She claps her hands and closes her eyes before blowing out every candle. The children around her clap, cheer, and dance before chanting, "Cake, cake, cake..."

Sara opens her eyes and smiles triumphantly. She takes the hands of a little boy beside her and dances with him. The tiny bugger looks like the happiest camper in the world as he twirls with Sara.

Tears form in my eyes as a memory of my Sarah floods my mind.

When I celebrated Sarah's last birthday, I surprised her with her favorite cheesecake from Junior's. I placed twenty candles on the cake and lit them all. Sarah closed her eyes, clapped her hands, and made a wish before blowing out all the candles with one strong and long breath. I was afraid she would pass out after that. But she didn't. She took my hands and we danced, spinning around like children.

Sarah brought out the child in me. She was the reason why I smiled, laughed, and cried. She made me human.

"What the hell... are you crying?" Sandy's annoying voice snaps me out of my reverie. "What's wrong?" She looks more weirded out than concerned. I guess I would be weirded out too if I saw a man like me suddenly tear up like a baby with a soiled diaper.

I shake my head. "Runny sunscreen got into my eye," I fib and rub my face.

"Oh... really?"

It's as if she can't believe that I wear sunscreen. I'm a firm believer of sunscreen, even though I'm not wearing it today. Who wants to get skin cancer anyway?

I look at Sandy and remove my hand from hers.

"Sorry, Sandy, but I won't be joining you. I think I'd have more fun joining the little birthday party over there."

Judging from the what-the-hell look she had just given me, I bet you that she thinks I'm some sort of creep. Maybe even a pedophile. Confirming my suspicions, she says, "Whatever, weirdo." She rolls her eyes at me before walking away to find a replacement playmate. Good luck to her. There aren't many good-looking studs here save for John and me. Hell, I'm the best-looking stud here though some people might disagree. Like Sara over there.

I really think I'd have more fun joining the birthday party. My sweet tooth craves the pink birthday cake. Pink desserts draw me like a bug to a zapper. I might have to fight the horde of children swarming around the birthday girl to get some.

Walking toward Sara, I can't help but study the mix of animated expressions on her glowing face. If zombies were to eat her, they'd come back to life. She looks up and our eyes lock. Normally I would turn away to break eye contact. I don't like it when people can see the pain in my eyes or the other emotions I try to hide.

Her eyes widen. She doesn't turn away either. Looking at me, it's as if she can see right through me. See through the hard shell into the fragile interior. Something stirs inside of me, something familiar. Something strange as a flood of emotions washes over me.

I just can't stop staring at her. Why? She's not half as hot as Sandy. And I can't call her beautiful because in my eyes, only Sarah was beautiful.

And yet silly Sara intrigues me. Like a magnet, she draws me toward her. I shorten the distance between us, approaching her like a hungry lion closing in on a wounded gazelle.
8. Sara, July 21st, afternoon

The closer Ian inches toward me, the more he jangles my nerves. Why is he heading toward me again anyway? I take a step back and imagine falling into the pool. Maybe that would be a good idea. I'd cool off a bit. Because he makes me nervous, I'm extra sweaty like a 10K runner about to cross the finish line. My entire core is burning up like a radiator. I can feel my pulses thunder. Why though? Why does he make me feel this way? Is it because I hate him so much? But I can't even remember why I dislike him.

Oh yeah. I don't like him because he acted like an icy d-bag at Millie's wedding when a bee almost killed me.

When Ian is but a foot away from me, I stop breathing. I can't hear the kids around me anymore. It's as if everyone has disappeared, and only Ian and I are left in the world. Or as if time had frozen. His dark gaze remains on me.

I'm in trouble. I hate to admit it but Ian is hot, hot, and hot whereas I'm one hot, melting mess. I'm also so darn embarrassed because little kids are celebrating my eighteenth birthday, and I'm enjoying all of it. Ian probably thinks I'm turning thirteen.

Great, great, great. Not!

"There you are, Ian," John says, slapping his cousin on the shoulder. This breaks the eye contact between Ian and me. I let out a relaxed breath. My body is no longer so tense.

John keeps smacking Ian and Ian doesn't budge from the slapping even though it sounds painful. Guys are so rough with each other.

"Finally decided to socialize for a change, you mopey bastard?" John grins.

"Watch your language, John," Millie says, looking at the kids around us.

"Yes, Master Mils," John replies, making Millie giggle.

"Good boy, Igor," she says.

"Whipped." Ian rolls his eyes, pushes John away and retorts, "And sure. Who should I mingle with? This pipsqueak with the pigtails over here or that squirt over there with no teeth and cake frosting all over this face?"

Ian's comment makes me chuckle. All the children edge away from him as if he's the Boogeyman. He stares at the cake and then at me.

"Eighteen candles, huh? Which means you're eighteen?" Ian has a surprised look on his face as he scratches his head.

I ignore his comment. I knew it. He probably did think that I'm thirteen or younger.

Millie looks at me and then at Ian. "Hey, have you two met yet? Sara, this is John's cousin, Ian. And Ian, this is my dearest cousin, Sara. She's more like a little sister to me."

Millie is like an older sister to me. I'm glad she's in my life. Growing up, I didn't have many female role models to look up to save for Millie.

Ian nods. "Yes, we've met. In fact, we first met at your wedding."

"Oh how cute!" Millie claps her hands together and smiles. "Did you witness Sara's little bee incident? If the paramedics didn't tell us that she would be okay, John and I would have canceled the rest of our wedding that day."

I groan. Everyone witnessed my "little bee incident." I knew that Millie was concerned but she wasn't going to cancel the rest of her wedding unless I was going to croak at the ceremony.

"Oh yes, I remember the little bee incident." Ian smirks. "I'm the one who called 911."

I feel my face burn up like a boar roasting over a fire pit.

"Wow, that means you're her savior." Millie smiles. "You guys should become friends then. And not just Facebook friends. Real friends. You know people who hang out in real life and have meaningful conversations in person. People who only text each other all the time aren't really friends." She wiggles her eyebrows and I feel my cheeks grow even hotter like two lumps of coal in a fireplace.

"When John and I first dated, I made sure we called each other every night."

"I agree with Mils," John adds. "You and Sara should be friend-friends." He elbows Ian's side and winks. "You both live in Brooklyn, which means you're practically neighbors. Plus, Sara's a nice girl."

I roll my eyes and wish I could just disappear in a glorious poof of pink smoke. Who cares if we both live in Brooklyn? Brooklyn is a large borough, and I'm sure that Ian isn't my neighbor. And why did John have to say that I'm a nice girl? Nice girls, like nice boys, finish last.

As the seconds tick away, silence engulfs us and I'm feeling more and more uncomfortable like an awkward turtle flipped on its back. Are Millie and John trying to match make me to Ian? Earlier I had seen Ian mingling with a gorgeous redhead. She had the type of body that could give me a nosebleed if she stood right in front of me. All sorts of things went through my mind. I saw her leading Ian toward the house. I imagined them sneaking into the master bedroom to... well you know. Ian belongs with girls like her–the supermodel types. After all, hot bodies belong with other hot bodies.

"What are you two, matchmakers? You want everyone to be in a lovey-dovey, gag-worthy, and sickly-sweet relationship like yours?" Ian closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. "If that's the case, then no thanks. I'm sure I'm not Sara's cup of tea, and she's definitely not mine." He crosses his arms over his chest. "We can be friends though." Shrugging, he sports a who-cares look on his face.

I frown. What he said was uncalled for. He's right though. He's definitely not my cup of tea. He's too hot; I'll give him that. He'd easily burn me. Large hands. A tapered waist. Strong legs. Chiseled chest. Six packs–no wait, eight packs. A devilishly handsome face that belongs on the silver screen.

Oh god, stop it Sara! It's getting annoying.

I convince myself that his arrogance and jerkish nature are major turn offs that can easily blind me from all his hotness. Who cares if his body can make my hormones crazier than butterflies that are high on all sorts of drugs?

I just don't get why it bothers me so much to hear that I'm not his cup of tea either. My lips part and words want to come out. I wish I could say something witty in return, but it always takes hours or days later for me to formulate an awesome comeback. As usual, I slink back like a shadow. Eventually others will do the talking for me.

Millie prods Ian in the ribs. "Friends. Just friends. I wouldn't want Sara to hook up with you anyway, you wolf."

See? Millie to the rescue.

Both John and Ian howl like wolves. They give each other high-fives.

Typical men-boys. So childish. I shake my head. "No thanks. I'd rather befriend pipsqueaks and squirts than Mr. Jerk over here." Whammy! A point goes to Sara Lee-Affen! I surprise myself. I can be spontaneous and witty at times. Raising my chin in defiance and victory, I turn around to walk away. Of course, it's not until one of my feet steps over the ledge of the pool that I realize I had just plunged myself into the water. Good job, Sara!

A large and embarrassing splash later, I'm guzzling water. Crud! I'm normally not this klutzy. When my head is out of the water, I hear laughter. After blowing my nose, wiping my eyes, and sweeping hair away from my face, I see my cousin, her husband, and Ian kneeling by the poolside.

"That was suave," Ian says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Not."

I wrinkle my nose and grit my teeth at him.

"You okay, Sara?" Millie asks. She presses her lips together to stop herself from laughing at my misery.

I nod. "I meant to do that. I was um... becoming hyperthermic." Yeah right, and I'm sure they believe me. I've always been a terrible liar. Hyperthermic. Who says that anyway? I look around me. Gathered at the other end of the pool are the little cake monsters, my birthday party friends from earlier. "I'm going to join my real friends over there." Before I turn around to swim toward the children, I stick my tongue out at Ian and splash water at the trio.

Millie and John laugh again. This time Ian doesn't look amused. He has that strange, spacey look again, like his mind is floating out of his body. His eyes seem melancholy, reminding me of a lost little boy. The urge to hug him rises in me again.

Ignore him, Sara. He's bad news and possibly bipolar. Or on crack. It's best for me to avoid him for the remainder of the day. I wave at Millie and John and swim off toward my little friends, pretending to be a shark.
9. Ian, July 21st, evening

Sarah was a prankster. She liked to tease me, always sticking her tongue out at me like a schoolgirl. She was so adorable when she did that. Her tongue also tasted sweet, as sweet as her cherry lips and addictive mouth. I close my eyes, remembering our first and last kisses. These haunting, bittersweet memories make my heart ache so badly. I force them away from my head, opening my eyes to welcome the present day once again.

Millie's cousin Sara looks nothing like Sarah, and yet she reminds me of my deceased girlfriend. I just can't pull my attention away from that silly girl as she's waddling in the pool. Here I am standing alone by the pool, eating pink cake and discreetly observing Sara playing with a bunch of loud, squeaky munchkins. Just like a damn stalker. That Sandy chick was right. I am a weirdo.

Knowing that Sara is eighteen, I give myself permission to check her out. I should have known that she was older. She doesn't have a body that the media loves. What she has are curves in all the right places. A real woman's body.

My eyes trail toward her face. Sara looks like she doesn't have a care in the world. She probably has experienced little pain in her life. I bet you that she's never lost someone dear to her before. She probably doesn't worry about the little things. Her smile and laughter are contagious like a stomach virus. Time passes quickly when I have such an interesting subject to observe.

The rest of the day proceeds uneventfully. Guests with little ones leave the party as night falls and fireflies appear. With her friends all gone, Sara looks like she wants to leave too. She has already changed out of her unattractive bathing suit. Now wearing an unflatteringly loose, yellow t-shirt and boy shorts, she looks like SpongeBob with a ponytail. No wonder she's awkward and lacks confidence. She's hiding herself in all the wrong clothing.

Like Sara, I'm ready to call it a night. The remaining guests are the partiers and drinkers. Millie looks a little boozed out. So does John as he busily entertains his guests. Sandy is still around like a leech, clinging on to some poor bloke (who is definitely not hotter than me), and giving me the stink eye every now and then. She's trouble like a pair of scissors in a running toddler's hands. Thank the angels that she's not my problem anymore.

Millie walks over to Sara and pulls her toward the crowd of boozers who are beginning to get rowdy, now that all the children are gone.

"I poured us some lemon drop shots. You can't celebrate a birthday without a shot, now that you're an adult." Millie says, only slurring once, and winks at her cousin.

"You know I don't drink," Sara protests. "I'll get the Asian glow and all woozy."

"Oh come on, just one shot. You won't even feel it."

Sara presses her lips together. "Technically it's not even legal for me to drink yet. I have to be twenty-one first."

"Oh whatever. Stop being such a goody two shoes, Miss I'll-Die-a-Virgin." Millie's laughter sounds evil. Sara's cheeks and ears become super red. I can imagine they're hot too. What a way to embarrass your cousin. Tell the world that she's still a virgin. This doesn't surprise me.

"Fine, I'll take a shot. One shot only." Giving in to peer pressure, Sara takes a shot glass out of Millie's hand. She downs the alcohol in one gulp and almost chokes on it. With the back of her hand, she wipes her mouth. The shot glass slips out of her hand, falling to the ground and shattering into dozens of beautiful shards.

"Oh crap. Sorry about that..." Sara quickly bends down and picks up the glass shards. One fragment slices her finger; a trail of blood stains the glass. She draws her hand toward her face, studying it with a look of trepidation. Blood continues to trickle from the wound, forming a small rivulet down her palm.

Sara looks pale, like she's about to faint. My Sarah could never stand the sight of blood. She sliced her finger once in the kitchen when we were cooking together. When blood squirt out of the cut, her knees weakened and she fainted in my arms. Sarah, my dear, fragile flower...

Without a second thought, I rush toward Sara to stop her from hitting the ground.

10. Sara, July 21st, evening

I've seen it a million times on television and in movies. A plate or a cup shatters, and some character stupidly picks up the glass shards with her bare hands. She then of course slices herself, leading me to yell at her like an angry mother from the couch. Inside my head, I'm screaming at myself for picking up the shard with my bare fingers. I thought I was being careful, but then I sliced my finger. I'm not very squeamish, but there's just so much blood gushing out of the cut. The cut didn't even hurt at first. How did I slice myself so deeply?

Ow, ow, ow. The more I look at the wound and the more I think about it, the more it stings. Thanks to sudden blood loss and the alcohol invading my brain, my knees feel weak. With each blink, I find the world becoming blurrier and blurrier. Feeling dizzy, I think I'm going to faint. I close my eyes and can't stop my body from becoming limp.

A second later, I'm trapped in a bear hug of sorts. Someone has wrapped his strong arms around me. A masculine, musky scent peppered with traces of pool water bleach and cologne invades my nostrils. I don't think I've ever smelled a man this close up before. I open my eyes and through blurry vision, I see Ian embracing me. His body radiates with warmth, especially since he's wearing nothing but swim trunks.

"You okay?" he asks, still holding on to me tightly.

I look up and there are his lips right by my forehead. Up close, he appears even taller. Without distance between us, he can probably feel my heart pounding rapidly against my ribcage. I feel him breathing on me. His breath is cool against my hot face.

I'm so confused by all of this. He's holding me as if he's afraid that I would slip away like sand if he loosens his grip. The way he's gazing into my eyes makes my knees feel weaker than ever. I'm surprised how he doesn't make me feel uncomfortable, even with my chest pressing right against his. I'm feeling shy and embarrassed, but somehow I also feel like it's okay to be in his arms. Like I belong here.

Yeah right. Wake up Sara. You know you should not be attracted to guys like him. Guys like Ian eat girls like you for breakfast.

To answer his question, I nod and say, "I'm fine. I was just woozy for a second, you know from blood loss and all. Thanks..." I feel less lightheaded; I can stand on my own. I try to push Ian away, smearing blood on his chest. He doesn't seem to mind as he continues to gaze into my eyes.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Millie rushes up to us and pries me away from Ian's embrace. A part of me is relieved that my body is no longer pressed against Ian's. Another part of me yearns for continued body contact between us. What the heck is wrong with me?

Hormones. Just blame it on hormones.

Millie grabs my hand to look at the cut. "Shoot. This is deep... you may need stitches. My poor Sara!" She hiccups.

I groan at Millie. "Yeah... Every time I'm at one of your celebrations, I end up in the stupid ER..."

Ian shakes his head at me. "Look, you can joke around which means you'll be fine. We'll run your hand under cold water first. Come on, let's go inside."

"Fine, but if she bleeds to death in my house, I'll never forgive you," Millie says, poking Ian in the chin. He rubs his chin and gives me a what's-up-with-Millie look.

I shrug but I know that we both know what's wrong with Millie. She can't hold her liquor. Just like me.

Millie leads me inside her house, pretending to be my crutch when she needs a crutch more than I do. I decide to humor her. Ian trails behind us. We walk into the open kitchen. Millie puts my hand over the sink and turns on the cold-water faucet. Water flushes the blood out of my wound and numbs the pain.

"Okay keep your hand here. And you, Ian. Ian, you watch her." Millie leaves me with the wolf to grab a first aid kit.

"You don't have to watch me," I tell Ian but he doesn't budge. "Millie's the one who needs watching."

Ian chuckles at my comment. "Hope she doesn't fall into the toilet."

I ignore his comment but that thought had also crossed my mind.

The icy water cleans my cut and whitens the skin around the wound. My whole hand feels numb now. I turn away, hoping that the cold water will stop the cut from bleeding completely. I'd hate to end the night alone in an ER in Staten Island. I wonder how many people end up in ERs after sustaining cuts like mine. Doctors probably make fun of those folks.

"It looks like the bleeding stopped." Ian turns off the faucet. "Yeap. The cut looks deep but it should heal without stitches. As long as you don't re-injure it."

I look at the cut. Ian was right but it still looks like a fresh cut, red on the inside, white on the outside, and just plain nasty.

Millie stumbles back into the kitchen with a small red box in her hands. She shoves it in front of Ian's face. "I'm not feeling so good myself," she slurs. "Put some antibiotic cream on her finger and cover it with a bandage."

"Go sit or lie down," Ian tells Millie. Millie, despite being sloshed, looks at me with concern in her bleary eyes.

"I'll be fine, Mils. Go sit," I tell her.

"Okay, but if that finger starts bleeding again, you're going straight to the ER and Ian's driving." She plops down on a chair by the dining table.

"Don't worry. Even though I'm a wolf, I'll still take good care of your cousin and make sure that she doesn't bleed to death."

My cheeks feel hot. I look away so Ian doesn't see me blushing. I feel his strong fingers wrap around my wrist. Ian's touch sends tingles down my spine to my toes. Heat engulfs my body. He leads me to a chair next to Millie. Millie rests her head down on the table over her folded arms. "Ugh, I hope I don't puke." Seconds later, we hear Millie snoring. I struggle not to laugh at my cousin.

Ian scoffs and then turns toward me. "Does it still hurt?"

"Huh?" I must sound stupid, staring at him as if I've never seen a man before. At least not one this hot. Mind you, he is still shirtless. That dark smear of my blood over his chest looks like tribal paint. I'm surprised he still hasn't wiped it off yet. My eyes travel downward. I can't help but notice his washboard abs. I gulp and hope he doesn't accuse me of sexually harassing him with my eyes.

"Your finger...?" Ian arches an eyebrow and opens the first aid kit.

"Oh... my finger. Yes, it still hurts a bit." That was a lie. I've been so distracted by him and Millie (mostly him) that I barely feel any pain anymore.

With the gentleness of a father taking care of his newborn, Ian applies antibiotic cream over my finger. Then he covers it with a large bandage. No one else has done this for me except for Mom.

"Thanks..."

"Want me to kiss the boo boo too?" he asks, making me raise my brows. Did he seriously just say that? I hate that smug look on his face. Why is he flirting with me? I feel as if flames are kissing my face. "No thanks... you've... you've done enough," I stammer.

Ian tilts his head and chews on his lower lip. Oh god, that's sexy.

"It might heal faster if I kiss it," he drawls.

I think I might melt like the Wicked Witch of the West doused with water if he kisses me anywhere.

"Kiss this," Millie mutters. With her head still down, she raises a fist in the air. Ian slaps his knee and laughs at her drunken antics. I would laugh too except I'm still a bit dazed by the fact that Ian wanted to kiss my finger. I gulp.

"Um, I'm going to grab John. He needs to take Millie upstairs to rest." Could I have stammered more? Without waiting for Ian to reply, I jump out of my seat and bolt outside to find John. I can't help but feel that Ian has those intense eyes of his on me. My back is searing. My heart is beating so fast that I think I'm going to have a heart attack.

11. Ian, July 21st, nighttime

There's something about Sara that makes me want to tease her. Seeing her all riled up amuses me. I would actually have kissed her finger just to see how she would react. What the hell is wrong with me?

Shortly after John came inside to take Millie upstairs to their bedroom, their remaining guests start leaving. I go change into a pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt. From inside the house, I see that Sara is still lingering awkwardly by the poolside.

I walk outside. Sara stares at her cell phone and doesn't notice me. She dials a number and no one picks up. She's probably calling her brother or father to drive her home. I doubt that she has a boyfriend. Wouldn't he be here with her today if she had one?

Her phone rings.

"Hey, Dad. Yeah, I'm ready to come home. Oh... okay... yeah, that's okay. I'll just take the bus then. No, that's fine. See you soon." Ending the call, Sara sighs.

Walking toward her, I grin when she looks up and gives me a startled deer-in-the-headlights look. It's amusing how she makes me feel like I'm a predator. Her entire body freezes like a hypothermic penguin.

"Geez, I don't bite," I tell her but my words don't seem reassuring.

"Wolves always bite," she mutters. She looks like she's about to call 911 on me.

"They might bite, but most of the time, they're just misunderstood, cuddly, and loyal."

She arches her eyebrow at me, and I can't help but notice how adorable that expression is on her face. I cross my arms. "I'm heading out now and feeling altruistic. Since we both live in Brooklyn, neighbor, I'll give you a ride home." I wink at her. I should have added that I'm taking her home because she's a nice girl like John had mentioned earlier. She'd probably blush profusely again.

Sara shakes her head and frowns at me. "I don't need you to take me home, Ian. My... my dad will pick me up."

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop earlier, but I don't think Daddy's going to pick you up tonight." Hating to take no for an answer, I grab her wrist.

"Hey, let go of me."

"Millie told me to take care of you. It's getting dark, and the bus stop is like what, a mile away? Plus, your finger is busted, so I insist on taking you home."

"Geez, you're impossible," Sara says. "Fine, but I can walk without you holding on to me." She pulls her wrist away from my hand.

Sara has a bit of a firecracker inside her, even though she appears to be timid like a mouse and odd like SpongeBob at first. She trails behind me, compliantly like a kindergartener, as I lead her to my green hunk of rusting metal, a 1964 Cadillac Coupe Deville. It belonged to my grandfather and was one of the many things he had left me in his will. My old-school car reminds people of days long past when Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream, he and JFK were shot, and hippies, not hipsters, roamed the streets.

Sarah loved this car. "It's definitely not a chick magnet, and that's why I love it," she once said to me. We used to wash it together and go on long road trips. Because she loved it, I love it.

"This is your car? Cool. It's in great condition. That's pretty impressive." Sara studies my car with unexpected fascination.

"It's actually all rusty and rotten on the inside." Just like me. "But don't worry. It hasn't broken down on me yet."

Sara shrugs. "I'm not worried." Like an excited child, she enters my car. She touches the leather interior and studies the antique dashboard. I'm glad I had wiped the car down earlier this week. I realize that Sara is the first girl sitting next to me in Old Rusty ever since Sarah passed away.

After Sara tells me where she lives, we spend most of the ride in silence. Like a curious puppy, she looks out the window. At night, the Verrazano Bridge is quite a sight to behold. Approaching the bridge, I hear fireworks and briefly see them brighten the skies.

"I love fireworks," Sara murmurs to herself. "Lucky..."

Normally I'd be making a turn to enter the lower level of the bridge. Knowing that the girl next to me wants to see the fireworks, I decide to drive on the upper level of the bridge instead. Old Rusty won't fly off the bridge, I keep telling myself. Breathe and relax, Ian. We'll be in Brooklyn in no time.

"I've never seen fireworks on this bridge before. They're spectacular. Too bad you can't enjoy them," Sara says. For some reason, her presence calms me. It's like this is not the first time that she's in my car. She's so bubbly and happy. "They're so beautiful," she gushes. "It's just not summer without fireworks."

I hear Sarah's mellifluous voice in my head. I see her beautiful eyes. Days before she left me forever, she said, "It's just not summer without fireworks, Ian... Let's go to Coney Island. I want to see fireworks on the boardwalk..."

"My girlfriend loved fireworks too," I blurt out.

"Loved?" Sara scratches her head.

She's attentive, I'll give her that. "Yes, I said loved. Past tense. You can't love something when you're dead, can you?"

Sara shifts uncomfortably in her seat and says, "Sorry."

Great. Why did I have to say all of that? This just added another layer of awkwardness between Sara and me.

"No, I'm sorry. All day long, I've been thinking about her. All these flashbacks... Something just snapped in me. So, I'm sorry." I'm surprised at how I'm opening up to Sara. "Her name was Sarah. You know, your name but with an H in the end."

"I see..." Sara says no more for the remainder of the ride. The silence between us forces me to concentrate on the drive. Crud. Thankfully the winds aren't strong tonight, and we're not stuck in traffic. Minutes later, we're in Brooklyn, en route to Sara's home.

She breaks the silence between us, thanking me when I drop her off in front of her place. Sara lives in a first-floor condo in Bensonhurst. It's a... quaint place. The neighborhood is quiet. Lots of trees. Lots of old looking two-family houses next to newer looking brick condos.

Sara quickly disappears into her unit and doesn't turn to look back or wave at me. I expected that. I'm sure that she wouldn't mind if our paths never cross again.

I doubt that's likely though since John and Millie love inviting us to their parties. First was their wedding, then today's housewarming party. What's next? Puppy showers, baby showers, Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas White Elephant party, etc...

I rub my face. It's been such a damn long day. Sara and I are practically neighbors in a sense. A ten-minute drive later, I enter one of the two garages of the largest mansion in Dyker Heights, parking Old Rusty next to my mother's dark green Bentley.

I didn't think that the old witch would be home this weekend. How great! Not. I better groom myself like a good little poodle, starting with a clean shave and a two-hundred dollar haircut in the morning.

12. Sara, July 21st, nighttime

I've never met a creature stranger than Ian. One minute he's a jerk. The next he's all moody. Then he can be caring. Though Ian is an enigma, he's one that I don't intend to solve.

I feel bad for him though. From the way he talked about his deceased girlfriend, I could tell that he still loves and misses her deeply. No wonder he was acting so strangely when I told him that my name is Sara without an H at the end. I wonder if she and I shared any other similarities besides our names. Quickly I push that thought away from my head.

I come home to metaphorical chirping crickets, unlit rooms, and emptiness. Dad has already packed all his belongings. He's a private chef, one who stays at his employers' homes to cook their daily meals. He's like a bird without feet, always flitting here and there and never staying put. That's why he had decided to sell our house shortly after Mom died. Since then, we've been renting this one-story condo unit.

Coming to live in this depressing place from a warm and happy home was not easy for me. I'm surprised I haven't turned into some suicidal sociopath, having to grow up so fast, raised by an emotionally distant father. In our new home, gone are the African violets that Mom loved, the cute paintings of Shih Tzu on the walls (Mom adored dogs, especially Shih Tzu), and her random feminine touches.

Our condo unit has white walls, flickering fluorescent lights, simple black furniture, no decorations, and no clutter. It would look more like a home if it had some clutter. Dad is a neat freak. Like the kitchens he runs, his home has to be spotless and clean. Cold and sterile. Whenever I try to decorate the place with Mom's old paintings or even a plant, Dad throws a fit.

I hate living here, but where else can I go? Under the Manhattan Bridge in a cardboard box? Sigh.

Shortly past midnight, Dad comes home and knocks on my bedroom door. He must have been at the local bar again, coming home at this hour.

I open the door. I'm right. He reeks of alcohol and smoke but looks sober. When will he stop relying on those mind-numbing substances?

I wrinkle my nose and frown disapprovingly. That was why he couldn't pick me up earlier. "Hey, Dad."

Dad remains outside my room, reinforcing the invisible wall that he's built between us through the years. My theory is that Dad fears that I would leave him one day. When that time comes, he'd be able to cope better if he's not too attached to me. Maybe I wouldn't die from breast cancer like Mom did at a young age, but eventually I'll have my own life. I'll get married. Maybe move out of the city. He'd be alone. Knowing that, he's already distancing himself from me. I wish I could break this stupid wall between us. I don't know why he thinks that I would leave him to a life of loneliness in the future. I will always be here for him. It's always been Dad and me against the world. I don't foresee that changing, at least not anytime soon.

I study Dad's face. Deep lines mar his once youthful and handsome features. A few years ago, he had a head full of dark brown hair. Now his hair has thinned and grayed. If only Dad would smile more, he'd look ten years younger. His ocean-blue eyes would shine. Instead, he has the saddest eyes. The weight of the world rests on his slumped shoulders. Melancholy is his middle name.

I smile at him, wondering if he remembers that it's technically my birthday now. His only child is finally an adult. Maybe I should hum the Happy Birthday song to remind him.

"How was your day?" he asks, rubbing his face to stave off fatigue for a few more minutes.

"It was okay. How about you? How'd your interview go?" I already know the answer. As always, Dad aced his interview.

"I'm starting tomorrow actually."

I clap. Dad had quit his last job over a month ago. It's about time he works again. We'll have to pay rent soon, and I'm sure Dad needs money to buy his booze and cigarettes.

"Awesome. So what's your new boss like?" I ask him.

"Diana is okay." Dad shrugs. "She lives with her son. Though they don't have ridiculous palates, she's health conscious and doesn't like fried foods. Her son isn't as picky, but has an insatiable sweet tooth." Dad has a look of contempt on his face.

"Sweets, huh? You'll be able to handle that?" I wiggle my eyebrows. Desserts are not Dad's forte. Mom, on the other hand, was a creative genius when it came to creating amazing desserts. After all, she had spent five years in Paris as the apprentice of a world famous pâtissier before marrying Dad. Ever since I was four, Mom taught me how to bake and make desserts. My most prized possession is her recipe book. She had filled each page with hand-written notes and photographs of her creations. All wondrous and priceless snippets of her creativity. Every time I look through her book, I feel as though Mom had never left us.

"Stop wiggling those eyebrows, Sara." Dad crosses his arms over his chest. "You've guessed it. I'll need your help.

"As your pastry chef?" My eyebrows can't stop wiggling. They're thick and in desperate need of a good plucking. I have the goofiest smile on my face now. Dad nods and I bear hug him before saluting him like a soldier. "I'm at your service, Chef Affen." I've helped Dad before. One time, I assisted him with filling a large catering order. I've also helped him whip up fine desserts for multiple clients. The famous Private Chef Wayne Affen has a secret and a secret weapon: he hates making desserts but has a daughter who loves making them. And excels at it.

"To clarify, you'll be my assistant. I've already told Diana that I'll need your help. I'll compensate you of course, so you don't have to babysit or tutor kids this summer," Dad says.

I wipe invisible sweat off my forehead and let out an exaggerated phew. "I'd much rather bake munchkins than babysit them. Even if you pay me minimum wage, I'd rather work for you, Pops."

Dad grins. "Great. Go to their house tomorrow in the morning so you can prepare the night's dessert. I'll text you their address." He looks at my hand and frowns. "What happened to your finger?"

"Oh... it's nothing."

"It won't affect you tomorrow?" Dad has a look of doubt on his face.

"Absolutely not. It's... it's just a little cut that's healing already. I'll be fine, I swear. I'll re-bandage it tomorrow and wear a glove." I'd rather lose a finger than miss a chance to impress Dad.

Dad shrugs. "Okay then."

Silence enshrouds us.

Dad yawns, so I tell him, "Get some rest, Dad. You look super tired. Love you."

Dad yawns again, dismisses himself with a wave, and turns away toward his bedroom. As expected, he does not say love you back to me. I remember how he used to kiss my forehead before tucking me into bed. Although I don't expect that from him now, he could display a bit more warmth and affection toward me. That stuff is free anyway.

Also as expected, he doesn't wish me a happy birthday. Without Mom in his life, happiness no longer exists in his world.

Mom, when will Dad's broken heart and soul heal?

13. Sara, July 22nd, noon

A little past noon, I bike to Dad's new employer's house in Dyker Heights. Dyker Heights is known for pretty mansions, great Italian-American food, and amazing Christmas lights and decorations during the holidays.

Last night, Dad told me to be there in the morning. He's not going to be pleased. Normally, I'm always on time. This morning, however, I kept hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock and overslept. I had trouble falling asleep. Yesterday's events kept replaying in my head. As much as I tried not to, I just couldn't stop thinking about Ian. I wondered if he thought that I'm an accident-prone fool. I'm not typically that clumsy, but every time he's around me, it's as if I were born with two left feet.

Now I'm wondering if I'm ever going to run into him in Brooklyn. Great, I'm still thinking about that jerk. Better stop, lest I want to get into a bike accident.

Half an hour later, I arrive before a huge mansion, a place much bigger than Millie's. This might be the grandest mansion in the neighborhood. Dad is going to live here for the next few months, granted that everything works out with these folks. He doesn't have a problem landing jobs. He just has a problem keeping them.

I'm jealous of him even though the life of a private chef is tough. Your clients are demanding and can fire you at anytime. It isn't a stable career, but Dad would rather move from place to place than stay put as an executive chef of Michelin-starred restaurants or five-star hotels.

He just doesn't want to grow attached to others or make new friends.

Snapping out of that thought, I park and lock my bike before studying the impressive, towering estate before me. It's an off-white mansion that's surrounded by intricate black fencing and grand iron gates. I see pillars and columns around the front door. They remind me of ancient Greek architecture. To the side of the mansion is a glass-encased veranda. There's a sprawling front yard complete with neatly trimmed hedges, freshly cut grass, and a large marble fountain of a happy cherub blowing sparkling water out of a trumpet.

How many cars do they have inside of their two garages? Their property definitely screams affluence, but it isn't gaudy or excessive.

Lucky Dad.

I make my way up a few marble steps before ringing the doorbell. Seconds later, the doors swing open.

A middle-aged butler with the manners of a prince greets me by the doorframe. A real-life butler! I stare at him for a second too long.

He chuckles. "How may I help you, Miss?"

"Hi, I'm Sara Lee-Affen. Um, Chef Affen is expecting me. I'm his assistant. Nice to meet you." I extend my hand for him to shake. He obliges, giving me a firm handshake with a white-gloved hand.

"Good afternoon, Miss Affen. I am Walter, the house manager, or in other words the butler of this estate," he says with a baritone voice. "How impressive for you to be the assistant of a world-class chef at such a young age."

I grin. Not many people know about Chef Wayne Affen anymore. In his glory days, Dad won multiple awards. He was on television and in newspaper articles. Those were the days. "Thank you. It's not really that impressive since I'm his daughter. And I actually turn eighteen today."

"Such modesty. It's so rare these days. And happy birthday to you, my lady. Well now, come along. We must not keep your father waiting."

I like him already. He will probably be the only person to wish me a happy birthday today. Walter leads me toward the kitchen of the mansion. Along the way, I admire the grand wedding-style staircase (hey this place can be a banquet hall) and the large glass chandelier hanging over the middle of the expansive foyer. To the side of the foyer rests a black grand piano worthy of a concert hall.

Beyond the foyer is the living room. Four white leather sofas surround a beautiful Persian rug. The dark wooden floors shine with lacquer. Sunlight streams in through drawn open curtains that cover floor-to-ceiling windows.

Swanky, swanky. What is it like to live in a place like this, having such a privileged life? Isn't this place a bit too big for just two people to live in, not counting Walter and his team of housekeepers? I wonder if the son ever feels lonely. He might if he's just a kid.

Walter drops me off in front of an open kitchen and waves. I thank him and wave back before spotting Dad. Around us are fancy marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a refrigerator that looks bigger than a backyard shed.

"At your service, Chef Affen," I greet Dad, running over to his side like a loyal pug. Wearing a black uniform complete with a chef's hat, he looks twenty times more intimidating than Chef Boyardee.

He clears his throat. "You're late."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I overslept."

"Strike one," he says, but he doesn't reprimand me further. He also doesn't waste another second, quickly giving me the rundown of tonight's menu. For starters, he's making a chilled corn soup and a black truffle summer salad. The two entrées for the main course consist of grilled squab with foie gras and seared Ahi tuna crusted with wasabi-flavored sesame seeds. The sauce for the Ahi tuna is a fruity white soy sauce that Dad had fermented.

"That sounds lovely," I say, trying hard not to salivate like Pavlov's dogs.

"What desserts have you decided to make?" he asks me, crossing his arms.

I tap my chin in thought. A few ideas run through my head until a light bulb flashes atop my crown. Eureka! Before I respond, I choose my words carefully. In the kitchen, Dad judges everything I say. "I want to make something airy to accompany the fresh and light meal you're making. Maybe a fluffy strawberry and banana meringue cake?" It's one of Mom's favorite recipes.

"Sounds good. What else will you make in case they don't like it?"

Ooh, I like a challenge, though I doubt they can resist the heavenly meringue cake. "Hmm, how about a green tea crème brûlée?"

Dad nods. "Sounds like a plan. Add some chocolate truffles at the end to impress them. Now get to work."

"Yes, Chef!"

I put on a pink chef's hat and a pink apron, both of which used to be white before I had put them into the wash with one of Dad's red shirts. I'm not trying to be cutesy here, I swear. Who wants to look like Strawberry Shortcake when cooking? I'm just being practical, at least until Dad offers to buy me another set of cooking apparel.

For a minute, I watch Dad work. Every time I watch him cook, I feel like I'm a child again. Growing up, I was always the chubbiest kid in our neighborhood. Mom made amazing desserts while Dad cooked fancy feasts (meow) for us everyday.

How I miss those days, having Mom and the old Dad by my side. What I would give to live those days again. Of course that's never how life works. Happy moments are often short-lived, but at least I have great memories of the past.

Dad puts the finishing touches on the lunch he has prepared, wiping the rims of the plates clean. His food smells divine, making my stomach growl. The entire kitchen echoes with the sound of my noisy belly. Dad shoots me a look of disapproval. Then he surprises me, popping a Peking duck spring roll into my mouth.

"How does it taste?"

Orgasmic, I want to say but that's not something you would say to your father, and especially not to my father. He'd want you to describe what orgasmic means and I would draw a blank. "It's super scrumptious," I reply as I chew. "This family is lucky to have you as their chef."

Dad frowns. "You're just biased, Sara. Try to give me critique that I can work with." He rubs his wrinkled forehead in obvious frustration.

Think, Sara, think. Prove yourself to the Darth Vader of the culinary world before you. "Um... okay. It could have used more hoisin sauce. And you can strip some fat from the duck's skin."

Dad snaps his finger. "Good. I don't agree with you, but at least you're beginning to think like my assistant."

I grin. He rarely compliments me so I push my luck with him. "Do you have anything else for me to taste test, Chef?"

"Not until you've refined your taste buds and sense of smell." With that, he walks out of the kitchen, holding two plates of crab cakes on beds of arugula salad.

Whatever, Dad. I know I lack the savoir-faire of a food connoisseur and the nose of a bloodhound. One day though, my desserts will be world famous, and it won't be because my name is Sara Lee. (Har har, yes I know, that was corny.) I'll publish a cookbook filled with Mom's and my recipes. I'll make millions like Buddy Valastro. Then Dad will have no choice but to respect me, my lackluster taste buds, and my poor sense of smell.

I explore the kitchen for a bit before gathering utensils and cookware. Searching for ingredients, I find everything I need except for matcha green tea powder. Maybe Walter can help me buy some. I leave the kitchen to look for him. He must be in the dining room with Dad, setting the table and lunches for the lady and the young master of the house.

I enter the dining room through two large doors. In the middle of the room rests a long dining table that could seat around fourteen people, I'm guessing. At the far end of the table and facing me is the lady of the house, Diana. Talking to Dad and Walter, she doesn't notice me yet. She has blond hair styled like Anna Wintour's trademark bob, blown out and shiny. Diana has pretty green eyes. I had imagined her to be slim but she's slightly plump. Pleasantly plump actually, just like me.

Her son's back faces me. I thought he was a kid but he's actually a grown man. Funny, he reminds me of someone. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Even though he's sitting down, I can tell that he's tall.

Could he be... no, he can't be.

The guy before me with his neatly cropped hair, fancy black dress shirt, and princely table manners can't be Ian. The world can't be this small.

I wave at Walter, hoping to catch his attention before signaling to him to meet me in the kitchen. He looks at me with raised eyebrows before giving me a slight nod. I edge backwards toward the kitchen quietly, not wanting to attract more attention to myself.

For some reason, whenever I try to be careful, I always end up being clumsy. The moment I feel myself backing into something hard, I know that a catastrophe is about to happen. In the next second, I hear the sound of glass breaking. All around my feet are the shattered remains of a vase. I had just knocked over a vase, an expensive vase, I'm sure. Holy Shih Tzu. So much for not drawing any attention to myself.

Making matters worse, the son turns around and holy beans, he is indeed that darn Ian. Walt Disney was right; it's a small world after all. My heart wants to pop out of my chest.

Ian has shaved and looks preppy with a fresh haircut. He still gives off a bad boy vibe, especially with that come-hither look in his verdant eyes. I can barely breathe. All eyes are on me now. Why does Ian have to look so amused? I want to wipe that smirk off of his face. This is all too embarrassing.

If I can have any superpower, I'd choose the ability to make myself vaporize.

Best birthday ever. Not.

14. Ian, July 22nd, noon

Now this I did not expect. What a small world we live in. How astute Walt Disney was.

Why is Sara in my home and wearing such a silly getup? Did Halloween come early this year, making her dress up as Strawberry Shortcake?

Around her feet is the shattered corpse of a porcelain vase from Beijing that Gramps had left me. I always thought that it was an eyesore. But hey, it's worth at least a grand, which means that Sara owes me a thousand bucks. Ha.

"What are you doing, Sara?" our new chef asks her with a harsh tone. She just stands there quietly, looking like a child who's deathly afraid of being punished. I can't help but feel sorry for her. She's even shaking a little.

"So this is Sara. What a nice way to break the ice," my mother says, winking at Sara.

Looking at my mother, Sara's eyes light up, but when the chef, or her father rather, glowers at her, she looks down at her pigeon-toed feet as if waiting to be punished. She's cute when she cringes. Someone has daddy issues.

"Oh don't look at her like that. It was just an accident," my mother says, staring at her French-manicured fingernails.

Sometimes her act fools even me. Diana Forrests has the face of a middle-aged angel. She can be kinder than Mother Theresa when she wants to be. Mostly to people of little significance to her, such as Sara here.

Considered as one of the pioneer female entrepreneurs in the restaurant industry and one of New York's most powerful women, my mother is no angel. She'll bite off your head, throw your body into a blender to make a smoothie, digest you thoroughly, and turn you into sh*t. Excuse my bluntness. It's with people whom she needs to control, intimidate, or ruin that her claws and fangs come out. Like with her only child,–poor, poor me.

"I'm so sorry. I'll glue it back together or pay for it. Just let me know what I should do." Sara drops down to her knees and reaches for a shard of glass. Seriously? Has she forgotten how she had hurt herself just yesterday?

"Don't touch that," I growl at her and she freezes. "You'll cut your finger again, klutz." I get up from my seat and pull Sara away from the broken vase.

"How's your finger by the way?" I pucker my lips at her, reminding her of how I'll gladly kiss her boo boo if needed.

"It's better now," Sara says, stammering. Her rosy cheeks are so adorable.

"You know each other?" My mother, with her eyes widened, looks exaggeratedly surprised.

"Not really," Sara says unconvincingly.

I arch an eyebrow at her. Well in a sense she is right; technically, we don't really know each other. But we've bumped into each other enough times to be called more than just mere acquaintances. This bugs me and I don't know why.

"You would know her too, Mother, if you went to John's wedding. Sara almost ruined that day when a bee flew into her ear." Maybe I should have said that Sara is Millie's cousin instead.

Maybe not because Sara is giving me the most amusing wide-mouthed look. I'm waiting to hear her jaw drop on the floor.

"That's not funny, Ian. My dad and I had to spend the rest of that day in a hospital." She narrows her eyes at me.

Chef Affen rubs his temples before arching his eyebrow at me. "Yes, that wasn't a good day." Then he faces my mother and says, "Diana, just take the cost of the vase out of my paycheck. I'll be back with the rest of your meal shortly. Sara, come with me."

"Yes, Chef." After Sara does this weird salute thing at her father, she scuttles into the kitchen.

Wow. I almost feel bad for her. And yet I think I'm going to make things worse for her. Life has just become more interesting now that Sara is our employee. Why do I suddenly feel all giddy on the inside like a little schoolboy?

"What's with that look on your face?" My mother asks me. She doesn't wait for an answer. "You shaved. It looks good. Keep it that way."

"I also cut my hair. Thanks for noticing. So, what brings you home besides testing out our new chef's meals? And why did you hire his daughter?"

"What do you think of his food?" My mother loves to answer my questions with questions of her own.

I take another bite of the crab cake. It has hints of lemon and vanilla. Strange, tasty, but it doesn't make love to my taste buds. "Frankly, it's better than Morgan's crab cakes but not mind-blowing."

Morgan was our former private chef of many years. My mother fired him recently because he was in love with her. That came as a shock to me. Morgan had loved my mother for years, having first confessed his love for her a year after my father passed away. That was a decade ago.

My father was a simple man. A good man. I was twelve years old when he passed away, suffering a heart attack in his sleep.

Back then, Gramps, Walter and Morgan became my father figures. Even though Morgan had a crush on my mother, I liked him and miss having him around these days. I often considered him a friend. He, unlike me, could put up with verbal and psychological abuse from my mother with a genuine smile on his face. That was up until my mother fired him.

As our chef, Morgan wasn't as anal as Chef Affen. I doubt that the new chef and I will be buddies.

Sara is so unlike her father. Maybe she's adopted. Maybe I'm adopted. I can't possibly be the spawn of the Devil.

Mother dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "I agree and I'm surprised. Wayne used to work for me as the executive chef of L'Etoile. Thanks to him, I had a three-starred restaurant," she says.

L'Etoile is the first of a series of fancy French restaurants that she had opened in the city. It is the only one to have earned three Michelin stars. Last month, Michelin downgraded L'Etoile, stripping away two stars. To my mother, it was a slap in the face, scarring her reputation in the culinary world. What did she expect though? For months, L'Etoile hasn't had a steady executive chef.

"So you're testing him out as our new private chef before you ask him to rejoin L'Etoile as the executive chef?" I raise both my eyebrows at my mother. "Is that the real reason why you fired Morgan? Because if that is, that's cold, even for you."

My mother rolls her eyes at me. "Morgan's affections for me, while they were flattering at first, grew too irritating to bear." She gives me a half smile. "But you are still correct. I plan to make Wayne the executive chef of L'Etoile when he snaps out of this ridiculous funk that he's in."

She sighs. Diana Forrests is sighing over a man? What the hell is happening here?

I mirror my mother, dabbing the corners of my mouth with a beige silk napkin. "Why is he in a funk?"

"I'm guessing it's because he's still mourning his dead wife. I don't get him. She died eight years ago."

Wow. I was wrong about Sara. She had lost someone dear to her. When we were both tweens, we each lost a parent.

"The Wayne I knew was the master of any kitchen he ran. He was so collected. So different from who he is now."

"So you think that he will snap out of his funk by working here in our _warm, sweet_ home?"

I remember Mother mourning the death of my father for about a week. Her real husband is her business after all.

"And what role does his daughter play?"

"Enough with all the speculations and questions, Ian. I feel like I'm talking to a CIA agent here. Just make them feel welcomed and enjoy his food okay? Don't mess things up between Wayne and me."

I almost choke on the mineral water I'm drinking. Mess what up between her and the chef? "You've always only had a professional relationship with Chef Affen, right?"

She taps her fingers on the table. "Of course. What are you implying?"

I shrug. "Nothing. Anyway, I think I'm done here. This was lovely, Mother dear. We should do this more often." Not.

"Wait, Ian, there's something else I want to talk to you about." She gives me a smile that any witch would approve. "I'm closing Sarah's at the end of August."

I almost drop the half-empty glass in my hand. "What? Wait, why?"

"It's failing, Ian and you know that my group doesn't run failing businesses."

"But it's my business. Gramps left me that bakery. Sarah and I revived it." We transformed a mom-and-pop bakery on the brink of failing into a popular cupcakery, Sarah's.

"It was yours, until you abandoned it. Remembered all those papers you had signed last year? I thought Sarah's had potential, so my group absorbed it from you. Sarah had done a great job reviving the bakery, but without her, well..." She sighs. "It's dying and can't be saved."

My mother is an expert in salting old wounds, making them feel fresh again. "Even if Sarah's isn't making any profits, it belongs to me. I'll deal with it."

My mother laughs at me. "It belonged to you. I didn't force you to sign the papers. Even when Sarah was around, all you did for the bakery was take pictures of the desserts. Despite all the schooling you've been through, you don't know how to run a business. If your grandfather hadn't set up that trust fund for you, you'd be a starving photographer."

In her eyes, an award-winning photographer is a failure. Unless I follow her footsteps, I'll achieve nothing in life. She never understood why I'm not ambitious like her and how I failed to inherit her entrepreneurship genes. I'm glad I'm more like my father though–laid-back and un-satanic.

I cough. "Doesn't it surprise you that I'm not some sociopath who has already gone postal? Good job at stabbing my self-confidence to death." If she says you're welcome then this conversation is over.

"Dear, you know that I've given up on you years ago. It's really my fault though. Your grandfather and I spoiled you."

Hmm, what she just said is worse than you're welcome.

"Gramps believed in positive reinforcement. You believe in capital punishment."

"That's used in the wrong context here, dear." She sighs and shakes her head.

"I'm adopted, am I not?"

"Not this again, Ian. No, you're not. I have the stretch marks and scar to prove it. Twenty-seven hours of labor and contractions and they had to cut me open."

"This doesn't make any sense then..." I take a deep, cleansing breath, remembering what I've learned from my anger management sessions. Seriously. With a biological mother like Diana Forrests, who needs enemies?

My mother was the youngest of six children and the only daughter. Her father, my beloved Gramps, was a self-made millionaire and a sexist. He gave his five sons the best of everything, leaving my mother with scraps growing up.

Gramps didn't believe that women should attend college. When she showed an interest in books, he forced her to learn how to knit and sew. So she ran away when she was fourteen. My mother ended up being the only one amongst his children to earn a master's degree and the only one to become a self-made millionaire. Like father, like daughter, ironically.

Her lifelong resentment toward Gramps and her aimless brothers spills over toward me. She was the only one amongst her siblings to have given birth to a son, precious, precious me. Yes, her five brothers all only have daughters. (I have thirteen female cousins on my mother's side. John is the only cousin I have on my father's side. Aunt Tara, or Tootie rather, my father's older sister, never married. She has lots of cats though. Go figure.)

When Gramps died, he left me with the majority of his assets in his will. Unfortunately for me, except for three thousand untaxed dollars I receive monthly from my trust fund, Old Rusty, the vase that Sara had broken, and the bakery that my mother had absorbed, I can't touch the rest of those assets until I'm married. Yeap, that's in Gramps' will.

"Give me a month, Mother. I'll turn Sarah's into a critically-acclaimed, avant-garde bakery." I haven't the slightest clue how I'm going to achieve all that in one month's time. What makes a bakery avant-garde anyway? I'm just throwing out words to impress the witch sitting across from me. "I'll take Sarah's off your hands so you can concentrate on getting L'Etoile those stars back and wooing Chef Affen."

My mother raises her eyebrows. With a fork, she impales a crab cake as if it were my hopes and dreams. "I'd like to see you prove me wrong. I'd like to see what my damn father saw in you." She stares at me and makes me feel like she's capable of burning a hole through my skull with her demonic eyes. That's how she intimidates people. "Fine. You have one month to work on Sarah's. If nothing changes on August 31st, then I'm closing her. If things change, then she's yours again. Good luck, dear. You'll need it." She smirks and toasts the air, prematurely congratulating herself.

Cleansing breaths, Ian. Cleansing breaths. Remember what your psychiatrist had taught you. "Thanks, Mother." With that, I excuse myself from the table and make my way to the garage. Old Rusty and I are going to Manhattan to revive a dying bakery.

I admit that I gave up on Sarah's after the love of my life died. That bakery was her dream, and I abandoned it. I just couldn't focus on running a business and saving her dream, when all I wanted to do for the past year was kill myself.

15. Sara, July 22nd, nighttime

Dad has been ignoring me ever since I destroyed that vase earlier in the dining room. I feel bad about having done that, but who puts expensive vases right next to a doorway anyway?

I told Dad that he doesn't have to pay me until the vase has been paid off. Hopefully it's not that expensive. Maybe a hundred bucks? Man, I'm going to have to eat instant ramen for the next month or so.

Damn you, Lady Bad Luck!

Breathe, Sara. Relax. Get into the zone, that sweet zone of dessert making.

I spend all of the afternoon and evening perfecting the three desserts I'll be presenting to the Forrests in a few minutes. Despite following my mother's recipes to the tee, my desserts just don't seem to hold a candle to hers. Everything she made just tasted better.

I remember asking her what her secret was. What secret ingredients did she leave out of her recipe book?

She did tell me once what her secret was.

Her secret was love. Her love for Dad and her love for me. Nothing made her happier than seeing her loved ones eat her desserts with big smiles on their faces.

As corny as that was, remembering it makes my eyes teary. How can my desserts compare to hers when there's no love in my life?

Mom also played music whenever she cooked or baked. Music inspired her. Dad likes to cook in complete silence because music annoys him.

I put the finishing touches on my desserts. I don't know why I want to impress Ian. And his mother of course. If I impress them, I impress my father, I convince myself.

Dad takes a look at my completed plates of desserts and gives me a nod of approval. "Go present your desserts to the Forrests."

I beam at Dad. Before entering the dining room, I wipe flour off my face and fix my ponytail. I adjust my apron and take a deep breath.

Carrying two plates of fresh strawberry and banana meringue cake into the dining room, I notice that Diana is sitting alone. Despite having an impressive air of confidence, she looks lonely and small at her large table. Strange. Why do I suddenly feel disappointed? I should feel relieved that Ian isn't here. He'd probably make fun of me, call my desserts girly, and I'd just get into another embarrassing situation. Like knocking down another un-strategically placed vase.

I set the cake down before Diana. "This is a strawberry and banana meringue cake. Enjoy." I turn around, ready to make my way back into the kitchen. I've never known how to chitchat with powerful and intimidating people like Diana. If she's anything like her son, interacting with her wouldn't be pleasant.

"This looks beautiful, Sara. I almost don't want to eat it. Please sit down and stay with me as I enjoy this."

She's surprisingly friendly. I don't see a reason why I shouldn't oblige, so I take a seat next to her.

Diana rests her chin on folded hands. "Tell me, do you aspire to become an acclaimed chef like your father?" She beams me a charming smile with teeth that are definitely veneers.

I like how she admires Dad. I also have many aspirations. I want to earn a bachelor's degree in hospitality management. Travel to Paris and learn from great Meilleurs Ouvriers de France (Best Craftsmen of France) like Mom did. Publish our recipes. Eventually, I'd also like to open bakeries all around the world. I don't want to bore Diana with these details. I'm sure she's just being friendly and not really interested in hearing about my aspirations.

I shake my head and shrug. "I can never be like Dad."

Diana frowns. "Oh, why not? Women like me have made great strides in the culinary world. Many celebrity chefs are women." She tries the cake and makes this long mmm noise with her throat that makes me slightly uncomfortable.

"I want to be a pastry chef." Just like Mom.

Diana tilts her head. "I see. That's wonderful. Did you make anything else for me to try?"

I nod before running back into the kitchen to retrieve the crème brûlée and chocolate truffles. Diana gasps when I set the desserts down before her.

"You know, your desserts reminds me of your mother's," she says after popping a truffle into her mouth. "I'm impressed."

I rub the back of my neck. "You knew my mom?"

"Oh, I didn't just know her. I adored her. Wait, your father didn't tell you? He used to work for me at my restaurant, L'Etoile. Your mother used to bring you and her desserts whenever she visited us. Do you remember any that?"

I shake my head. "I just remember L'Etoile..." Earlier today, I thought that Diana was just some rich woman with an ad that my father answered. I had no idea that I've met her before and that Dad used to work for her. Flashes of memory enter my head. I definitely remember L'Etoile. It's one of the loveliest restaurants I've visited as a child. I remember how excited I was each time I got to visit Dad there. I don't remember Diana though. I wonder if this means that I've also met Ian back then. That would be... funny.

"You were just a child then. One time, you chased Ian all around my restaurant. I was surprised to hear that you bumped into each other at John's wedding."

I feel my cheeks grow warm. I can't believe I've met Ian as a child. I wonder if he remembers any of that.

"Look how you've grown. You look just like Olivia."

I thank Diana for her compliment even though I don't agree with her. My mother was beautiful like Gong Li.

"Your parents were my dearest friends then, you know. Wayne and I lost touch after well... It crushed me when Olivia left so untimely. I'm sorry, am I being insensitive here?"

My insides are sighing. "No, it's okay. Mom's been gone for eight years now..." Beneath the table, I rub my hands together.

"It's good that you can move on with your life. It appears that your dad hasn't, am I correct?"

I look away. The dining room is huge but suddenly it feels stuffy in here.

"I care for your father, as a friend. I was surprised to see how he still seems to mourn the loss of your mother."

The truth is I'm still in mourning. I seem like I've moved on because I have to be strong for Dad. I've tried so hard to help him. Thus far, I've failed miserably.

"Mom was the love of his life. She was his life..." Our life...

"I know, sweetie. I want to help him though. I know I can help him." Diana stares into my eyes and rests her warm hand on my forearm.

"Don't you feel that he's wasting his talents as a private chef? I mean, I'd die for him to cook my meals daily, but he doesn't belong here." She sighs dramatically. "He used to have so much fire in his eyes. Do you remember seeing that?"

I nod. Back then, he seemed invincible to Mom and me.

"I want him to work for me again, not here, but at L'Etoile. I need him there. Can you help me convince him?"

She's one pushy lady, one who has a point though. I want to see fire in Dad's eyes again. I want him to feel alive again. He can't continue to wallow in sadness.

I press my lips together. "I don't know what to do though. I've tried everything, you know, and I'm tired." So tired.

Diana pets my head. "Poor Sara. I know. I can tell that you've had to grow up fast. I'm here for you and soon things will change for the better."

Funny how Diana is so much nicer than her son. I can't help but trust her.

"Just follow my lead when the time comes. Give me your full support then. Help me save your dad."

I nod. It's good to have someone like Diana on your side. I can't help but fall a little in love with her at this moment. Can't ever say the same thing about her son.

"Good girl. Now, back to your desserts. This is great. Ian is missing out. Would you be a dear and ask Walter to bring some down to Ian's room? I'm sure he'd love a midnight snack." Diana winks at me.

"You know, he used to be afraid of you when you were children. He called you the Demon Child." Diana covers her mouth and giggles.

Hearing that, I can't help but smile. "I do remember wreaking havoc as a child. Um, Diana... thanks. I enjoyed talking with you. Thanks for helping Dad and me." I smile and want to give her a hug. She surprises me by getting up from her seat and wrapping her arms around my shoulders. She smells like daisies. Just like what mothers should smell like. This feels nice, like having Mom hug me again.

~*~

Complaining about his arthritic knees, Walter asked me to help him bring the desserts downstairs to Ian's room. I was hoping to go home after serving the desserts. Cooking all day is super taxing. Dad gets to sleep here in a fabulous guest room. I still have to bike for half an hour to get home. Ugh, whatever.

I grab a large plate from the kitchen and place all three desserts on it along with a spoon. I make my way down the grand staircase to the sprawling basement. Walter told me that Ian has the entire basement to himself. In the middle of the basement is a large skylight overlooking an indoor pool. The smell of chlorine isn't too strong here. When Ian swims at night, he can also see the moon and stars. How lucky he is.

Beyond the pool is a carpeted hallway that leads to Ian's bedroom. Walking down the hallway, I notice a large portrait of a beautiful girl with pale blond hair and ocean-blue eyes. She has the cutest dimples surrounding the prettiest of smiles. Her eyes are full of mirth and life. She has a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, like me.

Unlike me though, it's as if Johannes Vermeer had painted her into life. Every strand of her eyebrow is perfect. Acne scars are nonexistent. She's the epitome of a first crush.

Is she Sarah? If so, then it's a pity for someone so young and lovely to have such an untimely death.

"That's Sarah."

I almost drop the plate of desserts when Ian's voice startles me. He stands behind me, towering over me and blocking my exit. My heart rams against my chest. Maybe if I hold my breath, my heart will still. I hope that Ian's ears are clogged. I'd rather eat rotten yogurt than have him hear how rapidly my heart is beating now.

Softly he places his fingers on Sarah's cheeks. The way he stares at her with so much pain and yearning in his eyes makes my heart ache. I envy Sarah. Even though she's gone from the world, someone still loves and treasures her. Here I am, someone who shares her name and is alive, and yet no one loves me. It's silly, I know. I shouldn't be jealous of a dead girl.

Maybe I should scurry away. I feel like I'm a third wheel, ruining a moment between Ian and this portrait of Sarah.

Ian turns away from the portrait and looks at me, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm sorry. Anyway, what are you doing down here?" He looks at the plate I'm holding. "Chef Affen made these desserts?"

I remain silent, looking down at my pigeon-toed sneakers.

"You made these? No way." There's a sparkle in Ian's eyes as he studies my desserts. I remember how he downed my birthday cake yesterday at Millie's party. He's a diabetic in the making.

I nod. "Your mom asked me to bring these down for you. Well actually, she asked me to ask Walter, but then Walter asked me because his knees–"

"Are shot. That old fool should retire and enjoy life in the Bahamas." Ian frowns. Then he raises an eyebrow. "Heart-shaped truffles, huh?" He smirks.

Crap. Why did I make heart-shaped chocolate truffles today? Because they're my favorite shapes for candy. I should have made standard boxy or rounded truffles instead. I hope Ian doesn't think that I have some sort of a crush on him or something.

"I always make heart-shaped truffles. They're funner to eat. Your mom enjoyed them..."

"Funner isn't a word..." Ian shrugs and pops a truffle into his mouth.

"Whatever." What he is, a grammar cop? "They're more fun to eat. Oh and let it melt on your tongue," I tell him. "Don't chew it too much." To my surprise, Ian obliges. I watch him with a sort of unprecedented fascination as he savors my creation. When he's done with the truffle, he takes the spoon off the plate and samples the meringue cake. Seconds later, he samples the crème brûlée.

Ian looks at me like I'm some kind of alien. His eyes are slightly widened. He licks his upper lip. Oh gosh, I wish he didn't do that. I look away, feeling my cheeks grow hotter and hotter by the nanosecond.

"Your father didn't make any of these, right? You made them all today? Sara?"

I nod again. Is it that hard to believe that I can make great desserts?

"Holy. These desserts are amazing. Addictive." He pops another truffle into his mouth.

My cheeks explode with heat. "Thanks..." I just realize that Ian is the first guy other than my father to taste my desserts. Unlike Dad, Ian genuinely seems to enjoy them.

"What else can you make?"

"Crepes, cupcakes, macarons, bonbons, tarts, pies..." I shrug.

"You're quite a surprise, Sara. I'm very impressed."

And I'm left speechless. Suddenly it's as if there were clouds beneath my feet.

Ian startles me when he grabs my wrist. "I need you to come somewhere with me," he says.

I scratch my head. "Now?"

"Yes, now." Ian's tone is stern. He tightens his grip over my wrist.

"Let go of me first."

He does as I say to my surprise. "Sorry about that." He even apologizes!

I look at my watch and tap on its face. It's almost nine o'clock. All I want to do is take a nice warm bath at home, curl up in bed, and read an e-book. I feel like reading about a zombie apocalypse tonight. "I had a long day. I would have gone home already if Walter didn't ask me to do him a favor. So I think I'm going to head home now. Bye!"

Ian crosses his arms and gives me a strange look. "You remember that vase that you had broken earlier? Well, it belongs to me. It's one of the few things I have to remember Gramps by, and it's pricey." Ian rubs the corner of his eye and fake-sniffles.

I gulp.

"In monetary value, it's worth about a grand, depending on the buyers of course. But to me, it's priceless... You catch my drift?"

I gulp again.

"So from now on, when I tell you that I need you to come somewhere with me, you will ask me where. Capisce?"

I think I'm going to choke. That atrocious vase costs a grand? I've seen similar ones in Chinatown that cost less than fifty bucks. I think... "I can pay you a grand," I lie, stuttering. "Or I can buy you a similar one from Chinatown. You won't even know the difference, I swear."

"I'm insulted, Sara. That vase was one of a kind, and you can't put a price on something that has sentimental value." Ian shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. "Gramps, I'm so sorry. You told me to take care of that vase, but I let Mother display it where clumsy people like Sara here can knock it over so carelessly." Ian sighs.

I raise my hands in defeat. "Okay, okay. Geez. Where do you want me to go with you?"

Ian plants a victorious smile on his arrogant face. "Now we're on the same page. You'll see when we get there."

He drives us to lower Manhattan in less than twenty minutes. All that time, I snooze in his car. It's strange how I can fall asleep so easily while he's driving. Does this mean that I trust the guy?

After finding parking, Ian leads me to a cobbled street in SoHo. It's not that hot at night and yet I'm sweaty like a kid playing soccer.

We stop before a small bakery named Sarah's. Hmm... The entire storefront is made of glass, covered with pretty sakura blossom decals. Sarah's logo is a pastel yellow butterfly resting on top of a lavender cupcake.

"This bakery was Sarah's dream. Our dream. I remember how people used to line up outside the door just to buy her cupcakes and banana pudding." Ian sighs. He faces me, looking deeply into my eyes. "I brought you here because I need your help. After Sarah left, I unwittingly signed our bakery over to my mother. Since then, this place hasn't had a consistent pastry chef. Employees come and go. Business has suffered." He rubs his temples. "By the end of August, Mother wants to close her down. Permanently."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but how can I help?"

"By becoming my pastry chef."

Before I can respond, he pulls me into the bakery.

Inside there's nary a soul, save for a guy with rock star shaggy, beach blond hair. He's sitting on a stool behind lavender counters. Despite wearing a light lavender shirt and a pastel yellow apron, he doesn't appear effeminate. He doesn't acknowledge us when we approach him. Music blasting from the ear buds in his ears drowns out the world around him.

"Hey, Duncan." Ian snaps his fingers in front of the guy's face. Duncan looks up, arches an eyebrow at Ian, and removes his ear buds.

"You're back again?" Duncan shakes his head at Ian.

Ian rubs the back of his head. Now I notice that he looks tired.

"I'm here again because I've brought the solution to all our problems." Ian puts his hands over my shoulders and gently pushes me toward Duncan.

"Voilà. Meet Sara, our new pastry chef."

I turn around and give Ian my most puzzled look. Then I awkwardly wave hello to Duncan.

Ian grabs an apron–just like the one Duncan is wearing–off the counter and tosses it at me. "Wear this. From now on, you only work for one person. Not your father or my mother, but for me."

I can't believe my ears. Did I just land myself a bakery to run?

"She's a pastry chef who will solve all of our problems? Then I'm the Pillsbury Doughboy." Duncan rolls his eyes.

"I see the resemblance," Ian says, and I can't help but giggle even though it's not true. Duncan has dark blue eyes. He looks like someone... like Sarah actually. I wouldn't be surprised if they were related. When he glares at me, I quickly plant a serious look on my face.

"Whatever." Duncan pushes Ian out of his way. "Do what you want. Nothing's going to change in the end. Your mother's going to close this place." Duncan removes his apron. "Unless a miracle happens."

Ian crosses his arms. "Sara is our miracle."

Though flattered, I'm not sure how I should react to all this. I hate to burst Ian's bubble, but I'm no miracle. Excitement, however, rises in me like dough filled with overactive yeast, but I don't want to show it. Otherwise I'd be bouncing all over the place. I never imagined that I would have an opportunity to run a bakery as its main pastry chef so soon.

Mom would be so proud of me. But what will Dad think? He has always tried to deter me from pursuing a career in the culinary world. He doesn't think I have what it takes to succeed as a chef. The culinary world is too cutthroat for a girl like me. You'll live and die in the kitchen. Only men survive.

Well, I'll prove him wrong. I'm ready for this world.

Sarah's definitely has potential. I love its white walls and large glass cake display cases. The cases are empty now but we can fill them with a lovely assortment of desserts. White lattice chairs with lavender seat cushions surround round glass top tables. If it were up to me, I would display bonbons and cookies in jars on the empty white shelves against the back wall. I would showcase a rainbow of macarons, cream puffs, and lollipops on the lavender counters. I would serve the patrons a variety of delicious mousses in pretty porcelain teacups. A skilled barista would serve artistic lattes and cappuccinos. Children would get free chocolate lollipops.

J-pop or k-pop would play in the background. Sometimes we could play classical music. Eventually I would ask Ian to repaint the place using a Tiffany-blue color scheme.

Oh gosh, Sara, now you're just getting way ahead of yourself. This bakery belonged to Sarah. It was her dream, not yours. And I should probably just concentrate on perfecting signature cupcakes in the beginning.

Ian chuckles, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Look at that sparkle in your eyes," he says to me. "Let's go into the kitchen and show Duncan what you can do."

"I don't have time for this." Duncan walks away from us.

I suddenly want to prove myself to Duncan. Maybe his doubt in me reminds me of my dad. I replace my pink apron with the lavender one. I'm going to help Ian. After all, I owe him a priceless vase. "Wait, Duncan... just give me half an hour. I'll show you what I can do."

Duncan raises his eyebrows at me.

"She's a pro. Her desserts are going to make love to your taste buds," Ian says, making me blush like a naked virgin in the presence of a handsome rogue. Save for the naked part, I am that virgin.

"Ian... eew. Who says that anyway?" I shake my head at him.

"It's the truth. Your desserts are amazing." Ian's compliments make my head swell.

I guess I should have more confidence in my skills. I'm Olivia Lee's daughter and a pastry chef who'se been baking since she was four years old.

"Fine. You have half an hour. I'll be waiting here." Duncan sits by the windows, looks outside, and covers his ears with his ear buds again.

Ian winks at me and leads me into the kitchen. I feel like I'm Smaug in front of a newly discovered gold hoard. The kitchen has everything I need to create every recipe in Mom's book. It's clean, neat, well supplied, but devoid of baked goods. An empty oven in a bakery is always a bad idea. The place smells too sterile to be a bakery kitchen.

Ian also shows me the dry storage room and the walk-in cooler and freezer. Both are well stocked with ingredients that are just going to waste. The pastry chef inside of me wants to happy-dance. This kitchen is my canvas and the ingredients are my tools and paint.

"What will you make?" Ian asks me.

"You'll see."

As I cook, Ian watches me like a hawk, but that doesn't bother me. I quickly preheat one of the ovens to 375 degrees. I coat ramekins with olive oil before lightly dusting them with flour.

In the microwave, I melt dark chocolate with sweet butter and let the mixture cool. Ian helps me separate three large eggs. With an electric mixer, I whisk up a mixture of egg yolks and light brown sugar before folding in the melted chocolate and cake flour with a rubber spatula. I pour the batter into the ramekins before baking them for fifteen minutes, watching them gradually rise as I prepare a mascarpone cream whipped with lemon juice and vanilla extract.

Once the cakes are ready, I let them cool for a few minutes before plating and garnishing them with the cream, chocolate shavings, and some brandied cherries that I had found in the cooler.

In less than thirty minutes, I have baked a simple yet delicious, warm dark chocolate cake similar to a Black Forest cake. The dessert looks dainty and inviting, like an elegant gourmet cupcake. I scoop a spoonful of cake, cream, and a cherry and offer it to Ian. Instead of grabbing the spoon, Ian takes it into his mouth as I'm still holding it.

Be still, my beating heart. I hold my breath. Around Ian, I hold my breath so much that I can became an expert diver soon.

"This is good enough to serve in one of my mother's restaurants. It's delicious. I was right about you." He licks the corner of his mouth. That look he's giving me now makes me wonder if he wants to lick me too.

I cough, almost choking on my spit. No way, Sara. No way. He's just impressed with your cooking skills. Stop blushing like a silly tween who has a crush on a hot teacher. "Let's not keep Duncan waiting." Flustered, I grab a plate and a handheld butane torch, quickly leave the kitchen, and hear stupid Ian chuckling.

When I place the plate down before Duncan, he doesn't look at it or at us. With the torch, I set a cherry on fire. It's like a mini cherries jubilee. I love flaming desserts. This catches Duncan's attention because for a split second, I see a spark of interest in his eyes.

"You trying to set this place on fire?" Duncan blows out the flame.

When he's not frowning or brooding, Duncan is pleasing to look at. He has softer features than Ian. I notice a tattoo that creeps up Duncan's neck like sharp, black vines. It's a tribal tattoo, I bet.

Stop staring at him, Sara. It's like you've never seen men up close before. Then again, I've never been in this close proximity with two guys before. Two hot guys.

Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Duncan pokes at my cake with a spoon and finally samples it. I cross my fingers.

When he's done tasting it, he shrugs. "I guess it's not bad but it's not as good as Ian says. Just because you can make a simple Black Forest cake doesn't mean that you can run and save this bakery. You're not her." Duncan scoffs, pushes the plate away, and walks out of the bakery.

I feel like a punching bag that has been abused. _You're not her_. He probably means Sarah. I don't want to be her. It's unfair to compare the living to the dead. The dead will always be better, especially when they die young. They had limitless potential. People will forever yearn for them. Pitted against memories of Sarah, I'll never win.

Ian pats my shoulder. "Hey, listen. I'm sorry about that. Sarah was Duncan's twin sister. He has been helping me run this place since I abandoned it. It's been tough for him. This isn't his dream. He's only doing this because it was his sister's baby."

I shrug. "He's right though. I'm not her. I don't think I can–"

"Yes, you can. He's wrong about your desserts. They're amazing." Ian looks up at the ceiling. "In truth, I think you're a better pastry chef than Sarah was. I think Duncan knows that too but he'll never admit it."

My whole body feels like smiling. Ian thinks my desserts are better than those of the love of his life? It's settled then. I want to revive this bakery. It's a great stepping-stone for me and my future career. I can see it now, this bakery filled with my desserts and smelling like our kitchen whenever Mom and I baked.

"Okay, I'll do it. I have three conditions though." I hold up three fingers.

Ian crosses his arms. "Name them."

I take a deep breath, feeling like I'm negotiating with the mafia. Okay, here goes. "One, I will have a full range of creative freedom. Whatever I wish to sell and present to customers here goes."

He rubs his chin in thought. "You got it. I trust your skills. That's why I brought you here in the first place." He gives me this cocky smile that makes my core burn like a juiced-up radiator.

"I thought it was because I owe you an antique vase." I grin at Ian.

"That too."

Darn it. He didn't forget about that stupid vase yet. I take another deep breath. This one, Ian might not agree to but I'll propose it anyway. I may sound greedy but I'm not working here for free. Not even if I owe him a darn antique vase. "Two, I want partial ownership of this bakery if we successfully revive it."

Ian's eyes are wide with curiosity. "You continue to surprise me, Sara."

I fist my hands. Please say yes to this.

"I didn't expect this sort of drive from you... I can't promise you that, but I can promise you a percentage of our profits." Ian cocks his head. "If you save this bakery, and after you pay off the cost of my beloved vase that is."

I roll my eyes at him. A percentage of the profits is a good start. I shouldn't be so greedy anyway and expect him to make me a partial owner of something that means so much to him.

"Okay, deal. And finally, three... I need you and Duncan to stop comparing me to Sarah." I swallow a knot in my throat. I can't believe that I had summoned enough courage to say that.

Ian just stands there and stares at me with this vacant look on his face. He blinks rapidly. "What?"

I bite my bottom lip. I should just shut up now but I don't. "I can help you revive Sarah's but nothing can help revive Sarah."

Brows knitted in frustration, Ian curses at me. "I know that." He rubs his face.

I fight the urge to take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. "When I was ten years old, everything I knew fell apart when Mom passed away. I tried making every one of her recipes so that our house would smell like her. Every time I tasted one of her desserts that I made, I would imagine that she made it. I would cry myself to sleep, hugging her apron. To this day, I haven't washed that apron." My eyes well up with tears. I don't know why I'm revealing all of this to Ian. "So many memories of her flooded my mind and filled my heart with joy. I would always laugh and cry at the same time." Tears roll down my cheeks. "What I'm trying to say is that no matter what we do, we can't bring them back. We have to accept that fact, treasure memories of them, and in a sense, move on." I sniffle and wipe the tears away from my face.

How long has it been since Sarah passed away? If Ian continues to hold on to her like he does now, he'll be like my father. For eight years, Dad hasn't been able to move on, having turned into a shell of the man he once was.

Ian wears a sullen look on his face. Not saying another word, he storms out of the bakery. By the time I'm outside, he's gone.

Geez, what an ass. Sarah's hasn't been locked up yet but I don't care. I'm going home. Why should I care if looters come into the bakery or not when Ian just left me here, not knowing if I have my wallet or a MetroCard with me? It's going to take me an hour to get home. Ack. Plus it won't be a joyride, taking a subway train into Brooklyn at this hour. Like a true New Yorker though, I fall asleep on the train. By the time the D train reaches my stop, Bay Parkway, I'm the sole soul on the platform.

16. Ian, July 23rd, morning

F*ck. Last night, I regretted leaving Sara alone at Sarah's the moment I drove off. I didn't get far. By the time I returned to lock up the bakery, Sara was gone. I felt bad about making her go home alone, especially at night. But it happened. Her words really got to me though. I know she's right but it's easier said than done, moving on with one's life.

I wasn't prepared to lose Sarah when I did. We were watching fireworks on the Coney Island boardwalk last summer and sharing a chilidog when she fainted in my arms.

When she came to in the ER, she told me that she had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor a few months ago. Wanting to live life to its fullest, she refused chemotherapy treatments. Her family respected her decision. Everyone she loved knew that she was dying.

Everyone except for me. She kept her illness away from me. I feel so stupid for not seeing all the signs. She blamed her weight loss and vomiting on a stomach bug. And I believed her.

Four days after our date in Coney Island, she passed away in the hospital. I watched her breathe her final breath, close her eyes forever, and leave us with a smile on her beautiful face.

I know that I'll never have Sarah in my arms again, even after we revive her bakery. This is real life, not some fantasy world. I can't let her dream fail though.

It's 6:01 a.m., already sunny, and I'm parked outside of Sara's condominium, hoping that she hasn't changed her mind about being my pastry chef.

I ring her doorbell. I ring it again. I must have ringed the bell thirty times (with a pause between each one) before she opens the door. I try not to laugh when I see her wearing pink Hello Kitty pajamas. Her hair is a mess, like there's a dark brown, lightning-struck cat sleeping atop her head. Is that dry drool on her chin?

Sara rubs her eyes and yawns. "Dad? You forgot your keys or something?" She rubs her eyes some more, blinks, and realizes it's me at the door. I'm prepared for her to slam the door in my face. But she doesn't. She screams like a banshee and runs back into the house, leaving the front door open.

She amuses me to no end. I wipe tears of laughter from my gorgeous peepers. I sneak a peek into her home. Did they just move into this place? From what I see so far, it's barely furnished, very white, and doesn't smell like the home of chefs. Strange.

Minutes later, Sara comes back wearing a white t-shirt beneath overalls. Aren't overalls what toddlers and rednecks wear? I think I prefer those Hello Kitty pajamas.

She has combed her hair and tied it into a ponytail. The drool spot is still on her chin. I scratch my chin while looking at hers. She doesn't get my hint.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips like a teacup, and looking cutely pissed.

I shrug. "To apologize. Again." That's my relationship with Sara; I keep apologizing to her for being a jerk. "You were just trying to help. I'm sorry for your loss too and sorry for ditching you last night."

Sara stays quiet for a few seconds. "Whatever."

This girl has a funny way of accepting apologies. I beam at her and give her my best puppy dog eyes. Sara gives me a funny look and then blushes profusely. I love how she quickly turns away. I bet she's hoping that I didn't catch the cute explosion of pink across her freckled cheeks. But I did (eyebrows wiggling).

"So is our deal still on? You're still going to help me, right? Don't make me say pretty please."

"Yes, our deal is still on," she finally says. "But if you ever show up at my house at this dreadful hour again, I'll–"

"Break another one of my priceless vases?" I chuckle at the speechless look on her face. "When you're ready, it's baking time, my friend."

"It's like the crack of dawn. The sun's barely out." She looks outside and squints.

"Guess you're not much of a morning person. Starting tomorrow, I'm picking you up even earlier than today. Late risers can't revive a bakery. Come on, go get ready."

"Fine but you're buying me breakfast. And lunch. And maybe dinner." Her stomach growls.

"Are you asking me to take you out on a date?" I raise an eyebrow at her. There it is again, that vivid blush of hers.

She squeezes her hands together at her sides. She looks like she's about to pop like an overly inflated red balloon.

"No, I'm not! And you're telling my dad why I'm not showing up at your house today to help him make desserts."

"You're sending me to face that drill sergeant? Fine. I'll go tell him later."

"He's not that bad." Sara looks away when she lies. She runs back to her bedroom and comes out with an old-looking book in her hands. A recipe book, I assume. Then she walks out of her home.

"You're ready? And wearing that?" I give her a you're-kidding-me look.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" With her thumbs, she plays with the straps of her overalls and looks confused.

"Nothing. It's just that we're going to a bakery, not a farm, Mrs. Pat Nixon."

Sara looks even more confused now. "Pat who?"

Seriously, Sara? "You know, Richard Nixon's wife? She was raised on a farm?" America in the sixties and seventies fascinates me. Thelma Catherine Ryan, raised on a farm, eventually becomes the altruistic Pat Nixon, First Lady and wife of the only president to have resigned from office.

"No, I don't know Pat Nixon. I'm no history buff. I like baking, eating, and reading."

What a simple girl. "Yes, I can tell that you like to eat." I poke her belly and she squeals. Hey, maybe she's the Pillsbury Doughboy. She slaps my hand, making me chuckle.

"You know Richard Nixon though, right?" I ask her.

"Yes, yes. Watergate, impeachment..."

I waggle my finger at her. "Contrary to what many people think, Nixon wasn't impeached. He actually resigned. There have only been two presidential impeachments in history so far: Andrew Johnson and Bill Clinton. Though Bill was acquitted of his charges."

"Oh. I guess that's good to know. So are you taking me to a bakery now or a museum? Or maybe Washington D.C., Mr. History Buff?" She flashes me a semi-cocky smile.

"Touché."

The more I interact with Sara, the more I want to know about her. What else makes her tick? What kind of books does she like to read? I know she's into reading e-books. Does she also like to flip through a traditional paperback? Like me, are desserts her favorite meal of the day?

I want to ask her those questions while driving into Manhattan, but she dozes off, sleeping like a zombie with her chin to her chest. She better not drool on Old Rusty's fine leather interior. It's not until we exit the car that I realize I've been smiling all this time.

In Sarah's kitchen, Sara un-zombifies and gets into a sort of zone like Buddy the Cake Boss. She puts on one of our aprons and covers her hair in a lavender chef's hat.

"You okay, Ian?" Sara asks me.

I must have been spacing out. Seeing Sara in the lavender uniform reminded me of Sarah. Sarah was a little spitfire when she ran this kitchen. Better not tell Sara this though. Condition three.

"I'm fine." I rub my temples. "I just have a headache. It makes me spacey," I lie. I need to get Sara a new uniform.

Sara doesn't look like she believes me. "There's something I wanted to ask you." She hesitates before continuing. "You told me that people used to line up for Sarah's cupcakes and banana pudding. What flavors of cupcakes sold the best and what else did she make here?"

I close my eyes. "Red velvet, peanut butter, chocolate, vanilla, and a strawberry shortcake cupcake sold the best. We only had ten flavors. She also made macarons and a mix of French and Italian pastries." I take out my smartphone and show Sara pictures of Sarah's desserts.

She doesn't seem impressed. "I see." She scratches the tip of her nose. So that's what she does when she's thinking. "Okay, I think I know what to do. First, we need a game plan," she says.

For about an hour, we draft a plan for Sarah's. Sara will be in charge of creating a new menu of desserts and a list of all the ingredients she will need. I will be in charge of the day-to-day operations, buying the ingredients, hiring helpers, and marketing Sarah's.

"I'm going to start baking. I'll make something that you can give out as samples outside." A serious Sara is quite intimidating, I have to say. She's a Chef Wayne Affen in the making.

"Sounds good, Boss. Would you like me to pass out samples while wearing a mascot uniform?" I wink at her. She ignores me, hurting my pride (just a bit), and explores the kitchen like a curious mouse. I lean against a marble-top worktable and watch her.

How can two people with the same name be so different and yet so similar? If Sarah were alive today, I bet she and Sara would become good friends. They'd bake together. Maybe they'd spend so much time together that I'd always be ignored like now.

Walking out of the kitchen, I see Duncan come into the bakery.

"I thought you had given up on us," I say to him. "I appreciate you coming back though." I move in for a fist-pump but he denies me one.

"I've given up on you but not on my sister's dream. I'm doing this for Sarah." Duncan looks around the bakery. "Is that funny girl here or is she some kind of flop?"

"She's in the back. We already knocked out a game plan. And she's no flop. You'll see."

By 10:00 a.m., only a few customers have trickled in for their morning lattes and croissants. We made forty bucks but that's before considering food cost. Then Sarah's is empty again. If this keeps up, I can see why Mother will close my bakery.

Things will change though. I know it. I go outside and put up a help wanted sign. Going back inside, I flare my nostrils as the sweet aroma of baked goodies kisses my nose. Sara comes out of the kitchen with 24 pretty pink cupcakes on a silver pan. Up close, I see that the fluffy egg-white frosting atop the cupcakes have a distinctive swirl, one that's different from Sarah's cupcakes. Lined up in the shape of a ribbon on top of the frosting are edible silver pearls.

It's super girly and yet I'm dying to taste it. Pink desserts are my Achilles' heel.

"Meet the Olivia," Sara says beaming. "She's a pink velvet cupcake. I made her with vanilla extract, cocoa powder, white chocolate, and pomegranates. Inside the cupcake is a white chocolate ganache core. The frosting is buttercream with cream cheese." Sara cuts one of the cupcakes into four pieces. White chocolate oozes out from the center.

"It's so damn girly," Duncan says, giving Sara a look of disgust.

"So it would be damn manly if it were blue? Cut me some slack, man." Sara presses her lips together and wrinkles her nose at Duncan. "Try it before you judge it and give me honest critique please."

"Why did you name it Olivia?" I ask, popping a piece of the sliced cupcake in my mouth. It's moist and gooey, not too sweet, and super delicious. I lick my fingers and grab another piece. With reluctance, Duncan also samples the cupcake.

"I named it after my mom. It's pink because a pink ribbon symbolizes breast cancer awareness and well... I lost Mom to breast cancer." Sara shrugs. "I was thinking that once we make a profit from these, we can donate to Susan G. Komen or something."

Hearing Sara say this and seeing a flash of sadness in her eyes makes me want to hug her. Pat her head. Maybe give her a kiss. On the forehead.

"Hey, that's really sweet of you to name a cupcake after your mom. I'm sorry for your loss," Duncan says softly, shocking me when he wraps his arms around Sara in a bear hug. "I know how it feels to lose a loved one."

I clear my throat when Duncan doesn't release Sara from his embrace. Why isn't she pushing him away? Is she enjoying the hug? I clear my throat louder, adding ahems.

"Thanks..." Sara says to Duncan. "I know your sister was Sarah. So I'm sorry too." She looks at me. Her face is redder than a cherry tomato. I frown and don't know why my hands are fisted at my sides.

"This cupcake is better than that cake you made last night. I like the charity idea. What do you think, Ian?" Duncan tilts his head.

I think I want to punch in his nose. I should have been the one hugging Sara and saying those nice things to her. You know, to show her how much she's appreciated here. I regain my composure and say, "I love it." I grab an unsliced cupcake off the pan. "We can definitely donate portions of our proceeds to charities."

"Awesome. Okay, Ian, go pass these out as samples." Sara cuts up a few more cupcakes and places the remaining ones in the display case.

"Aye aye, Captain. Go outside and pass them out, Dunc." I shove the tray of cupcake samples in Duncan's face.

Duncan gives me the finger and goes to play with our expensive espresso machine.

"I thought you were passing out samples today in a mascot uniform," Sara says to me and sticks out her tongue before disappearing into the kitchen.

"I was wrong about her," Duncan says, smiling to himself. "She's likeable and huggable. I'm beginning to think that we can actually do this with her around." He laughs. "Where'd you find her?"

"It's a long story, and I don't feel like telling you." I raise my chin defiantly at Duncan. I'll show him huggable.

"Screw you, man." He flips me the bird again. What a vile creature he is. I can't believe that he's Sarah's twin brother.

"Screw you, dingbat." I throw a piece of cupcake at his face, hitting his chin. He looks like he's about to fling hot espresso at me.

"Put that cup down. It's expensive, you know." I curse at Duncan and he curses back.

"Get to work, you a-holes," Sara shouts from the kitchen. Both Duncan and I shut up and bring out our A game.

17. Ian, August 8th

It's been a little over two weeks since Sara became my pastry chef. She has already created seven classic cupcakes for Sarah's. There's the Olivia, the pink velvet cupcake. Then there's the Sarah, a fresh strawberry shortcake cupcake with cute pink frosting. Mr. Salty is a dark chocolate cupcake with salted caramel frosting. The Tokyo is a tapioca-filled, wasabi cupcake with Ponzu frosting. The Spumoni is a pistachio-filled cupcake with a pineapple frosting, topped with bits of candied cherries. The Pancake is a blueberry and chocolate chip cupcake with a Canadian maple syrup frosting. And finally there's the Duncan (yes I know, WTF), a banana and honey cupcake with Madagascar bourbon vanilla frosting and an optional sprinkle of fresh and crispy bacon. Though it's an Elvis Presley inspired cupcake, it's called the Duncan.

If Sara can name one of our cupcakes after Duncan, then why the hell hasn't she named one after me yet? Ian sounds so much better than Duncan.

Those two have become chummy. A bit too chummy. When Duncan is supposed to be manning the front of the house and making coffee, he's learning how to frost cupcakes with Sara. Why does she have to hold his hands to teach him her signature swirl? It's not that hard to do. Just pipe the frosting out slowly and make a cute swirl at the end.

I grab a piping bag and start piping a topless cupcake. I squeeze the bag and it farts out a large wad of chocolate frosting, covering the cupcake and the table beneath it with an ugly, sh*t-splat. Everyone looks at me for a second. Stupid Duncan smirks.

I smooth my hair with my fingers, remaining calm and suave. "Manny. Yo Manny, clean this up for me," I say, signaling to one of our new assistant bakers.

"You hired me as a baker, not a janitor. I have hundreds of cupcakes to bake and frost. You can clean that up yourself, man," Manny says with a thick Brooklyn-Italian accent. He is about a foot shorter than me but probably just as heavy. He has a well-groomed, black mustache. He reminds me of Mario. Maybe I should give him a red and blue uniform to wear.

"Wanna get fired?" I mutter.

"Sara's the boss. Not you." Manny turns away and acts all busy and stuff.

"Technically, I'm the boss," I say loudly. "I sign your paychecks." The other assistant baker that I hired, Peggy, giggles. She's a sweet lady in her mid-fifties. With her round face, orange hair, and plumpness, she reminds me of a cute pumpkin.

Yes, I hired Mario and a pumpkin to assist Sara.

"I'll wipe that for you, sweetie." Peggy says.

"Thanks, Peggy. At least someone is useful around here." I shake my head in feigned disappointment.

"Shouldn't you be helping Alicia man the front?" Duncan asks me.

I cross my arms over my heaving and impressive man pecs. "You're supposed to be in the front, doing your barista stuff. I'll help Sara with frosting."

"Guys, it's okay. I have Peggy and Manny. We'll manage." Sara looks amused.

"If that's your wish. But you still need to show me how to bake and stuff," Duncan smiles at Sara, dips a finger into a bowl of frosting, and licks it. Is that bastard flirting with her? And that finger of his better be clean. Walking out of the kitchen, he deliberately bumps into my shoulder.

"Whoops," he says sarcastically.

Though I'd love to whoop his ass now, I have more pressing matters to attend to. I walk up to Sara and clear my throat.

She looks up at me. Cute spots of powdered sugar and flour cover her nose and cheeks. Her apron has splotches of white and chocolate frosting. Our pastry chef needs a new uniform, and I'm going to surprise her with one later.

I clear my throat again. "So when are you making an Ian cupcake?"

"An Ian cupcake?" She shakes her head and laughs. "There's no ring to that. It won't be popular."

"The Ian has a ring to it. You named a cupcake after Duncan. The Duncan sounds stupid."

Sara giggles. "The Duncan sounds yummy."

At least she didn't say that Duncan is yummy.

Sara pokes me on the shoulder. "Someone sounds jealous."

"He does sound jealous," Mario, I mean Manny, pipes in.

"That's preposterous. I don't get jealous. And mind your own business, Manny." I bare my teeth at him.

"What's your favorite dessert?" Sara asks me, changing the topic.

That's a tough question to answer. I love all sorts of desserts. It's a surprise that I'm not diabetic yet. "I love pink desserts but my favorite is the cheesecake." I shrug.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay what?"

"You'll see." With that, Sara turns on an electric mixer, dumps in some softened butter, and ignores me.

As I'm walking out of the kitchen, Peggy says, "You two are cute. Like a married couple. Just like me and my boo. But she's right though, love. The Ian sounds bad. Duncan sounds better. Adorable even."

I frown at Peggy.

"Sorry, Boss. Just telling you the truth." She grins and pats me on the shoulder.

"Whatever. Y'all have no taste." I exit the kitchen sighing.

Sitting by the windows, I check out Sarah's new website on my laptop. I've included pictures and descriptions of each of Sara's cupcakes. As one of the youngest executive pastry chefs in the city, Sara is already a star on our website.

Thanks to social media, my marketing efforts, and word of mouth, her gourmet cupcakes, especially the Olivia, have already become immensely popular. Our customers love how the Olivia represents Sara's mother and breast cancer awareness. When I Google us online, I see that we already have dozens of positive reviews.

By noontime, we've run out of cupcakes while people are still lining up outside the bakery. I'll have to close up shop now and reopen tomorrow morning. This has been the case for the past few days. People can't wait to see what other flavors Sara will come up with next. We're already receiving catering and custom orders.

That's NYC for you, the city of opportunity. New Yorkers love anything that's new, well priced, pretty looking and delicious. Even though every other bakery sells cupcakes, they rely too heavily on fondant and food coloring. Our cupcakes are organic, fresh, and beautiful.

At this rate, Mother is going to eat her words. I'm not useless after all. After graduating from Columbia Business School, instead of working for my mother, I pursued photography. She complained about how I had wasted a great education. I haven't. I've actually applied what I've learned from school here in successfully reviving Sarah's.

And not only that, I know that Sara and I are going to make this bakery bigger and better than ever, fulfilling my beloved Sarah's dream.

18. Sara, August 9th, afternoon

I'm dreaming and please don't make me wake up from this dream.

A little over two weeks ago, I walked into a dying bakery that sold mass-produced pastries from distributors. Sarah's only had one employee, barista Duncan, and he was on the brink of quitting.

Miracles do happen.

Since Ian hired Mario and Pumpkin (their real names are Manny and Peggy but Manny looks like Mario and Peggy looks like a pumpkin), we make hundreds of cupcakes daily. They're just flying out of the door. I think we've already sold over two thousand of them.

I can't believe it but I did it, Mom. I'll make it as a pastry chef. This opportunity is an awesome stepping-stone. People love my cupcakes, thanks to you and your recipes. I can't let this high stop.

Diana and my dad don't know that I'm working at Sarah's. I actually haven't talked to Dad for more than two weeks now. I know that he's unhappy. Ian told him a lie. He told Dad that he hated my desserts and that I should never step foot into his manse again. Since then, Dad hasn't answered my calls or texts.

Way to go, Ian. Cut another rift into the relationship between Dad and me. I guess Ian had meant well, but he could have used another approach. Oh well.

Both Ian and I can't wait to reveal Sarah's success to Diana and my dad. We just don't know how they would react then. In any scenario, I'll be sure to be prepared.

Manny and Peggy clean up for the day and start prepping for tomorrow, giving me time to experiment and play with new recipes. Alicia, the girl who Ian hired to help run the front of the house, comes into the kitchen. She's Duncan's classmate from the Pratt Institute, an art college in Brooklyn. She's barely five feet tall, so she's even shorter than me. I think I'm also double her size. Though she's a college student, she looks like she's only thirteen and sometimes acts younger than that.

She has cute leveled bangs above her brown eyes and long, black wavy hair.

"Oh my god, I think I grew a zit from eating too many of your cupcakes," she says, pointing at her cute button nose. She has porcelain-smooth skin and the "zit" she's pointing to is a microscopic pink dot on the tip of her nose.

"That's not a zit. _These_ are zits." I point at the constellation of zits on my forehead.

"Eh, you can barely see them." Alicia squints, shaking her head at me. "You know what could be so cool? So many people pass by with their poodles and other pooches. You should make doggie treats for us to pass out."

"That's a great idea," Peggy says. "Just make them sugarless and organic. My Buster would love them!" (Buster is Peggy's beloved pug. She's been asking me to make cupcakes that look like pugs since she started working here.)

"And you should start making pretty cakes. I can help you decorate them. I'm a sculptor after all. And Ian can take pictures of the cakes and showcase them online in a portfolio." Alicia claps her hands and beams at me. "We're going to have the prettiest desserts in the city. This is so exciting. I'm so glad that Duncan had told me about this gig." Alicia sighs. "He's super cute, isn't he? I wonder when he's going to ask me out."

I love how she has ADHD. "All your ideas are great," I tell her. "And yes, Ian is pretty cute."

"I said Duncan, not Ian. But Ian is cute too. He's not as edgy as Duncan though. Duncan's like a rock star and Ian's like... a woodsman."

I laugh at Alicia's comment, even though I don't agree with her. Ian is like Heathcliff and Mr. Darcy rolled into one entity–a tortured, enigmatic, and devastatingly-handsome soul.

Shoot. I should be writing romance novels. Move aside, Jane Austen.

"What are you girls talking about?" Duncan walks into the kitchen holding a cup of foamy latte. He sets it down before me. "Need a pick me up?" he asks me.

"Definitely." I've been in a zone for the past two weeks but my muscles are achy and my joints are sore. Every day, I'm here at the crack of dawn. When I leave the place, the sun is setting. I think I've lost a few pounds even though I've been eating tons of cake batter, frosting, and cupcakes.

"We're just talking about you and Ian and seeing which one of you is hotter," Alicia says. I can't believe how blunt she is. I feel my cheeks grow hot.

"And who do you think is hotter?" Duncan asks, looking straight at me.

"She thinks I'm the hottest," Manny says, making all of us laugh.

"That's the truth," I say. "Manny is a stud muffin."

Manny flexes his biceps and blows me a kiss.

"I'm crushed." Duncan sighs. "Anyway, girls. My band and I are playing at Charlie's Bar in Red Hook tonight. Come see us. We'll reserve a table for you."

"You have a band? I feel like I barely know you, Duncan." I grin at him.

"Well, you can get to know me more after tonight." He winks at me. "So, will you girls come?"

"Of course we will. We can be your groupies." Alicia all but bounces in excitement. "We'll dress up and have beer and wings. It'll be so much fun."

I stretch my neck. I'm completely pooped but I really want to go see Duncan and his band. I already consider him my friend. Everyone here is my friend. Manny is like that cool and funny tough-guy uncle I've always wanted. Peggy is that sweet aunt who's always nosy but means well. Despite being a ditz, Alicia is best friend material. As for Duncan, he's the cool big brother. Being an only child, I've always wanted a sibling.

So these folks here, they're not just my friends. They're my new family.

Thanks to Ian, I've met these great people.

"Okay, I'll go too. I just have some stuff to finish up." I sip my latte.

"I'm so excited. I'm going to get my nails and hair done. Let's wear short skirts, Sara. Groupies always wear skirts."

I chuckle at Alicia's comment. "I don't have any skirts."

"I'll lend you one," Peggy says and our laughter fills the kitchen.

An hour later, I'm alone in the kitchen. After Ian had told me that his favorite dessert is cheesecake, I keep thinking about making a cheesecake cupcake.

I love Mom's Japanese soufflé cheesecake recipe, so I make a super fluffy and light cheesecake cupcake. I frost it with lemon buttercream and top it with fresh, hollowed out raspberries stuffed with strawberry bits. I bite into one of the cupcakes. It's missing something. A core. A heart. I think I'm going to fill the center with fresh strawberry jam.

"Everyone left already?" Ian walks into the kitchen and startles me for a second. He's wearing a black t-shirt with Sarah's logo and dark jeans. I could see why Alicia thinks that he's a woodsman. He has the body of a lithe lumberjack and smells woodsy too. Must be Old Spice on those sexy armpits of his.

Gosh, what is wrong with me today?

I nod and stare at him as he scrutinizes my new cupcakes. He's extra gorgeous today. Here I go again.

"Is this a new cupcake?" He grabs one without waiting for an answer from me and devours it. "Cheesecake. Mmm, I'm in heaven. You did it again, Sara. What are you naming it?"

"First Love," I blurt out.

"First Love? Okay..."

Crap. Why did I name it that? My god, Ian must think I'm a kook. While making this cupcake, I kept thinking about him and how much Sarah meant to him. I kept replaying the scene in my head when he stared at her portrait with all that yearning and pain in his eyes. These days, I can even tell whenever he's thinking about her.

My pulses quicken. The thunderous sound of my heart beating fills my eardrums. I'm jealous of a dead girl. Why? Because I think I'm in love with her boyfriend.

Holy sh*t. This realization has struck me like a truck moving at the speed of light.

"I have somewhere to go," I say. I fumble with removing my apron and chef's hat before rushing out of the kitchen.

19. Ian, August 9th, afternoon

Do I scare her or something? After telling me her new cupcake's name, Sara runs out of the kitchen like she's seen me naked. Or like I have the Bubonic Plague. Does she still believe in cooties? I didn't see her run out of the kitchen when Duncan hugged her two weeks ago.

Stupid Duncan. What a bitch he is.

I wanted to surprise Sara with a new uniform, one that has her name embroidered on it.

I grab another First Love cupcake. It's so good. I wonder why she named it First Love though. Taking a bite of the cupcake, I close my eyes. The cake melts in my mouth. The sweetness of the fruits reminds me of Sarah's lips. The smoothness of the cake reminds me of her skin. A tear rolls down the side of my face.

That's why Sara named this cupcake First Love. Who was she thinking about when she baked it? It better not be Duncan.

Earlier I had heard Peggy complaining to Manny about not being invited to see Duncan and his band play at Charlie's Bar in Red Hook just because she's not a cute young girl like Alicia and Sara. I don't like how Duncan's been hanging around Sara, distracting her with his pretty-boy good looks. He invited her to a bar, knowing that she can't drink legally yet.

I can't have him and Alicia corrupt Sara. She's, well, my executive pastry chef and I need her here in tip-top shape. She should be here, trying on the uniform I got her, and planning for tomorrow. Not out partying like some wild chick. I can't even imagine Sara in party clothes. I guess I have a party to crash and a good girl to save.

Man, I'm so noble.

20. Sara, August 9th, nighttime

Though I've lived in Brooklyn all my life, this is the first time I'm visiting Red Hook and the first time that I'm in a bar. A bouncer cards me by the entrance and puts a large red stamp on my wrist, which means that I can't have any alcoholic drinks. Not that I intend to anyway.

I decided to dress up a bit for tonight. I don't have any nice clothes, so I went shopping after I left Sarah's. I'm wearing a jean vest over a black tank top and white shorts. I stole the outfit idea from a dressed mannequin at H&M. The clothes weren't expensive, so I didn't have to splurge. I swept my bangs to a side and tied my hair in a messy, wavy ponytail.

I immediately spot Alicia at the bar wearing a super cute outfit consisting of a white tube top and a short pink skirt. Huge silver hoop earrings dangle from her ears. Seeing me, she waves.

"Duncan reserved a table for us over there," she says, pointing to table near the stage. She leads me to the table and we sit. We have to almost shout in each other's ears because the music and the people at Charlie's Bar are so darn loud.

Alicia has a few house cocktails while I sip ginger ale, which kinda looks alcoholic. Makes me feel like less of an outlier here. For a girl her size, Alicia can really hold her liquor.

At around 8:00 p.m., Charlie, the owner of the bar, introduces the four members of the Flaming Llamas as Duncan and his band hop on stage.

"He's amazing," Alicia mouths at me. We listen to Duncan sing, belting out strong lyrics of rebellious love. I feel like we're VIPs at a rock concert, especially with Duncan looking at us when he sings. He even winks and smiles at us. Giggling, Alicia all but swoons.

I guess it's easy for a girl to fall for a guy like Duncan. And yet my heart doesn't flutter in his presence. He's super nice to me but I think of him as an older brother. Even when he hugged me, I felt nothing but embarrassment because Ian was watching us with those disapproving eyes of his. I hope Ian doesn't think that I'm a flirtatious floozy.

When the Flaming Llamas finish playing, Duncan and his band mates, Kyle, Liger, and Mobley join us. All three of them are stud muffins, if you're into the punk rocker types. Duncan sits next to me while his band mates surround Alicia.

"What did you think?" Duncan asks me, placing an arm behind me on the booth seat.

"You guys are great. I love your band name, Flaming Llamas." I grin and grab a buffalo wing from the bucket that Charlie had delivered to us on the house. Nothing is more addictive to me than a spicy buffalo wing drenched in chunky blue cheese sauce. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Maybe I should make a cupcake with buffalo wing sauce frosting. I love spicy desserts.

"We wanted to be called the F*ckin' Llamas but that name wouldn't do when we hit it big," Liger, the bassist says, running his fingers through his red hair.

Alicia and I laugh.

The guys share a pitcher of beer and I'm the only one downing the wings.

"You have wing sauce all over your mouth," Duncan says to me. He takes a napkin and helps me wipe my mouth.

"Get a room," Kyle says, flicking his pierced tongue at us. Eek.

These are not people I normally hang out with. Maybe it's the spicy wings or maybe it's just getting too stuffy in here. I feel my body heat up as Duncan edges closer to me. I look over at Alicia but she's too busy flirting with Mobley to notice how uncomfortable I'm becoming. I feel Duncan's body heat enveloping my body. He smells like cigarettes, beer, sweat, and cologne.

"We're gonna hit a club later. Wanna come as my date?" Duncan asks me, inching his face closer to mine. "Afterwards, we can get a room if you want."

"What?" I almost feel my jaw dislodge as it drops.

Duncan slaps his knee and laughs. "Lighten up, Sara. I'm just joking. I don't f*ck my friends."

"Um, me neither," I quickly add. My ears burn.

"I wanted to tell you earlier that I like what you're wearing. You should dress like this more. You're hot, you know?" Duncan takes a swig of his beer.

I shake my head. No one has told me that I'm hot before. People always say this to me, "Sara, you need to lose some weight." Or, "Sara, you look like you've lost some weight." When I hit puberty, life started to suck. My boobs got too big. I never had a thin waistline. My calves are too thick. And I'm too short. Not as short as Alicia, but I'd love to be a few inches taller without wearing heels.

Maybe it's time for me to stop seeing flaws when I look in the mirror. Nobody is perfect after all. I'm sure supermodels look in the mirror and hate what they see, even though the rest of the world is envious of them.

I'm an incredible baker. I have a great future ahead of me. So what if I'm not stick thin. I probably never will be. But that's okay.

From now on, I should learn to love myself more. Duncan is right. I am hot. This revelation makes me feel all bubbly and giddy on the inside. Hearing it from Duncan is great, but I should hear this from myself more often.

Duncan pats my head. "I catch Ian staring at you all the time. He used to look at my sis that way. I don't like it." He narrows his eyes.

"Ian... Ian stares at me?" Duncan's mentioning of Ian makes the butterflies in my stomach do somersaults. He stares at me like he used to when he stared at Sarah? What does that mean?

I sneak-stare at Ian all the time. At his gloriously muscular rump beneath the well-fitting jeans and slacks that he wears. At his handsome face, even at the scar on his chin. I love looking at his arm muscles bulge when he lifts heavy things. Once or twice, I almost hacked off my finger when slicing fruits while sneaking peeks at him.

"That bastard. I never thought that you would be his cup of tea. He'll probably have a heart attack if he sees you here next to me dressed like this." Duncan has a smug smile on his face. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. Duncan is a little too touchy-feely tonight. I feel like he's possessive of me almost. Though I'm flattered, I'm not enjoying his attention. I find myself wishing that Ian treats me this way.

"Speak of the devil," Duncan says.

I look up and see Ian standing before us, sporting a wicked smile. He's wearing a tight black shirt and dark ripped jeans. My bottom lip shakes and out of nervousness, I want to laugh. Why do I feel like I'm a wife who has been caught cheating on her husband?

"Thanks for the invite, f*cktard," Ian says to Duncan. "Scoot over," he tells me before planting himself next to me, trapping me between two steamy boys.

"How'd you know we were here? And why are you here in the first place?" Duncan asks, looking super PO'ed.

"After work, I bumped into Peggy. She told me this is where I'd find you guys." Ian looks at all the guys as if he's sizing each of them up. "I need Sara in the bakery. Now."

"Hi Ian," Alicia says, hiccupping. She introduces him to each of Duncan's band mates. "We're going clubbing next. _Hic._ Then Duncan and Sara are getting a room. _Hic_."

"Is that so?" Ian raises his eyebrow at me. I feel like I'm Hester Prynne even without wearing a big scarlet letter on my chest.

"No!" I shake my head. "That's not true."

"This party is over. Come with me, Sara," Ian states and looks like he won't take no for an answer.

"Oh don't be a spoilsport, Boss," Alicia says, hiccupping and giggling.

I pull my hand away from Ian. "Whatever we need to do at Sarah's can wait. I'm hanging out with these guys tonight."

"You heard her," Duncan says with a semi-menacing tone and all but growls. "Leave us alone." His band mates glare at Ian. I hope this doesn't turn into some rowdy bar fight.

Ian doesn't back down and looks too darn relaxed. He stares at me and presses his lips together. Taking a deep breath, he says, "Fine. If you're not coming with me, then I'll stay with you until you're ready."

Duncan sits back and crosses his arms. None of the other guys look happy either. I don't want to spoil the night for the others, or risk having them beat Ian up, so I groan and nudge him. "Okay, fine. Move and get up. I'll go with you to Sarah's." I stand and give Duncan an apologetic look.

"It was nice meeting everyone. Have fun tonight. Keep an eye on Alicia for me, Duncan." I wave at everyone.

"I can't guarantee that I'll be able to keep an eye on her with these three wolves around." Duncan shrugs and his buddies howl. Why do guys do that? Alicia joins them and bursts into a cute fit of laughter. I guess she'll be fine.

"That's why you should stay with us." Duncan takes my hand and Ian gives him a death glare.

I clear my throat. "I trust that you'll take care of Alicia. We need her at Sarah's. Thanks for inviting me here tonight. I had a lot of fun. See you at work tomorrow." With that, I pull my hand away from Duncan and follow Ian out of the bar.

Fat raindrops pit-pat on the cement. Summer rain at night makes the air cool and smell like a dewy forest. Before long, we'll be soaking wet if we walk.

I'm reminded of Ian with his hair and skin wet, his swimming trunks plastered against his muscular thighs. I shake my head, hoping to force that visualization away from my mind. Ian makes a face at me. He must think that the circuits in my brain are fried. They are in fact, because he drives me crazy.

I cross my arms over my chest and face him. "What's so important that you had to find me here and ruin my night?"

"Nothing really." Ian shrugs nonchalantly, making me want to stomp his feet.

"I ruined your night because I spoiled things between you and Duncan?" With his brow furrowed, he looks annoyed. "You're disappointed that you can't spend the night with him in a hotel room or something?"

I force myself not to slap Ian for implying that I'm promiscuous. "There's nothing between Duncan and me. We're just coworkers and friends. You came all the way here to do nothing really? If that's the case, then I'm going back inside."

Grasping my hand tightly, Ian stops me from walking back into the bar. He pulls me close to him. Somehow I end up with my palms against his hard chest. Looking down at me, his dark soot lashes fan over the top of his high cheekbones. Seeing the sultry look on his face makes it hard for me to breathe. I stare at his lips for a second too long. His eyes linger on mine too.

I hear the pit-pats of rain, the sound of my heartbeats, and another faint but rapid series of thumping sounds. Is that Ian's heart against my palm? Is it beating faster because of me?

"How about us? Are we friends?" he asks, looking at my lips. I feel his warm, minty breath against my forehead. An electric chill runs down my neck and spine all the way to my toes.

I gulp and nod. "And you're my boss."

"That's right. As your boss, I forbid you to date your coworker."

I shake my head. "I'm not dating Duncan. Or Manny..."

Ian laughs at my comment. "Good. And you know you can't be dating me either. So you should stop."

"Stop what?" I ask. Ian isn't making any sense to me.

"Stop driving me crazy and making me want to do this..."

I gulp. "Do what?"

"This."

Ian closes the distance between our faces, covering his lips over mine with a searing, heart-stopping kiss. A muffled protest escapes my closed lips but then I'm quiet as I melt. With his lips, warm and soft, pressed against mine, my eyes close and my head spins. He cups my cheeks, caressing them softly. This is how I've always imagined my first kiss to be. Summer rain in the backdrop, fireworks in my stomach, a taste of ambrosia on my lips. Wildly my heart races as I respond to his kiss, parting my lips. I'm not frozen and I don't push him away. I'm not even nervous, which surprises me.

This just feels so right. Greedily I breathe in his scent, that woodsy and distinctive masculine musk of his. I savor the taste of his lips and the feel of his strong, virile body against mine. He pins me against the wall of Charlie's Bar. His hands are around the small of my back, arching me toward him to meet the fervor of his lips. He's set me on fire as flames that I can never escape engulf me.

His tongue finds mine, darting in through my parted lips. My first kiss is a French kiss. It feels amazing. Strange, electrifying tingles run throughout my body. He presses his body harder against mine. I feel the bulge of his manhood beneath of jeans. Holy crap. I'm giving him a hard-on.

I am trekking on dangerous territory. My mind tells me to end this kiss, but my body disobeys.

He says my name against my lips. When he says my name again, I'm all heady and dazed. Then I hear him say three words that stop my heart. A terrible ache burns through me. All the pleasurable feelings he had given me dissipate. I force myself not to cry.

"I miss you," was what he said.

Startling him, I break the kiss and shove his chest. I must look terribly wounded to him with my lips quivering, my fists trembling, and my body shaking. He looks like he's sorry. If he apologizes to me one more time, I'll scream.

I can't believe he misses Sarah so much that he can mistake me for her.

"Wake up, Ian. I'm not her. I'm Sara without an H." I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. "This was a mistake. I... I had some beer earlier. I'm tipsy. Otherwise I would have stopped you from kissing me." I wave awkwardly at him and want to kick myself for being so silly and stupid. "Good night!"

I run away, not caring if the rain soaks me from head to toe and gives me pneumonia. The rain can hide my tears and gives me an excuse to run faster and faster away from Ian.

Stupid, Sara. How could I have been so stupid to lose my heart to a guy like him?
21. Ian, August 10th, midnight

Sara looked like she was about to cry before she left. That made me want to kick myself. She wasn't upset about the kiss because she kissed me back with much appreciated gusto.

She was upset about me saying "I miss you" and thinking about Sarah while kissing her.

Way to go, jerk.

I sigh, rubbing my lips and remembering Sara's sweet mouth. It felt strange when we kissed. Strange because it was nice as I enjoyed it a little too much. Her cheeks were silky smooth and her body was soft like a pillow that molded against mine almost perfectly. God, she made me hard. Sh*t. She must have felt me.

Oh well. I'm a man. A man has needs. Get over it.

I sigh, remembering how Sara smelled like honey and vanilla cupcakes. That's how Sarah used to smell. My mind drifted. I blame it on muscle memory. Kissing Sara reminded me of kissing Sarah. For the first time since Sarah passed away, pleasant, giddy feelings coursed through my veins and gathered in my stomach.

What I felt with Sara, I didn't feel with any of the girls I've slept with after Sarah passed away. And that's why I got confused. I was sure that I'd never have these feelings again. My heart stirred and raced. Pleasurable tingles ran down my spine to my toes. I kissed Sara fervently. Her lips tasted like honeyed wine. I couldn't have enough of her.

I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I can deduce that I'm developing a crush on my pastry chef. But how is that possible when Sara isn't my cup of tea?

I like feminine girls with long flowing hair (preferably blond), soft features, a thin waist, long legs, and a nice butt. Sara's hair is shoulder-length, which is a bit short. But her hair can grow longer. She's not that feminine, but she did look cute and girly in that outfit she wore. Her legs aren't long, but they looked good in shorts. She doesn't have a thin waist, but it's pleasantly curvy. And that rack of hers, well... it's stellar.

Never said that I'm a saint.

I stare at Sarah's portrait like I often do before I go to sleep. I feel guilty about kissing Sara and enjoying it. Yet I've never felt guilty about having all those one-night stands with those girls. Their faces, albeit beautiful, I've already forgotten. Sara's face, I can draw up from memory. When she smiles, I want to smile. Seeing her face marred by hurt makes my heart ache. If I see her cry, I bet that would eat at my conscience for days. Later I won't be able to fall asleep. That pained look Sara gave me will haunt me all night long.

I touch Sarah's portrait and close my eyes. "Forgive me, hun. I think I might be falling for another girl."
22. Ian, August 10th, late morning

I wouldn't be surprised if Sara didn't show up to work today; however, she was at Sarah's earlier than anyone else. She has transformed from someone who could barely function in the morning to a dedicated pastry chef who starts her day at the crack of dawn. I don't know how she does it. Her passion for baking and her drive to make Sarah's a huge success inspire me. Sometimes, I can't believe she's the same silly girl with the bee in her ear and the girl who plunged herself into John's pool.

All morning long, I tried finding the right opportunity to apologize and give Sara her new uniform. Aside from saying good morning to me, she's been avoiding me, hiding in the kitchen and burying herself in her work. I walk into the kitchen to gather a tray of cupcakes to pass out as samples. The flow of customers has been steady all morning. We're expecting a huge wave of people before noontime. That's when we're going to launch the First Love cupcakes and give a hundred of them out for free.

I watch Sara work, silently admiring her. She knows that I'm here, just a few feet away from her. She doesn't laugh like she always does when Manny tells a crude joke. Then again, his joke isn't that funny, and if we had an HR department, he'd get a warning.

"Something wrong, love? You don't look so good." Peggy says to Sara, placing the back of her hand on Sara's flour-covered forehead. "Oh my god, you're burning up."

Sara sniffles and shakes her head. "I'm okay. It's just hot in here with all these ovens and stuff." She doesn't sound good. Studying her, I notice her panda eyes and pale face. She probably didn't sleep all night. Neither did I.

"She has a fever, Boss," Peggy tells me. "Sara, you should go home and rest."

"I can't. We're launching the new flavor today and I haven't frosted them yet. Besides, I'm fine." Sara covers her mouth with her arm and coughs into it. Damn it, she's phlegmy.

"You're going to turn all of our customers into zombies," I state.

Sara stops what she's doing. "Fine, I'll go take a break." She walks out of the kitchen, still not making eye contact with me. So I follow her outside.

"Duncan, can you make me a tea with honey and lemon?" She smiles at Duncan. Why can't she smile like that at me more? She's turned into a little flirt. And Millie called her virginal? Just look at Sara now, batting her eyes at Duncan, leaning against the counter, and biting her lush bottom lip.

"Coming right up." Duncan obliges and will probably make the sweetest cup of tea for her. What, is she his cup of tea too? Why's he all smitten by her? The girls he usually goes for are Goth chicks, emo punks, or hipsters.

I think I'm going to have to fire Duncan and replace him with a gay barista. That way, the new guy won't flirt with Sara. He might flirt with me though but I can handle that.

"Thanks, Duncan," Sara says when he hands her a cup of hot tea.

"Thanks, Duncan," I repeat in a soft, squeaky voice, imitating Sara while snarling at Duncan. Sara is too busy sipping her tea to notice me while Duncan is too busy staring at her.

"So... you came back here after you left the bar yesterday?" Duncan asks Sara.

"No, I just went home." Sara sneezes.

"Oh." Duncan glances over at me and wears a stupid smug look on his face. "I thought that Ian needed you to put out a fire here."

"No, he just... had something to tell me."

Sara is horrible at lying.

"He couldn't wait until today? Or text you? He's a terrible boss, don't you agree? Did he take you home at least?"

Sara shakes her head.

"What an ass." Duncan rolls his stupid eyes.

That's it. Enough is enough.

"Excuse me, Duncan. We have a line of people waiting for their drinks. Get on it," I tell him. He makes an ugly face at me. Sara mouths the word sorry to him and goes back into the kitchen with her cup of love tea.

Blergh, how I want to vomit. And why didn't she disagree with Duncan? I'm an awesome boss.

"You think I'm an awesome boss, right Alicia?"

"Too busy. Can't talk right now," Alicia replies.

Great. I should fire everyone here except for Sara. Maybe I'll keep Peggy too.

A little more than an hour later, Sara puts the finishing touches on the First Love cupcakes. She and Peggy bring them out in trays. Alicia passes them out to our happy customers.

Walking back into the kitchen, Sara stumbles a bit and I catch her, holding on to her arm. From her breathless look, I can tell that I've just swept her off her feet.

"I'm fine. Let go," she says and I can see that she's not fine. Her lips and face are pale. Beads of sweat rest on her forehead. Okay, so maybe I didn't sweep her off her feet. She's just sick.

"You need to rest. The cupcakes are done. Manny and Peggy can prep for tomorrow. I'm taking you home."

"You're going to pass out, sweetie. You need to rest," Peggy adds in.

More stubborn than a mule, Sara shakes her head. "I... I just need to..."

"Rest." Without warning, I lift Sara off her feet, carrying her close to me. Before she or anyone else can protest (namely Duncan), I navigate through our crowd of customers and walk out of Sarah's.

"You're heavier than I expected," I tell her with a smirk and she pouts.

"Let go of me. Why do you always do this? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me. You're the sick one." Carrying her tightly, amused by her kicking her feet weakly, I walk up to my car. I manage to get Sara into the passenger seat, ignoring her complaints.

"You better not puke in Old Rusty," I state.

"You're treating me like I'm a baby," she says, crossing her arms and looking out the window.

"I don't want you fainting in the kitchen and sue me for millions later for being an abusive employer."

"You are an abusive employer," she mutters.

"So being caring in your book is being abusive?"

"Whatever, Ian."

For the next few minutes, I drive in silence. I look over at Sara. She's sleeping like a baby. And that's why I have to treat her like a baby. I remember how she complained about ending up in the ER every time she's at one of Millie's celebrations. I figure she wouldn't appreciate waking up in a hospital. And since I can't leave her alone at home, I'll have to bring her to my place. There, Walter and I can take care of her or take her to the emergency room if needed.

After parking Old Rusty in the garage, I carry Sara. She's giving my arms a good workout. There's an underground walkway that connects the garage to my basement. Sara is the first girl I'm bringing home since Sarah. All the one-night stands I've had occurred in hotels in the city. I especially like hotels close to Times Square. Plenty of cabs and subway trains for the girls to take in the morning.

Gently, I lay Sara down on my king-size bed. She looks diminutive upon it. Despite her tomboy exterior, there's a soft vulnerability about her, making me want to protect her. Asleep, she's not just cute, she's pretty.

With my finger, I trail the bridge of her nose, down to her lovely lips. Though pale now, I remember how kissable they were. Addictive. She shifts in my bed, so I quickly move my face away from hers. The last thing I need is for her to wake up and scream until my eardrums bleed.

I place the back of my hand on her forehead and then neck. She's clammy and still running a fever. She must have gotten sick from running in the rain yesterday. That and having worked so damn hard the past weeks.

I remember how my father used to wipe me down with a cool, damp cloth whenever I had a fever as a child. Funny, even though Sarah was sick every now and then, I never got to take care of her.

"It's your lucky day, Sara."

I wipe her face and neck with a damp towel, running back into my bathroom to soak it in cold water again. All this time, Sara just sleeps, snoring faintly. She mumbles something. Probably dreaming. She better not be dreaming of that Duncan.

Curious, I place my ear close to her lips.

"Ian," she says softly. "I love you."

I move away. Hearing her words makes all these wonderful feelings gush through my core. There's a heavy sensation in my chest. I can feel my icy, blackened heart melt, redden, and beat louder than a drum.

How does she do this to me? Make me feel alive again?

I breathe deeply. I'm so incredibly tempted to kiss her. Instead, I smile and watch her sleep. I think I can do this all day long.
23. Sara, August 10th, nighttime

Waking up, I blink, unable to recognize my surroundings. I'm in a dark, air-conditioned bedroom, lying on a comfortable bed. My head is pounding. I feel tired and groggy, but better than before. I've been pushing myself too hard, I know, but I had to. Sarah's dream, Ian's dream, and my dream–they're all about to become a reality. By the end of this month, Diana will make a decision on whether or not she'll permanently close Sarah's.

Since the bakery is doing so well now, we can't stop. Not even for a second. New Yorkers move on too quickly, so I'll have to work even harder to continue to impress them.

I rub my temples. Where the heck am I? The last thing I remember was riding in Ian's car. I must have fallen asleep during the ride.

Obviously, I'm not in my bedroom. I have a twin-size bed.

Holy moly... am I in Ian's bedroom? This place certainly smells like him. What am I doing in his bedroom?

I hear snoring from under the comforter next to me. The large, imposing lumpy shape beneath the comforter also rises and falls, like a breathing chest. Someone is sleeping next to me.

My first instinct is to check my clothes. They're completely intact.

My next move is to either run or see who it is beneath the comforter. I lift the comforter and a muffled gasp escapes my lips.

Ian, shirtless, sleeps comfortably in a fetal position. He's hugging a pillow and looking so damn cute. What would it be like to wake up next to his handsome face everyday?

I pinch myself, convinced that I'm trapped in a sweet dream.

"Ow."

This is real life. I study the muscles on Ian's sculpted shoulder and back. He's wearing thin cotton pajama pants that hug the contours of his muscular bottom. I must be sick out of my mind because I want to squeeze his cheeks. Yes, his butt cheeks.

When he shifts, I quickly freeze and pretend to be asleep. Ian rolls over and before I know it, he's lying on top of me. I sneak a peek at him. He's still asleep. Dang, he's so warm and smells so good. Even though he's heavy, I don't mind being pinned under him like so. Time could stop right now and I wouldn't care. I'd like to be pinned beneath him for an eternity. It just feels so nice. So right. I hug my arms around his strong back and caress his muscles.

I also don't mind when he starts sleep-kissing me with fervor. He tugs at my shirt and my pants. He touches my belly and thighs. He cups the sides of my breasts. All this I don't mind.

But when he utters her name in his sleep, I do mind.

Though my body is melting for his, my heart is breaking.

To be continued...

This story unfolds in two volumes. For the exciting conclusion of My Cup of Tea, stay tuned for My Cup of Tea, Too, coming summer 2014. Thanks for purchasing this novella! Please be sure to leave a review so I can continuously improve my craft. I love hearing from you because I write for you.~
About Kat Lieu

Kat read her first book (a picture book) while potty training at the age of one and half. Reading became an addiction and a must during subsequent potty sessions. Writing as a passion soon followed when Kat was in the fifth grade. She drew a picture storybook, hand-stitched the pages together, and presented it to a class of second graders. The children loved hearing Kat's story and that cemented Kat's love for writing.

Kat wrote My Cup of Tea, Summer of Love during maternity leave. While caring for her newborn, Kat sacrificed naptime and much needed rest in order to write. When her baby slept, she quickly typed away, ignoring carpal tunnel.

Now Kat works full-time by day. By night, she's a dedicated mommy and a writer. She hopes to be able to spend more time with her son, Philly Cheese Steak, and write for a living in the near future.

Dreams do come true, when you believe in them and work hard. Many of Kat's dreams have come true and she wishes the same for all her fans and readers.

Happy reading all!

Kat welcomes comments, advice, questions and emails at dr.kat.lieu@gmail.com. Follow Kat on twitter and goodreads.
More books by Kat Lieu

Maid for Me

Maid for Me, Too

My Cup of Tea

My Cup of Tea, Too (coming summer 2014)

Blood Angels (coming winter 2014)

Visit www.nummyz.com to find Kat's books.

Blood Angels Preview  
a Jenna Moonlight story

##

Living, breathing, beautiful.

Once upon a time, warm blood flowed through his dark veins. His cerulean eyes shone with intelligence. When he smiled, my whole body smiled: my eyes, my lips, and my heart. I didn't mind when we bickered. When he challenged me, he invigorated me. When he held me, I was reborn in his arms. Each and every time.

Loved. Wanted. Desired.

I belonged.

Sometimes my eyes burn to cry. Will my tears bring back my love? How my empty heart burns now, a black hole in my chest bleeding blood so noir that it doesn't even redden when I feed.

And I feed often these days, not because my bloodlust is strong, but because blood numbs me. It's a drug. It's my ambrosia. From my lips to my tongue to my throat and finally my veins, fresh blood drowns out my memories of my blond prince, Mobley.

What would I do to see him again? So damn much. To fall asleep in his arms, smelling the scent of his skin against mine. To wake up and listen to the reassuring beats of his heart. To know that I have someone to hold, to kiss, to love. To know that someone would care when I hurt.

I would do anything to bring Mobley back to life, including challenging the Devil Himself.

Perhaps not. I am but a new blood witch and He is the Master and Lover of the Blood Queen, mother of all blood witches. In their presence, I would burn and turn into ash within seconds.

My death would not bring my beloved Mobley back to life.

And so I drift, shuffling along, day by day, night by night. Alone in this dying world.

~*~
Book Club Discussion

  1. Why did Ian mention that all flowers look and smell the same to him?

  2. What do you think Diana has in store for Wayne, Ian, and Sara?

  3. Is Duncan genuinely attracted to Sara, or is he just playing games?

  4. At the end of this novella, is Ian thinking about Sarah or Sara?

  5. Would Sara remind Ian of Sarah if she had a different name?

