The Icing on the Cake

by Janice Thompson

  “You can’t deny the singing thing any longer. You’re going to have to perform at the fund-raiser.”

  “Oh . . .” Ugh. Should’ve left “Oh Happy Day” off my repertoire. Now the boy knew I could sing.

  I can sing?

  The show cut to a commercial break, and the producer ushered all of the contestants into a back room. As we left the sound studio, I could hear Bella and the others cheering. I thought I saw Aunt Willy crack a smile—Heaven help me! Am I seeing things?—as she looked at the Coliseum wedding cake. Or maybe she just had gas or something. Either way, I felt proud of my work.

  Obviously, so did Armando. He chatted up a storm all the way back to the holding room. Once we arrived, I was surrounded by the other contestants, all asking how I felt.

  “Fine, fine,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Just needed a little food.” Hopefully the confidence in my voice would dismiss any concerns they might have.

  “Oh, let me feed you.” Mrs. Alvarez walked to the food table and returned with an apple and a bag of chips. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  I chuckled and opened the bag of chips. No point in going without any longer. I’d already proven that the crash diet plan ended with a crash landing on the floor.

  “Why did you feel like you needed to go without food, anyway?” Armando whispered. “I don’t get it.”

  I shook my head. “Are you blind or something?”

  “No. My vision is twenty-twenty. Always has been.”

  “Then you have to see that I’m a big girl.”

  “Big?” He seemed to mull over the word. “You’re perfect,” he said. “In my family we would call that a healthy weight.” A chuckle chased his words.

  “Healthy?” I laughed. “So healthy that I ended up on the floor.”

  “That was your own doing.” He grew serious. “And I hope I never have to watch you go through anything like that again, Scarlet. It really scared me. I thought maybe you were . . .” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I was worried.”

  “Aw, thank you.”

  “So don’t mess with that whole diet thing, okay? You’re perfect just the way you are. And like I said, our family loves a healthy eater.”

  Did I need to remind him that his family was in the process of undergoing a radical change of diet, thanks to Uncle Laz’s heart attack? Maybe I could save that for another day. Right now I needed to eat my chips. My not-so-good-for-me-but-how-can-I-keep-from-eating-them chips.

  By the time they called us back out to the stage, I felt stronger than ever. Armando gripped my hand as the names were called. In fourth place, the Scotch-Irish team. Obviously their soccer stadium cake didn’t impress the judges. I had to admit, it didn’t seem very romantic. Then again, a Coliseum didn’t either.

  In third place, the African team with their royalty-inspired cake. That left only two teams—the Alvarez family and us. Armando’s grip on my hand grew painful, but I didn’t let go. Didn’t dare.

  There are those moments in life when you wonder if maybe you’re dreaming. As the announcer called our names, proclaiming our Coliseum cake to be the best in show—er, best in competition—I had that weird out-of-body experience. Not like the one I’d had earlier, where I landed on the floor, but close. Only when they put the ribbon in my hand—along with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar check made out to the American Heart Association—did it all seem real.

  I stared at the cake, giving the little gladiators a knowing glance. They’d fought the good fight . . . and so had I. And thank goodness I’d fought it alongside a warrior who knew how to keep a girl on her feet, even when she made a complete goober of herself in front of a television audience.

  15

  A Sweet Tooth

  Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread, and pumpkin pie.

  Jim Davis

  When the competition came to an end and the celebration drew to a close, I found myself alone on the soundstage, clearing up our space. Though exhaustion overwhelmed me, I still had a lot to do before I could pack it in for the day and head back to the hotel.

  After a couple of minutes of alone time, Armando joined me, beaming ear to ear. “Our families are now best friends, FYI.”

  “Oh?” I looked up from my work into his smiling face. “What do you mean?”

  He began to dry my largest mixing bowl. “They’ve all gone out to dinner at some steakhouse a couple of blocks from here. We’re supposed to meet them there when we’re done cleaning up. Bella says it’s within walking distance. She also said one of the judges told her it’s the best place in town for cheesecake.”

  I gestured to the mess and sighed. “As much as I’d love a great steak—and don’t even get me started on the cheesecake—it’s going to take me hours to get my stuff packed up.” I yawned.

  “Nah, this won’t take long. I’ll help.” He went to work alongside me, chattering merrily about the competition, which served to revive me once again. Strange how Armando always seemed to have that effect on me.

  As he talked, I found myself completely invigorated. And relaxed. Gone were all anxieties. Now, with the twenty-five-thousand-dollar check in hand, I felt like a victor. With my partner’s help, I’d brought honor to two families at once—my own and the Rossis’. If potential viewers could overlook that one little faux pas where I fainted dead away on the floor.

  Maybe the producers will edit that part out.

  If they didn’t, maybe I could use the incident to publicize my business. Yes, people would definitely want to stop by Let Them Eat Cake to see me standing on both feet. Or, better yet, maybe I could stage a faint-in. People could come to watch me lie around on the floor like a goober. For some reason—probably exhaustion—that idea got me tickled. A faint-in. What would that look like? Dozens of people strung out across my bakery floor?

  Now I couldn’t stop the giggles. They bubbled up like carbonation in a diet soda. Skip that—make it a real soda, one loaded with sugar.

  “You okay?” Armando looked up from another mixing bowl.

  “Yeah.” I bit back a laugh. “Just thinking.”

  “Obviously thinking about something funny.” He wiped the bowl dry with a dish towel, smiling all the while. “By the way, I love your laugh.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, it’s priceless. Almost as great as your singing voice.”

  That got a groan out of me. Why oh why had I sung in front of the boy? I’d never live it down.

  The lights went down on the far side of the stage as the Alvarez family left. They waved their goodbyes, leaving Armando and me alone to finish up.

  A couple of minutes later he stepped into the spot in front of me. “Hey.”

  I glanced up from my packing and smiled. “Hey.”

  “You have a little frosting right . . . there.” He reached to touch my lip, and I felt a tingle run through me. “And a little more right . . . here.” With the back of his fingertip, he brushed my cheek, and in spite of the heat in the room, I shivered. His hand lingered against my cheek, and I found myself giving in to the temptation to stand close. Very, very close.

  “I . . . I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me today,” I whispered. “You were the best possible person to help me.”

  “I was about to say the same thing about you.” His soft words tickled my ear.

  “Me? How did I help you?”

  Armando pulled me into his arms and gave me a tender kiss on the cheek. I fought the temptation to pull away as I thought about what Hannah had told me about him. How many other girls had he pulled into his arms over the years? Dozens? Still, I melted into his embrace, even sighing as my knees grew wobbly. Good grief. Must be the exhaustion.

  Or not.

  Armando brushed his fingertip down my cheek again. “You are a romantic soul, aren’t you?” he whispered in my ear.

  “For a church girl?” I asked.

  His cheeks turned red. “I’m sorry I called you t
hat. There’s nothing wrong with going to church.” He shrugged. “I plan to marry a girl like that.”

  I looked him straight in the eye as I took a step back. “So, let me get this straight. You don’t necessarily date girls like that, but you plan to marry one like that?”

  He looked as if I’d slapped him. “W-what?”

  “You date a different sort of girl?” The words came out more as an accusation than a question.

  “What are you talking about? Or, rather, who’s been talking about me?”

  “No one.” An embarrassing pause followed my words. “I just thought . . . Oh, never mind.”

  “No.” He took a step in my direction. “Someone told you I’m a player.”

  Ack. Now what? I couldn’t very well deny it, now could I? Still, to speak the words aloud seemed so . . . rude. And presumptuous.

  “Well, they’re wrong. I might come across as a bad boy, but it’s really more of an image I’ve put out there than anything. Inside . . .” He pointed to his chest—his muscular, golf-cart-friendly chest—and said, “I’m as good as gold.”

  I wasn’t so sure about all that, but he had me at the word image. If anyone understood putting forth an image—Hello? Did I not just lose seventeen pounds in three weeks?—I did.

  His hand lingered along the edges of my messy hair, and I felt a little tingle run down my spine at his touch.

  “You’ve helped me more than you know, Scarlet. I’m not sure there are words enough to explain how or why, but I’m grateful.”

  The tip of his index finger traced my lips. As I gave myself over to the moment, the overhead lights flashed on, startling me back to reality.

  I pulled away from Armando, horrified to be caught in such a compromising position, and all the more when I realized one of the judges had joined us.

  Quick! What would Lucy do?

  She would . . . she would . . . act like nothing was up.

  So that’s what I did. I got back to work cleaning my station. So did Armando, who now stacked pans to my right.

  The judge with the interesting hairdo looked my way and quirked a brow. “Well, now. Celebrating, I see.” She gave us a funny “I didn’t know you two were a couple” look.

  “Y-yes, ma’am.” I kept working and tried to steady my breathing. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Well, I’m glad I caught you two . . . together.” A sly grin turned up the edges of her lips. “I came back specifically to ask you for something.”

  I stopped working to gaze at her. “What’s that?”

  She eyed the cake, and I could see the interest in her eyes. “I want the recipe for that Italian cream cake. That sample you gave us was divine. Truly. Never tasted anything like it in my baking career.” She lit into a story about how long she’d been in the business—Wow! Forty years? Really?—and how she’d never tasted anything sweeter. Still, I could hardly focus.

  I could see Armando visibly flinch as she asked for the recipe once again. I pretty much reacted the same way. To turn her down would be unthinkable. But to give her Rosa’s—er, Willy’s—recipe? Even more so. They would kill me. Both of them.

  “I . . . I might have to get back to you on that,” I managed after a moment’s pause.

  Armando and I spoke our next words in unison: “It’s an old family recipe.”

  The judge looked back and forth between us. “Which family?”

  “Well, both,” I said. “His and mine.”

  “You’re saying you merged recipes?”

  “Sort of.” I chuckled. “It’s kind of a long story. But I don’t think we’re supposed to share it publicly. You understand.”

  She put a hand up and smiled. “Okay, okay, never mind. Say no more. Trust me, there are dozens of recipes I refuse to share too. I get it.” Her gaze narrowed. “Besides, if I know your aunt Willy . . .” She pointed at me. “And I do. I went to culinary school with her, you know. She was a spitfire back then, and from what I’ve gathered, not much has changed. So, if I know her, she won’t budge an inch on this recipe, especially if she knows I’m the one asking.”

  I gasped at that, in part because I hadn’t realized my aunt knew any of the judges, and in part because the judge’s words were so accurate.

  The judge took off across the soundstage, muttering something about how sweet vengeance would be right about now. She stopped in front of our cake and cut another slice—this one pretty large—and pressed a bite into her mouth, a contented look on her face. Oh well. At least she left the little chocolate gladiators in place. They would live to fight another day. Hopefully we would too.

  Armando kissed the tip of my nose and then laughed. “Can’t believe we turned her down. She’s the top dog on this show. And she seems pretty intimidating.”

  “No kidding. But I’m used to intimidating people. And speaking of which, how weird is it that she used to know my aunt?”

  “Still, it looks like we won her over,” Armando said.

  “With a recipe that goes back several generations.” I chuckled.

  “Yeah, well . . . about that.” He used his index finger to brush a loose hair out of my eye.

  “What?”

  “Just FYI, I have it on good authority—Bella—that Rosa got that recipe from the internet a few months back. Just found out this morning before we started taping the show. Didn’t have time to tell you.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah. The ‘old family recipe’ she once used didn’t even come close to this one. Bella reminded me that she used to make the original years ago and no one cared much for it.”

  I laughed. “Maybe Aunt Willy did the same. Maybe that’s why she was so reluctant for your aunt to see the recipe, because she was afraid she might google it and find out the truth.” Yep, suddenly it all made sense. No wonder she didn’t want Rosa to see it. She knew the truth would come out.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said. “But can you believe they did that to us?”

  “Nope. But let’s let them think we believe the recipe is theirs. What would it hurt? I thought it was really good, regardless.”

  “It is special,” he said. “It brought both of us together.”

  “O-oh?” I gazed into his eyes, and he slipped his arms around my waist. Thank God, they fit all the way around. That one thing alone gave me hope. Of course, I’d have to watch myself from now on. I’d probably put on at least two pounds this afternoon alone—a hoagie, chips, and an apple? What had happened to my self-control?

  As I gazed into Armando’s gorgeous eyes—as I envisioned the two of us riding down the street in his golf cart with his muscular, shirtless arm wrapped around me—I decided that self-control was highly overrated.

  “I don’t care whose recipe it is, as long as it served to make us a team.” He placed another kiss on my cheek—so soft, so tender that it took my breath away.

  In that moment, I secretly thanked Aunt Willy for stealing that recipe from the internet. Didn’t matter what ingredients we’d added. The end result was this moment—this precious, God-ordained moment. And from where I stood, life suddenly seemed awfully sweet.

  My stomach grumbled, and I realized how desperately I needed a meal. A real meal. Armando must’ve heard it too.

  “We’re getting out of here,” he said. “I’m taking you out for a big, juicy steak and baked potato.”

  “But . . .” I thought about the calories in the steak and did my best not to groan.

  “It’s protein, Scarlet. You need protein, trust me. It’ll keep you strong.”

  Protein wasn’t all I needed to make me strong. I needed the strength and protection that Armando’s arms gave me. I needed his smile, his wacky sense of humor, and his goofball charm. Most of all, I needed his encouragement, for he always seemed to know just what to say and how to say it.

  He might not be a good old boy in the traditional sense, but right now, he looked really, really good to me.

  16

  Hard to Swallow

  If yo
u can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

  Anonymous

  If anyone deserved a break after that television filming, I did. But I never got it. Arriving back in Galveston, I had less than two weeks to prepare for my BFF’s wedding. That meant pulling together a shower cake, a wedding cake, and a groom’s cake all while running a bakery. Oh, and putting on a talent show. A life-altering, “take this team to Nicaragua so that lives can be changed for the better and children can be fed” talent show.

  I truly had no time to spare, not even a minute, and needed every bit of help I could get. Unfortunately, my assistant still had a bum arm. But the bum arm didn’t stop Kenny. No sir. I’d never seen anyone work so hard with one good arm.

  And talk about a crowd to feed. Even though the cake challenge hadn’t aired yet, our local newspaper had picked up on the fact that I’d participated and splashed my name across the front page, along with a headline that read “Local baker hits the ground running. Literally.”

  I cringed but decided to use the PR to my advantage. Why not draw people in with that little teaser, then strike up a conversation about what had really happened? Garner interest in the products as they stood and gabbed? Yes, that would surely work. And I’d do everything I could to spread the word about the fund-raiser while I was at it. Posting flyers in the windows was the first order of business.

  The bakery filled with customers early on Saturday morning. I could hardly believe how many people showed up hoping to meet me. Even Armando made an appearance, buying a whole tray of cookies.

  “For the restaurant,” he said.

  Sure, sure.

  More likely, he and his brother were eating them on the sly. As if the guy had any weight issues. He could swallow down as many calories and carbs as he liked, and they would turn into pure muscle—buff arms, a six-pack, and solid shoulder mass.

  Not that I was paying attention or anything. That would just be wrong. Or right, depending on how you looked at him. Er, it.

  The customers who flooded my shop were all anxious to hear my story, and Armando was happy to oblige, giving them all of the gory details about how I’d hit the floor, scaring him to death.