Designed by Love

by Mary Manners

  His voice sounded far away as his ears began to roar from a heightened blood pressure. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Traci turned to face him, her cheeks flushed with fury. “I’m restoring sanity to the complex.” Both hands fisted along her sides, she reminded him of a tea kettle about to shriek…a very lovely tea kettle.

  “Sanity?” It was hard to take her seriously with the white smudge painted across one cheek, a mass of blonde hair twisted into a bird’s nest atop her head, and an apron emblazoned with a huge, delectable chocolate kiss along the front. Dylan stifled a laugh as his gaze captured hers. “You might want to take a look in the mirror first. I think you’re molding.”

  “What?”

  “Your jaw here…” He ran a finger along the line of soft porcelain skin. “It’s speckled with green.”

  Traci’s cheeks flamed as she nudged his hand aside. “That’s fondant, for your information.”

  Dylan tried not to think about the smooth, creamy texture of her skin, but she had him tongue-tied. “Fon-what?”

  “Fondant. It’s used for decorating cakes. Which I was in the process of—nearly finished with, I might add—when your music—and I use that term loosely—shocked the breath right out of me. The kitchen convulsed, and the fondant tool flew from my hand like a launched missile. It plunged through the cake’s buttercream icing and impaled itself in a fondant rose. And then—”

  “Whoa there. Take a breath.” Dylan placed a calming hand on her shoulder. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Then,” she shrugged his hand away, “the middle tier listed, and the top slid, and then plop, plop, plop.” She paced a tight circle, slapping her hands against the thighs of her jeans. “Now the work of art I so painstakingly created is sitting like a beautiful building that’s been heartlessly bulldozed—completely and utterly ruined.”

  Dylan jammed his hands in his pockets and wished for the music again. The rhythm had a way of drowning out the chaos…restored sanity. But Traci stood between him and the power cord. So he went to plan B…humor. “Completely…utterly?”

  “That’s right, mister.” Traci stood like a concrete pillar, impossible to crack. She deflected his humor as she turned back to jab a finger into his chest, punctuating each of her words. “And-I-want-to-know-just-what-you-are-planning-to-do-about-it.”

  “Me?” Dylan stepped back and splayed his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Well, if you’re asking my opinion, then I vote we eat the cake.”

  “What?” The flames in her cheeks ignited to an inferno. She sputtered and grabbed her throat as if his suggestion had choked her. “Seriously, that’s—good grief, that’s all you have to say?”

  “Well, by your account the cake might not look so great anymore, but I’m sure it still tastes incredible.” Dylan started toward the door. If he couldn’t enjoy his music, he’d at least garner some pleasure from her cake. “Everyone says your cakes are the best in all of Texas. So I say we eat it.”

  “You’ve heard people say that…all of Texas?” Her tone mellowed just a bit. “It’s a big state.”

  “That’s right.” Dylan shrugged as he ambled toward the front door.

  Traci grabbed his wrist, held tight. “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “To your place.” Dylan glanced down at her whitened knuckles nestled along his wrist. She had no idea he could pin her in less than a second flat if he wanted to. Military training came in handy. Instead, he played along, moving toward the door as she clung to him. “You’ve tortured me all afternoon with that sweet, delectable aroma, not to mention your angelic humming. So the least you can do is let me have a sample of your wares.”

  “The least I can do is…what?” She followed after him, her tennis shoes slapping the hardwood. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” He flashed a grin as he wondered how long she planned to keep hold of his wrist and figured he didn’t much mind the touch. “Today it was just the humming. Yesterday torture came in the form of your full-blown singing of a melody to Garth Brooks’ throaty sound, no less.”

  “You were eavesdropping on me?”

  “Not any more than you were me.”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping tonight. Who could miss your infernal cacophony of sound? I’ll bet people heard your—that junk you call music—two counties away.”

  “Do you make it a habit to over-exaggerate?”

  “That’s not exaggeration. I’m simply stating the obvious. And, for the record, I don’t think the client who ordered the cake I was working on will share your sentiment about looks not mattering. Looks are everything when it comes to cakes—especially wedding cakes. Well, looks and flavor. And the cake’s due to be delivered in…” she glanced at her flour-dusted wristwatch. “Exactly nineteen hours.”

  “Then I suppose you’d better let go of my hand and get started on the reconstruction project.” Dylan glanced down to where their hands were now joined, and winked. “I’m willing to help with this adventure in exchange for a slice of your so-called demolished masterpiece and only if I can play my choice of music while we tackle the re-creation. You do own a radio with more than one station, don’t you?”

  “You…you…” Traci dropped his hand as if she’d been burned and swiped her palm along the front of her apron.

  Dylan laughed. “It appears I’ve left you speechless. Good. Rebuilding this grand confection of yours ought to go faster that way.”

  2

  “Here.” Traci handed Dylan an apron when they both wound their way through the rear of the cottages and back to her kitchen. He’d agreed to help her, so she’d sure put him to work. “Put it on.”

  “I don’t wear aprons.” He tossed the last bite of cake into his mouth. “It’s a man law that cannot be broken.”

  “Man law doesn’t apply in my kitchen.” Traci took the plate and fork from him and set them on the counter beside the sink. From the satisfied look on Dylan’s face, she figured he’d enjoyed every morsel. That was something, at least, and the thought worked to loosen the ball of stress that sat in her belly. “The apron goes on.”

  “You’re a tough one.” Dylan grimaced but slipped the cotton strap over his head. “It’s a little bit…small.”

  “That’s not all.” Traci stifled a laugh as he tugged the fabric over a terrain of muscles. He looked good…too good to be such a knucklehead in the music department. Maybe if he toned things down to a low roar, they could actually find a way to tolerate being neighbors.

  “What’s so funny?” Dylan glanced down at the front of the apron and grimaced. “Oh, man. Really?”

  The oversized vanilla cupcake emblazoned across his chest was frosted in bubblegum pink with a dollop of bright red cherry on top. Mission accomplished. Traci’s laughter spilled over. “It looks good on you, and payback is so sweet.”

  “If you insist I wear this, then I’ll need a little help here, please.” Dylan fumbled with the apron strings, gave up, and turned his back to Traci. “And just watch your back, because when it comes to pranks I give as well as I take. Fair warning.”

  “I’ll bet your bark is worse than your bite.” Traci smirked at him as she tugged the strings a little too tight and then tied them into a neat bow along his spine. “There, you’re all fixed up.”

  “Great. Now what?”

  “Roll up your sleeves and put this stuff on the table.” She set to work gathering fresh baking utensils from drawers and cabinets. She handed each to Dylan, who placed them along the table ledge.

  After a dozen or so utensils lined the table, Dylan cocked an eyebrow as he asked, “How much baking stuff do you have?”

  Traci shot back with, “How much music do you have?”

  “Just enough.”

  “Me, too. Grab that mixing bowl. I’ll show you the ropes. I hope you’re ready to work, because re-creating this masterpiece will be no picnic. It’s a full-day project, and we don’t have a full day. We might be able to salvage the bottom tier and m
ost of the fondant pieces, but the rest…”

  “Music, first. And none of that elevator stuff you like to hum to.”

  “That’s Vivaldi, for your information, and what is it with you and music?”

  “What is it with you and cakes?”

  “Cakes are my job. They pay the bills and then some.”

  “Well, music is my job.” Dylan eyed the under-the-cabinet radio to the left of the refrigerator and started that way. “I was working on an important project when you so rudely interrupted me.”

  “Trying to blow up Heart’s Haven?”

  “Hardly. I’m a DJ, FYI.” He turned off the Vivaldi CD and then pressed a button to switch over to the radio. Music coursed through in a cacophony of sounds as he began to search through the station presets. “I mix soundtracks for parties, events, things like that. I have a wedding reception booked for tomorrow. I was working on the final touches for the playlist when you barged in.”

  “No one would choose that…that junk for their most blessed day. I myself would go with something way more refined.”

  “A bit judgmental, aren’t you?”

  “Just stating my preference.”

  “And if your…husband-to-be, shall we say, preferred something else?”

  “I hardly think we’d have made it past the first date. Now, if you don’t mind lowering the volume to a low roar, I’d like to retain my hearing through a ripe, old age.” Traci reached over his shoulder to adjust the radio’s volume dial. “And none of that rap junk you were playing over at your place. I won’t disgrace my kitchen with the vile—”

  “Get your genres right. What you heard wasn’t rap. It was hip-hop, perfect for dancing, which is what my clients plan to do at the reception tomorrow. You don’t have a thing against dancing, too, do you?”

  “Of course not. I like to dance.”

  “Whew…that’s a relief.” Dylan swiped a hand across his brow. “I’m sure, being a businessperson yourself, that you can understand it’s my job to fulfill the requests of my clients, whether or not I agree with or like their choice of music. I assume you don’t turn down cake orders just because you don’t happen to prefer the flavor that’s requested.”

  “OK, good point.” Traci opened the refrigerator door and gathered a carton of eggs and a pint of heavy cream. She handed them to Dylan, who set them on the table. “You win this round.”

  “I didn’t know we were sparring.”

  “Call it whatever you’d like.” She crouched to gather her largest mixing bowl from the cabinet. “And since we’re…enjoying this little verbal exchange, for the record, I detest anything coconut. It’s a texture thing.” Traci placed the bowl on the table. She measured flour then dumped it in, following with a pinch of salt and a few leveled teaspoons of baking powder before handing Dylan a rubber spatula. “Stir this. And you should consider introducing your clients to Vivaldi.”

  “You should try coconut fudge brownies—heavy on the fudge, light on the coconut texture, and all the way amazing. They’re one of my mom’s specialties. I’m sure I can snag the recipe from her file.” He tossed the ingredients with the spatula a little too hard, and powder flew over the rim to dust the table. Traci frowned. It was going to be a long night.

  “Easy there, cowboy. We’ll need that for the batter.” She placed a hand over Dylan’s to calm the tempest of stirring. “And, as far as your brownies, please, don’t go to the trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll whip you up a batch for dinner one night. We’ll have them after I toss a few steaks on the grill, because you can’t have dessert without a little dinner first.”

  “Is that a man law, too?”

  “No, I made it up because, well…I just realized I’d like to have dinner with you.”

  “You just realized? Is this some round-about way of asking me out?”

  “That depends. Would you accept if it was?”

  “Maybe…if you promise to play Vivaldi and wear an apron while you’re grilling.”

  “That’s a tough sell…”

  “Judging by the way you stir, dinner would be a disaster.”

  “Hold up.” Dylan eased the spatula. “I really am the grill master when it comes to steaks, and I’m willing to compromise.”

  “In that case, I suppose I can compromise, too. I’ll tell you a little secret. I like country music.” Traci added sugar to a second bowl and creamed it with softened butter before going after a carton of eggs. Something deep in the pit of her belly hummed as she considered sharing dinner with Dylan. “Maybe we can settle along some middle ground for the time being, while we recreate what you’ve single-handedly destroyed.”

  “You make this whole situation sound much worse than it is.”

  “Oh, you’ll see things from my corner once you start mixing the batter. Believe me, it’s a workout.”

  “Nothing these arms can’t handle.” He flexed a bicep, making Traci laugh. He did look more than capable.

  “Just head back to that radio and select a new station, hotshot.”

  “You’re a country girl…hmm…I suppose we can compromise with that.” Dylan wiped his hands across the front of the cupcake emblem before crossing back to the radio. He flipped through the presets, found one that sounded pure country. When he turned back, his gaze drank Traci in as he pressed one hip against the counter. “Does this meet with your approval?”

  “It does.” Traci ignored the thrum of excitement that coursed through her as she handed him a carton of eggs. Crazy…she barely knew anything about him, and what she did know went against the grain. But he couldn’t be all that bad. After all, he’d offered to come to her kitchen and help her fix the cake. And he’d agreed to country music and offered to grill her dinner. Even if he did, at first glance, seem to be all thumbs when it came to baking, he probably possessed an internal grilling radar that helped him sear steaks to perfection. Add to that the fact that, with his smoky-blue gaze and chocolate hair, not to mention the terrain of muscles that refused to hide beneath the apron, he was easy on the eyes. Traci lifted her chin and drew a breath to clear her head. She struggled for a no-nonsense tone to mask the sudden gnawing in her belly as she lifted the lid on the carton of eggs. “Now, start cracking these eggs into that small plastic bowl. Use the separator because we’ll only need the whites for now.”

  “The separator?”

  “Watch.” In one swift motion, Traci demonstrated as she smacked one of the eggs along the side of the bowl. White slipped through the separator while the yolk remained behind. She dumped that into an even smaller bowl before glancing up at Dylan. “See how it’s done?”

  “Sure. I’ll give it a go.” He took the separator from her. “It doesn’t look too hard.”

  “The recipe calls for ten egg whites. You think you can handle that?”

  “Sure. I’ve got it.”

  But he didn’t have it—not by a long-shot. When it came to eggs the guy was all thumbs. And she already knew he tanked in the music department. Traci hoped he had more skill when it came to grilling. Perhaps she should re-think the whole dinner thing. She eased in beside him when a second yolk slipped in to mar the white and reached for his hand. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Pay attention and learn. It’s done like this.” She placed a hand over his, guiding him along. His aftershave, a blend of pine and something pure male, tickled her nose. His hands were warm and slightly callused beneath hers. Something inside Traci shifted and the room seemed to tilt for a moment. She really shouldn’t have skipped lunch…and dinner. She squeezed her eyes shut as her pulse skittered.

  “Are you OK?” Dylan turned “Your pulse is racing.”

  “I’m fine.” She opened her eyes to find his face only inches from hers as he studied her. “I skipped lunch.”

  “And dinner?”

  “That, too.” She drew a breath, two to recover and shook off the feeling, careful to keep her voice steady as she drew his attention back to t
he eggs. “Now, you try it.”

  “Not until you eat something.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “And we don’t have time to scrape you off the floor when you faint from exhaustion, either. How can someone who works with food forget to eat?” He pressed a palm to her cheek. “You’re pale, Traci. Sit down. I’m making you something to eat.”

  “But we really don’t have time.” The words sounded far away, even to her, as the room began to spin.

  “No argument.” Dylan eased her into a chair. He crossed to the fridge, yanked open the door and riffled through the contents. Drawers slammed as he found a plate, bread, slices of luncheon meat. “Ham or turkey?”

  “Turkey.”

  “Mayo or mustard?”

  “Mayo.”

  “Milk or soda?”

  “Sweet tea. Lemon.”

  “OK.”

  The room did a slow spin as he added meat to the bread and slapped on some mayo. Ice clinked into a glass, followed by the splash of tea.

  “Here, eat.” He set the plate on the table in from of her. “No more work until you finish all of that and I see some color in your cheeks.”

  “Dylan—”

  “Hush and eat.”

  “I was just going to say, thank you.”

  3

  “You have very pretty hands.” Dylan skimmed a finger along Traci’s wrist. “Soft.”

  With her hunger sated once more and color back in her cheeks, Dylan had given the go-ahead for them to return to work. Now, his touch ignited a burst of sparks along Traci’s skin as she continued the lesson on separating eggs. Her cheeks heated, and she bowed her head, masking her shock with an overly-sharp tone. “Focus, Dylan. Are you paying attention?”

  “Oh, eggs…right.” He lifted his finger, breaking the touch. “Yeah…the cake.”

  His breath warmed the nape of her neck like the soft breeze of an impending summer storm. Traci wiggled from the embrace of his arms and turned to face him, her lips a hair’s breadth from his as his electric gaze captured hers and held tight. For the slightest moment she stood paralyzed, unable to speak as Dylan grazed a knuckle along her temple.