Accidental Romeo: A Marriage Mistake Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  That’s more familiar. Dear old Dad reprimanding me no matter where, when, or why.

  “Have you seen the van?” I ask him, sharing a glare at Mr. Totally Shouldn't Be Here Forsythe first.

  Big mistake. I'd forgotten just how handsome he is. Those blue eyes hit me like heaven's pearls on loan to a mere mortal.

  Tall. Muscular. Huge. And just a hint of ink peeking out from his neckline.

  He’s not wearing his leather jacket today, thank God.

  Instead, it’s an expensive jean jacket that hugs his edges so well, it's sinful. Like it was made for him, not just tailored. Someday, this man is going to end a girl – and it's going to be a fight to make sure she's not me.

  “Dad?” I ask again sharply.

  “I haven’t had a chance to yet. We've been very busy,” my father admits.

  I don’t know what's more surprising – that he didn’t run straight out to the garage, or that he just admitted he hasn't looked.

  I’m certainly not surprised he took this stranger's word for everything. The very notion that he should ask me first rarely crosses my father’s mind. And Mr. Totally Infuriating Forsythe's imposing presence and natural charm surely backed up Dad's default position even more.

  “Well, the mirror's broken and there’s a dent in the door.” I pick up my exacto knife, letting them know how busy I am. “Both easy fixes. This is getting blown way out of –”

  “Damn, woman. Are you an auto-body mechanic and a baker?”

  Forsythe again. The teasing scorn in this man’s tone is unmistakable.

  The glare I cast him is just as clear. “No. I’m a very busy, hardworking baker, who doesn’t have time for this crap this early in the morning because I have a unicorn cake that needs to be ready by noon.”

  I gesture to the cake, which currently looks like nothing more than a big blob of chocolate.

  God. I wish he could see the finished product. Then he’d know how serious I am.

  Dad should know better. That's what really disappoints me. Ever since I’d returned to the bakery and started offering my specialty cakes, business is booming.

  Looking at my father, I add, “You know, this was all so preventable. If I hadn’t had to deliver the cake yesterday, I’d already have this one done.”

  For once – at least I hope by the look on his face – Dad gets where I’m coming from. He turns slowly toward our uninvited guest.

  “Come along, Mr. Forsythe. I'll have a look at the van with you. That's my Wendy, you know, always insanely busy.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper quietly, turning back to my foam boards. “Please close the door behind you.”

  I hear Dad explaining how the heat from the ovens in the kitchen plays havoc on my frosting consistency as the door closes. Crisis averted.

  Maybe.

  I squeeze the knife in my hand in order to calm myself before I poke the blade into the foam.

  Mr. Totally Ridiculous Forsythe is too handsome for his own good. And mine.

  One look at him and a few harsh words shouldn’t have my pulse roaring. It's almost as outrageous as him showing up here at seven o'clock in the morning over a freaking dent in a thirty-year-old van. Almost.

  It takes effort, but I clear my mind and try to focus on the unicorn. This is only the second 3-D sculpted unicorn I’ve ever made, and hopefully it won’t be the last.

  Kid’s birthday parties are becoming more and more elaborate, including the cakes. With cakes like this one, I can put the bakery front and center in those parties.

  By the time I’m ready to start kneading the fondant, I’m getting jitters.

  The base of the unicorn looks fabulous again. Almost better than I’d imagined. It’s brown because after attaching the head and neck with cake-frame rods, I’d covered the entire thing with a thick chocolate ganache and sculpted out the major details, like the nostrils, eyes and mouth.

  Now it looks like a horse laying on the ground with its head held high, staring off in the distance regally.

  The horn, along with the legs folded beside it, will be made from the same white fondant that I’ll cover the entire body with, and then sculpt out the minor details, like the hooves, hips, and front shoulders. The horn and the hooves will be dusted in edible gold. I’ll use a rainbow of colored frosting and pipe on the mane and tail.

  Envisioning what I’ve just described to myself, and getting anxious to see the final result, I clench my teeth at another knock on the door. A glance at the clock tells me it’s been an hour since the last interruption.

  If only that meant the van issue is over, but I know better.

  So much for this day being salvageable.

  * * *

  “Come in!” I say, letting my frustration echo in my voice as I continue kneading the fondant.

  “Hot damn.”

  Even though it’s only two growly, disbelieving words, followed by a wolf whistle, I recognize the voice instantly. Him again.

  “Is that entire horse made out of cake? Looks like a goddamn statue. A sweet one.”

  He can't be...complimenting me, can he?

  And if he is, why the hell am I fighting back a smile?

  My fingers, buried deep in the fondant, ball into fists. I close my eyes for a moment, then, without turning around, I answer, “No, Mr. Forsythe. The head's not made of cake. It'd make the whole thing far too heavy and fall off.”

  “Hunter.” The door closes behind him. “Name’s Hunter, Wendy. I stopped answering to that Mr. Forsythe shit years ago.”

  I don't know what he means. My head is spinning.

  I'm too focused on trying to make sure I don't dare acknowledge that we need to be on a first-name basis.

  We don't need anything. We don’t need to be acquainted in any way, shape, or form.

  “What’s the head made out of?” he asks.

  He’s moving now, standing close to the table holding the cake, which makes my heart skip a beat. The room is small, with little room between the stainless-steel tables on the side walls and the sink and shelving along the back.

  I cross the space with a couple of steps, putting myself between him and the cake.

  I’d assumed that would ease the rapid thud of my heart, protecting the cake, but I was mistaken. Standing this close to him increases it tenfold.

  “Polystyrene,” I say.

  He nods thoughtfully. “Styrofoam.”

  “No. Styrofoam is a branded name of polystyrene that's not always safe to come in contact with food. This stuff is. We always put our customer's health first.”

  He lifts a dark brow, then nods. “I know the difference, Sugar.” He tilts his head to one side and glances at the cake. “But I guess I always imagined unicorns being white.”

  “Well, this one will be, if I ever stop being interrupted.” I move back to the other table because I need the space and I don’t want to leave the fondant sit too long. “Shouldn’t you be home with your son?”

  “Ben’s a teenager and it’s Saturday. He’ll sleep past noon.”

  He'd better not, I think to myself. I haven't forgotten anything.

  I still plan on calling the game shop, as soon as this cake is done. I shake my head while kneading the fondant again. “Hard to believe. You seem more like the fun uncle than the father.”

  “What do you mean?” There's those blue eyes again, burning a notch hotter, fixed on me.

  I shrug without turning around. “Probably nothing. Never mind.”

  I don’t know why I said it. Probably because I've spent the past twenty-four hours with far too much Hunter Forsythe bleeding into my head. Long after I’d delivered the other cake and baked the one for the unicorn.

  It's not just his looks. It's the weirdness of it, something I can't quite figure out.

  He was so concerned over Ben yesterday and clearly loves the boy. And yet...it’s like he’s not sure how to be a parent. Not to a teenage boy who's acting out. The tough-love part. I recognize its absence because it's all I've
ever known.

  Shrugging off thoughts that could go deeper than I want, I ask, “Is there a reason you’re back?”

  “Yeah. Guess.”

  I glance up. I swear to God I catch him smirking, and if I do, it's even more dangerous than his default mask of sexy, stoic goodness.

  “I'm not guessing. If this is about the van –”

  “Warmer, Sugar. Keep going.”

  Oh my God. The only thing getting warmer here is every drop of blood in my cheeks. And I'm not sure if it's because I want to slap him several times for this Sugar business, or maybe give him one more for ruining what could be a perfectly productive morning.

  “It was an accident,” I say, hoping it's enough to end this. I separate a large piece of fondant and reach for my marble rolling pin. “Accidents happen all the time. I don't understand why nobody can just let it go.”

  “Sure they do. We both know when someone's involved in an accident, they need to accept responsibility. Everyone involved.”

  I glance over my shoulder, cocking my head. If he’s referring to Ben, the accident is the least of his worries.

  I wonder if I should tell him about the stolen game, but quickly decide to wait. I told the boy I'd be fair.

  If it’s not returned, though, I will pull that card out of my pocket. Ben might be a good kid now, but a few wrong decisions and his path in life could be leading straight to hell.

  “Come on, out with it,” I say. “What's this all about?”

  “Thought I'd let you know before you hear it from him: your old man and I had a talk. He's agreed to hire Ben on part-time.”

  “He...what?” I’m dumbfounded. Completely. I shake my head and say the only thing I can think to say, “There must be some mistake. We’ve already filled the only position we had open.”

  “Maybe so, but she can’t work Saturdays.”

  Ugh. He's right. No one can work Saturdays anymore.

  I put a bit more pressure on the rolling pin as it glides over the fondant. If only I could get out of work as easily as everybody else.

  From the time I was old enough to get paid, I worked at Midnight Morning. Other than a small amount of spending money, my paycheck went right to my college fund. Though there were plenty of arguments over that, too – mainly by Rochelle, who wanted me to drop hours to go gallivanting off with her to Miami or San Diego or whatever the new flavor of the month was – I have to say I’m glad to not have student loans looming over my head now.

  “Ben can work Saturdays. That's the plan till the repairs to the van are paid off, plus the cost of the lost cake. That's him growing up a little more.”

  “And then?” My heart won't stop slamming my chest. “After the debt's paid, I mean?”

  I shouldn't be freaking out at the thought of more visits by Hunter freaking Forsythe.

  I shouldn't be on the edge of my toes when he's actually trying to do a good, sensible thing.

  I shouldn't be so selfish – but then I never get to be – and this arrangement spells Trouble with a capital T for my work life, and possibly my sanity, too.

  “Your old man said he'll leave the door open. If it’s working out, for him and the bakery, he’ll continue to work here.”

  I set the rolling pin aside and examine the fondant for any wrinkles or blemishes. Usually, this is when I’d call in my mother for help, but since he’s here, I point toward the box by the sink. “Put on a pair of those gloves, would you?”

  He doesn’t ask why, just smiles, then walks over and pulls out a pair of plastic food gloves.

  I feel the need to explain. “I can’t pick a sheet this big up by myself. Please be gentle. Keep it from stretching or sagging as we carefully drape it over the cake. I’ll take the end with the head.”

  “So I get the ass? How'd you know, Sugar?”

  A fire-dagger stabs through my heart. My cheeks are about to explode with raw heat.

  Somehow, I ignore it without more than a double take. The grin on his face is damn-near evil. I pull my eyes away and try to clear my mind.

  “You’ll need to carefully slide your hands beneath the fondant,” I say, demonstrating how to ease up the edges of the huge oval sheet.

  “What's this? Fondant, is that what you called it?”

  “It’s just a thick frosting that's very pliable. Some of it tastes awful, so people shy away from it, but I created a homemade recipe with marshmallows. Tastes as good as it looks.” It's also more workable and doesn’t tear as easily as the pre-made stuff.

  “Wendy's secret ingredient?”

  I pull my eyes off watching his hands, making sure he’s being careful, to glance up, and I see the grin on his face again. “Bingo. And if you tell anyone, Hunter, I’ll have to kill you.”

  He laughs – a deep, resonate chuckle – but stays focused as we pick up the sheet together, sidestep across the open space to the other table, and position it over the top of the cake.

  “Careful! Lower your end down, making sure to leave a good overhang,” I say.

  He starts but pauses. “Don’t you have to lower your end at the same time?”

  “No. Once your end is down, I can stretch mine to fit the shape of the cake.”

  For someone who’s never done it before, he lowers the sheet over the cake perfectly, with no wrinkles or puckers.

  Okay, fine. Maybe he isn't all bad.

  “Thanks,” I say, stretching the fondant as I lower it over the neck and head. All in all, the process couldn’t have gone smoother.

  “Now what?” he asks.

  “Now I smooth it out,” I say, doing just that with gentle strokes.

  He steps out of my way as I make my way toward the cake's rump.

  “You always keep it this cold in here?”

  “I had to turn up the air conditioning because the ganache had to set before I could put the fondant over it. Usually, I’d put it in the fridge, but didn’t have time today.” I pick up a cake smoother, to go over the entire shape, carefully forming a line for the back hips and front shoulders, then the face, needing to work quickly before the icing becomes too chilled and isn't pliable anymore.

  “Really amazing work,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

  “I try,” I say, this time with more pride than I let on.

  I’m impressed, too. It’s looking fabulous. “Speaking of impressed, how did you get my father to agree to hire Ben? He’s very particular about new hires, usually.”

  “Let's just say we came to a gentleman's agreement.”

  I glance up at how his voice softens. I can’t imagine a man like him stammering, going quiet. Ever.

  “Your mother was there, too.”

  That explains it. He not only met the drill sergeant, but the commander-in-chief. The one who lays down the law. Rochelle didn’t become a bridezilla all on her own.

  He looks at the cake. “They both agreed Ben should be able to earn the money to pay off the costs of the damage he caused.”

  I trim, then pinch a seam of fondant together under the unicorn’s head and down it’s chest, then smooth it as I contemplate apologizing.

  I can relate to what Ben experienced, I guess, even if he brought it on himself. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “No. Ben needs to learn from this. You were the one who gave me the idea.” He nods at the cake. “What about the legs? Will it have any?”

  He's got me. I was the one who said a job would be good for Ben. I go back to smoothing the pearly white icing, ignoring the thornier dilemma. “Yes, I’ll make the legs soon, then the ears and the horn out of fondant.”

  “Anything else I can do to help?”

  Using a trimmer, I cut away the excess fondant from the bottom of the cake. “No, Hunter. Thanks. You can leave.”

  He shrugs. “Wasn't looking for an out. I’m in no hurry.”

  It’s odd how comfortable I am with him in the room. My nerves should be jumping around like popcorn kernels in a microwave. Maybe the cake helps explain why they aren
’t. I love how it’s turning out. One of my best for sure. I glance at the clock. Still plenty of time to get it done well before noon.

  My thoughts shift. “What about Ben?” I ask.

  Something else dawns on me then. A wife. A mother to Ben? “Won’t he, or someone else, wonder where you are?”

  “Ben's still sleeping, and even if he's not, he knows the rules. I asked a friend to stop by later, too. He behaves at home.”

  I want to ask more, about a wife or mother, but it’s none of my business.

  Besides, if Ben is home alone, perhaps he’ll use the time to return that game.

  Gathering up the cutaway fondant, I say, “Well, if you really want to help, you can take a big chunk of that fondant on the table and start kneading it until it’s soft. I’ll need it rolled into two long and two short log shapes for the legs.”

  He moves to the table and separates a big piece, smiling at the blob in his hand. “I haven’t messed with playdough since Ben was little. He used to love the stuff.”

  Before I can stop myself, I ask, “So where's his mother?”

  Hunter stops, his smile gone. I see his fingers dip into the fondant, and a chill flies up my spine.

  Uh-oh. Did I go too far?

  “Dead. Years ago. When he was only two. Back in California.”

  Every word comes out cold. Huge, ice-cold distances I can feel between every sentence.

  I walk over to the table and separate two large pieces of the already rolled smooth fondant I’d just cut away. “I’m sorry for that, Hunter. It's not any of my business anyway and –”

  “He doesn’t even remember her.”

  That bothers him, I can tell. I bite my lips, agonizing over my next words.

  “So it’s just you and Ben?” I ask, cutting out two triangles that I’ll use for the ears.

  “Yeah. Just us. Me and my boy.”

  I can’t help but look at him, wondering about the tone of his voice. It’s haunted, empty, almost forlorn. “Ben does seem like a good kid,” I offer.

  “He is. He’s just a teenager. Trying to pull himself together and fucking up every now and then like kids do.” He lets out a sigh. “And I’m not a teen. It's hard to relate.”

  I roll the bottom of one triangle, shaping it into a horse ear, glancing up at the picture pinned to the bulletin board as I work. “But you were once.”