by Meghan Quinn
So far, so good.
My sponges—fancy word for cake—were firm but also felt bouncy, which meant good things inside. I made Thad check off each ingredient as I went so I didn’t miss anything, and I had Naomi help me measure things out since my hands were so shaky.
The frosting came out amazing, and now we just have to finish decorating.
“Thirty seconds.”
“I think I might pee myself—I seriously think I’m going to pee,” Thad says, bouncing next to me. “Oh God, I am going to pee, it looks so good.”
“Can you stop talking about pee around the cake? Jesus, Thad.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so excited.”
I lay down my last blueberry and then step away.
“Shit, the mint.” I’ve grabbed it from the workbench and am placing it next to the small pile of blueberries on top just as the timer goes off.
The whole crew applauds as we all step away from our cakes.
My hands fall to my knees as I stare up at my cake in disbelief.
It’s perfectly golden brown with naked white frosting—just a light scrape of it along the edges, but coating the top of each layer. Berries adorn the top tier and cascade down along the sides. It’s nothing of the chaotic mess that’s been the wedding so far, but the bright colors of the berries, the rough edges, remind me of Thad in every way.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. I did that. I fucking made that. Hands still on my knees, I glance to my right, where I see Luna looking at me, a giant smile of approval on her face.
Fuck.
I want to run up to her and give her a hug. I want to lift her up and spin her around, then set her on the workbench and press my mouth to hers. Thank her. Show her exactly what I’m feeling.
Gratefulness.
Happiness.
Pride.
I have some underlying feelings that I can’t quite process at the moment—the type of feelings I never in a million years thought I would ever feel, let alone acknowledge—but seeing Naomi and Thad so happy together, the joy they share, being a part of a competition that celebrates what I demolish . . . it’s all softened me. It’s made me have second thoughts on my ideals of what kinds of relationships truly exist out there and the kind of impact they can have on your life.
I know whatever is going on between me and Luna . . . it’s having one hell of an impact that I don’t want to let go.
Thad claps me on the back. “You’re amazing.” I slip my arm around him and give him a hug. I catch the astounded look on Naomi’s face, the tears welling in her eyes. I motion her in for a hug too, and we squeeze Thad between us.
We’re acting like we just won the entire competition. But fuck, it feels like we won. After one unsatisfying challenge after another, actually succeeding at something feels good.
Diane calls cut and then says something about cleaning up before we move on to judging. The PAs make quick work of all our dirty utensils, which gives me a second to look at the other two cakes.
At the neighboring workstation, it looks like Luna has made a red velvet cake, which is surprising. I wasn’t expecting that at all, because we practiced vanilla. I thought maybe she would change the frosting or the filling, but she changed all of it. I wonder if that was for my benefit, to help my cake stand out.
Secretly, I hope that it was.
I nod at her cake and smile at her, and she smiles back, dark eyes gleaming.
Then I glance over at Team Hernandez, and hope leaps in my chest. They’re covered in flour, and Helen looks half-dead, draped over the workbench while PAs move around her.
Are we going to need a medic?
Neither Amanda nor Luciana looks too concerned about the wilting woman next to them, so I chalk it up to Helen’s normal dramatic nonsense and focus on their cake.
Chocolate—at least I hope for their sake it’s chocolate, and not burned—with minimal frosting, but it doesn’t look purposeful like mine; it just looks like they ran out of time. There are no decorations to speak of, and one side of their cake has no frosting at all.
Just from the look of it, I think we easily secured second place.
“Dude, look at Helen,” Thad says, standing next to me. “Do you think she needs oxygen after all that yapping?”
“She was yapping?” I ask. “I didn’t hear her.”
Naomi joins us. “You were so in the zone that I don’t think you heard anything. Helen was being so loud I wanted to strangle her. No wonder their cake looks so bad.”
Thad turns to me, and the excitement on his face makes me laugh. “Dude, I think we at least got second. I will scream like a lady if we don’t.”
“Which no one wants.” I pat his shoulder and take a deep breath. “I think we got it, man. I think we got it.”
I plop down on my couch, prop my feet up on the coffee table in front of me, and lean my head back. Tension leaves my body as I let out a giant exhale.
Fuck . . .
Knock. Knock.
I glance at the door, and then at the time on my phone. Nine o’clock. Who the hell is here?
Cautiously, I pad across the floor, my legs sore from being tense all fucking day. I look through the peephole and straight into a pair of eyes I’m starting to grow quite fond of.
I open the door. “Wasn’t expecting you to come over.”
She stares up at me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a Tupperware. “Let me in this instant.”
Chuckling, I push the door open, and Luna walks in under my arm. She slips off her shoes, goes to my kitchen, pulls two forks out of the drawer, and then walks to my couch and points at it. “Sit. Now.”
Unable to contain my smile, I do as she says. She sits next to me and opens the container in her hand; inside are one slice each of our cakes.
“Care to explain why you’re here?” I ask.
“Yes. I need to make sure you didn’t pay off the judges today. Your cake looked amazing, but how could it possibly beat out my red velvet? Going into Saturday, I researched the judges and knew they all favored red velvet, so unless you paid them . . .”
I laugh so hard that my stomach hurts. “Luna Rossi, are you a sore loser?”
“I’m a gracious loser, and if I truly think your cake is better, I will shake your hand and be on my way.”
“Is that so? You’d admit defeat?”
“If defeat is earned, then yes. But I’m telling you, my cake is unlike anything you’ve ever had. There’s no way it should have placed second.”
Yup, you heard her right—yours truly pulled out a first place. I can still hear Thad’s screech of joy ringing through my ears. Team Rossi took second, and poor Team Hernandez sucked up third place. Helen had to be pumped full of fluids afterward. She claimed there should have been a redo, since she was incapable of helping the whole time, but according to production, she was quite alert during filming. Naomi and Thad were correct—the lady just would not stop talking.
But I’ve never in my life felt better about a win, especially when I glanced at Luna and she gave me a sly smile and a shake of her head. I expected a text tonight, not a visit. Though I can’t say I mind.
“Only way to find out.” I take the fork from her. “Whose should we try first?”
“Mine, of course,” she says, holding the Tupperware between us. “Make sure you get a hefty bite of both cake and icing.”
“I’m well aware of how to eat, Luna.”
She smirks, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Can’t be too sure.” She digs her fork in and holds it up to mine. “Cheers.” She clinks our forks together and then takes a bite. I watch as her lips work slowly over the fork, her eyes shutting for a second. Hell, I’ll say her cake is better just from the show she’s putting on while eating it.
Not wanting to get caught staring, I take a bite as well and . . . damn, this is good.
Cream cheese frosting and a subtle chocolate flavor to the sponge, with small chocolate chips inside the mix . . . it’s really fucking good.
Just to be an ass, I shrug. “Eh, it’s okay.”
“Bullshit.” She pushes at my leg and laughs. “I saw your eyes roll to the back of your head. You want to marry this cake.”
“Okay, let’s not overexaggerate.”
“Then tell the truth.”
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “It’s really fucking good.”
“I knew it.” She clenches her fist and looks up at my ceiling. “I freaking knew it. I knew that it should have—”
“Before you start celebrating, you still have to try mine.” She pauses—she knows I’m right. She cleans off her fork with a napkin. “Make sure you get an equal sponge-to-icing ratio,” I say as the fork glides effortlessly through the sponge.
She rolls her eyes at that and waits for me to load up my fork. Then she holds up her fork, we clink them together, and we both take a bite. I already know what my cake tastes like because I had some on set, but the look on Luna’s face as she discovers my little hidden secret is probably one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever seen.
Her eyes narrow. “You bastard,” she whispers.
My head falls back, and I laugh so hard I almost choke on the cake in my mouth.
“How did you know?”
I take a second to swallow and then cough out my laugh. When I’ve gathered myself, I set my fork down. “I can research too, and I stumbled upon a little factoid last night that had me practicing icing fingers into the wee hours of this morning.”
“Almond extract,” she says, like it’s some dastardly villain.
Like any good villain, I rub my hands together. “I just kept thinking, What if Luna comes in with the same cake? How can I elevate this? So I started researching cake flavors yesterday, when I should have been going over a deposition.” She smiles. “I was knee deep in ganaches when I realized I should add a flavor I know Thad and Naomi adore, for that personal touch. Katherine Barber, the cake master, isn’t always about flavor but about the story behind the end result. She gushed over Thad and Naomi sharing a liking for almond and how they would always try to find new almond-flavored pastries.”
“And Katherine is also obsessed with an almond-and-vanilla flavor combo. Damn it,” Luna says, slumping back into the couch, defeated.
“I researched several almond icing flavors, went home last night—after going over the deposition, of course—”
“Of course.”
“And I started testing out different recipes. Like a freak, I cut some of the cake we made together, cut off the icing, and then started taste testing with the new frosting so I could have a feel for the flavor combinations. But the moment I found it, I knew. I was coming in hot with a winner.”
“I can’t believe you did that.” She shoves at my leg, but I dodge her and grab her hand instead.
The surprise on her face doesn’t deter me as I entwine our fingers and press our palms together. Her hand is tiny compared to mine, but so soft, except for her calloused fingertips, which graze the back of my hand.
“I did it for two reasons.”
“And what were those reasons?” she asks, staring down at our hands.
I drag my thumb over hers very slowly and deliberately. “Well, I wanted to win for my brother, to start to mend that relationship.”
“And did it?”
“It was a start,” I answer, reveling in the fact that she hasn’t pulled her hand away, that she actually seems to like it.
Sitting here, with our hands clasped, our bodies only a few inches apart, I feel like a teenager again. The excitement and vulnerability, the fear and possibility—they’re all rushing back like a tidal wave, pulling me under and making me forget everything I thought I knew about relationships.
“And what was the other reason?” she asks.
I take a deep breath and look her dead in the eyes. “You.”
Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes search mine. I want her to see it, the way I long for her, how she has me thinking in an entirely new way.
When she looks away, my heart sinks for a moment, but then the smallest of smiles tips up the corners of her mouth. My confession didn’t scare her, not in the slightest. Coyly, she tilts her head to the side and asks, “Why me?”
This is it. An opening. I’ve been developing feelings for this girl, the kinds of feelings I haven’t had in so long, maybe not ever. Luna is special—I knew that from day one, when I attempted to “apologize,” and she wouldn’t have it. She’s so strong in her convictions, and so loving. Incredibly loving. When I opened up about Thad, she showed me more empathy than I’ve ever experienced before.
And this past week, we dropped our shields and swords and actually spoke to each other like human beings. There’s so much I don’t know about this girl, but I want to know it all.
“Why you?” My gaze falls to our connected hands. Heart thrumming, gut churning with nerves, I gather enough courage to tell her the truth. “Because I want to impress you, Luna, so when I ask you out on a date”—I look up—“there’s no way you can say no.”
Her smile softens and she leans toward me. “And you think getting first place in a cake challenge is going to do that?”
“It’s one way.”
“What’s another?”
Christ, she’s tempting me.
I want to kiss her, desperately.
I’ve thought about those lips. I’ve wondered what they taste like, how they’d feel sliding across my body. I’ve wondered if she has the same thoughts—and from the way she’s leaning in toward me, and the way her eyes flutter open ever so softly, I’m going to guess she has.
I turn her hand over and trace a circle along her palm. “I think that a new pair of shoes might make me date material.”
She laughs and leans her side against the couch, curling her legs behind her and inching even closer to me.
“New shoes very well might do the trick.”
“I know that would do it for Helen. That old minx has her eye on me—I can feel it in my bones. She makes fun of me, but deep down, she wants a piece of this.” I gesture toward my body.
“Is that right? You think Helen has a thing for you?”
“Easily.” I reverse my circles on her palm. “The whole shoe thing is a total front. She’s trying to make me think she doesn’t like me, but really, she’s wondering when she can have her way with me in the interview room.”
“Wow, that’s quite the fantasy you’ve drawn up. I’m not sure it’s Helen who’s got it bad. Maybe it’s the other way around.”
“I mean . . . when she sat on you during the first challenge, it really got my engines roaring. I like a woman who doesn’t mind using her ass as a weapon.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “You’re deranged. My life was at risk. She might be a slight woman, but she’s tough. I felt her butt bones—they left bruises on my stomach.”
“Look who’s exaggerating now.”
“Okay, maybe not bruises, but I definitely felt her butt bones, and it was weird. I don’t think you should ever feel another person’s butt bones.”
“Could not agree more. I like a little meat on an ass.”
“Oh?” Her brows rise. “A butt man?”
“Not really. I appreciate everything about a woman’s body.” I glance down at her mouth. “Especially the lips.”
Her tongue peeks out and licks hers, and I have to look away so I don’t conjure up any more dirty mental images.
Clearing my thoughts, I ask, “What about you? Do you have a favorite part on a guy . . . or girl?” I add, just to double-check. You can never be too sure.
She laughs. “My favorite attribute on a guy . . . hmm.” She taps her chin. “I would have to say the penis.”
“What?” I simultaneously laugh and choke on my saliva.
“The penis. You know.” She nods at my crotch. “The man noodle guys carry between their legs.”
“I know what a
penis is,” I say, coughing. “I just . . . wow, you just jumped right in there, didn’t you?”
“What? Did you expect me to say the eyes? Because they’re the windows to the soul?” She shakes her head. “No, I know what the good stuff is. It’s all about the penis.” She holds her hand up before I can respond. “And don’t get all judgy on me—you can’t tell me lips are your favorite because they’re delicate tulip petals on a lady’s mouth. You totally like lips for blow jobs.”
“I mean . . .” I chuckle. “That’s a nice benefit from lips, but you know, I enjoy making out too. I like the way a woman’s mouth feels against my skin. I like my chest to be sucked on, kissed. My abs, my hips . . . my cock . . . but yeah, lips are cool.”
“Just had to throw cock in there. I see what you’re doing. Sure, a mouth is great, especially when it’s between a pair of legs.” Christ, this is a side of Luna I never would have expected. I have to wonder what kind of adventures she enjoys. “But a confident penis is key to me.”
“A confident penis? Didn’t know penises could have emotions.”
“Oh, they for sure do. The sad ones are always wilted. The excited ones are always knocking on your door, looking to play . . .”
“Okay.” I chuckle. “What’s a confident penis like, then?”
“A confident penis doesn’t have to be big or girthy. It could be on the smaller side, maybe a grower, maybe a little crooked. Maybe it has so much penis skin that it confuses people.”
“Okay, the ‘too much skin’ has me gagging.”
“You’re gagging? Think of the lady blowing it.” She waves her free hand. “That’s beside the point. A confident penis is one that knows exactly what to do with what it’s been blessed with.”
“You’re only concerned about the penis? What about all the other parts that go into sex, like foreplay?”
“Trust me.” She snags my hand and turns it over on my knee, her turn to do the touching. “Every confident penis I’ve come across has a sex-educated body attached to it.”
Every penis she’s come across? How many has she been with? Not that it really matters, but still, the thought of her being with enough men to have a clear idea of the kind of penis she likes is daunting.