How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  Melissa was one lucky woman.

  A wave of guilt pressed on Charlotte’s shoulders, familiar and tangible. Had she been too flirty with this mystery man, considering she knew he wasn’t available?

  Charlotte had been on the other side of that equation. The rugged, football-playing smooth talker she’d dated her senior year in college hadn’t been entirely honest about his relationship status—in other words, he’d outright lied to her face and was engaged to someone else. Charlotte ended up in the role of the “other woman,” the home wrecker. And even if it had been unintentional, it was both painful and guilt-inducing, and she never intended to go that route again.

  Once she found out the truth, that was the end of it, despite the positive sign on the pregnancy test. She would go it alone as a single mom, for better or worse. She was done with the handsome, charming types who knew, along with the rest of the female population, that they were handsome and charming.

  As she told Zoe every time her daughter asked where her future stepfather was—they were waiting for God to send them a safe, predictable nerd.

  Preferably one who bought baked goods for her, not for another woman.

  Charlotte slipped the snickerdoodles into the bakery’s signature turquoise and brown box, then removed her plastic glove and punched the buttons on the register. He was already handing her a five-dollar bill. At this rate, he might as well start a tab.

  “Listen, there’s something you should know.” He darted a glance over his shoulder at the picture window, then back at her, a sudden seriousness lighting his hazel eyes. “There’s sort of this wedding, and . . .”

  Wedding. Her stomach knotted. Of course. So Melissa was a fiancée. She dropped the money into the register and slid out his change, the quarters clanging loudly against the metal drawer. Why on earth did men not wear engagement rings the way women did? It wasn’t fair to not be able to tell at a glance that a man was taken.

  Still, it didn’t matter. Not really. This man wasn’t safe. Not judging by the things he did to her stomach. And while he might be a little predictable with the every-Tuesday-cookie thing, he wasn’t a nerd. Not by far.

  Charlotte needed “safe” for her and Zoe. This guy was a five-alarm fire.

  “Wedding. Right.” She fought for her most professional smile as she handed him his change and receipt, trying not to imagine what he’d look like in a tuxedo at the end of a long church aisle. “Congratulations.”

  Her mind raced through a blur of images, snippets of conversation pulled from their interactions over the past several weeks. How in the world had she known his favorite color was green, and that he loved desserts with extra nuts, and that he liked camping in Arkansas—yet didn’t know he was getting married?

  “No, no.” He looked over his shoulder once more at the door, lowering his voice. “It’s not for—”

  “Here it is!” The door to The Dough Knot flung open as if rocked on its hinges by the force of the proclamation. A short, stick-thin brunette rushed inside, flaunting a white tank top with the word Bride spelled across the front in hot-pink rhinestones. On her heels trailed a guy in a ball cap and ripped jeans who mouthed the words I’m sorry as they entered.

  This had to be Brittany, the Bridezilla who had the appointment for the cake tasting. She was early.

  And even louder in person than she’d been on the phone.

  Charlotte pasted on her most patient, professional smile—one she’d mastered over years of donating free pastries to school bake sales. She refused to complain about Brittany—or to Brittany, for that matter. Cake sampling equaled potential customers, and potential customers equaled money in the bank—not to mention exposure and word of mouth. The majority of The Dough Knot’s custom wedding business came from guests who wanted a similar cake for their own upcoming nuptials.

  And considering this past quarter’s bottom line containing all of her spring wedding business, she couldn’t afford not to keep Brittany happy. Not if she wanted to keep Zoe in private school, and keep them both in the safe, friendly apartment complex where they lived. Not if she wanted to keep baking.

  And attempting to atone for her past.

  “It’s smaller than I pictured.” Brittany planted her hands on her hips as she gave the bakery a quick look of disdain. Then she shrugged a tan shoulder. “But I guess we shouldn’t judge the quality of the cake by the shop’s décor.”

  Not fair—or accurate. Charlotte’s shop was cute, with turquoise walls, trendy wall art, and gleaming mahogany tables, each boasting a teal and brown striped table runner. A chalkboard stand advertised the day’s specials by the entrance. Just yesterday she had hung a beautiful crimson and orange autumn wreath on the door. Charlotte bit her lower lip, reeling in the sarcastic responses that crowded her mind. Too bad the customer was always right. Because so many things about Brittany were just plain wrong.

  The man in the ball cap fist-bumped Mr. Not-So-Right over Brittany’s head. “Sorry we’re late.” Wait, what? They knew each other? Oh. His friend he said was meeting him here. Then that meant . . .

  Not his wedding.

  Hope rallied, then immediately deflated. Melissa still existed, even if she wasn’t quite ring-worthy yet. Charlotte needed to quit this train of thought, right now. She’d hold out for an accountant or a lawyer. With suspenders. And a bow tie.

  Definitely not distressed-denim jeans and a dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled halfway up.

  “It’s okay, you’re not late.” Mr. Right turned back to Charlotte. “I was just telling . . . um, Ms. . . .?” His voice trailed off and he raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to fill in the blank, but the direct eye contact made her forget.

  He didn’t know her name.

  Well, at the moment, she didn’t either. She knew his favorite football team was the Saints and he knew she had an addiction to all things Jane Austen—but he didn’t know her name. How had they never actually introduced themselves?

  “Char—Charlotte.” Great. This was college all over again—stuttering and moony-eyed over a hot guy who would inevitably break her heart if she handed it over. Chemistry wasn’t everything. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way? She was a grown-up, a mom, with her own business—and the debt to go with it—and had no time to waste on what-ifs that shouldn’t be. She squared her shoulders. “Charlotte Cantrell.”

  “Charlotte. Right.” His voice dipped low, and he held his hand out across the counter. “I’m Will Martin.”

  She shouldn’t have taken off the glove she’d used when gathering his order. The contact of her palm against his sent a shiver down her spine and a burst of heat through her chest. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You might think otherwise in a minute.” Will turned back to the bride and groom. “This is Brittany and Adam—the happy couple.”

  “Is that what we are?” Adam joked, and Brittany elbowed him in the gut.

  “Very funny.” Her glare proved it wasn’t. “And we’re not late. We’re early.”

  Adam shrugged. “I told Will we’d be here at five thirty.”

  “Our appointment isn’t until six o'clock.” Brittany’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion clouding her face. “Wait a minute. Why did you tell Will to meet us, anyway?”

  Adam’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Brittany’s eyes narrowed to slits. Charlotte watched back and forth like an observer at a tennis match. She should be going to grab the cake samples to intervene, but instead she held her breath and waited to see if maybe they’d just cancel the wedding altogether.

  “This is our wedding, Adam.” Brittany pressed her manicured finger against his chest and then poked at her own. “Mine and yours. Not Will’s. I know you guys were inseparable in college but believe it or not, you can actually do things without—”

  “Actually, Brittany . . .” Will stepped between them, and draped an arm around their shoulders, his voice calm and soothing. The way you would address a wild stallion—or a tantrum-pitching three-year-old. Charlo
tte remembered those days of parenting all too well. “Adam just needs to give me the tux rental information he’s got in his car. So he thought we’d meet here, since he knew I’d be coming to get Melissa’s cookies this afternoon.”

  “Melissa?” Brittany pressed her lips together, one eyebrow quirked. There was so much more the bride obviously wanted to say, Charlotte could practically see the unspoken words dancing in her eyes. Say it, say it. Solve the mystery of Melissa! “You mean to tell me you’re still—”

  Adam coughed. Loud and hard.

  “Whatever.” Brittany flipped her hair back. “Never mind.”

  Disappointment rivaled relief. Oh well. She might never know about Melissa. And maybe that was for the better.

  Brittany turned her steely gaze then to Charlotte, and Charlotte fought the urge to take a step backward. “We’re ready now.”

  In other words, hurry it up.

  Charlotte gritted her teeth and retrieved the samples from the kitchen without a single sarcastic comment. A huge, secret victory.

  Brittany shoved a square of frosted cake into her mouth, handed one to Adam as an afterthought, and then picked up another, studying it an inch away from her nose as if she could visually inspect every ingredient. “The vanilla is decent. I guess.”

  Standing behind Adam, out of sight, Will suddenly held up three fingers. Charlotte frowned, trying to decode his gesture while not making it obvious she was staring over the couple’s heads as they debated the pros and cons of vanilla cake. What was he trying to say? She turned the tray so Brittany could access the next flavor in the lineup.

  Will pointed intentionally at Brittany, then with an expectant grin, held up three fingers once more.

  “I like this one.” Adam mumbled around his smaller mouthful of cake. “It’s not as boring as other vanilla cakes.”

  Charlotte beamed.

  “Though by now, they kind of all taste the same.”

  Charlotte sighed.

  Brittany picked up the next piece and shoved it into her mouth. Her eyes widened. “Oh, the strawberry is actually . . . good. Really good!” Like a starving woman, she shoveled in another two samples, this time of white chocolate and lemon. “Adam. This is awful. I can’t decide.”

  Over their heads, Will held up two fingers.

  Brittany wrung her hands in front of her. “I mean, seriously, Adam.” The wringing turned to flapping her arms at her sides in a gesture of panic. “I have no idea what to pick.” Her voice pitched and cracked.

  Adam sidestepped as her flapping connected with his shoulder and nearly knocked his sample out of his hand. “Hey, careful there, babe.”

  Brittany's breathing became erratic. Charlotte darted a glance back and forth between the two of them. Should she call 911? Did this woman carry an inhaler? Why wasn’t anyone else concerned?

  Her gaze collided with Will’s, who was still grinning and subtly holding up two fingers.

  “The strawberry would be amazing with the champagne bar! But that chocolate was so moist!” Tears began slipping down Brittany’s cheeks.

  Charlotte stared at Brittany. In all her years of catering to brides, never had her cake brought one of them to tears. Hardly a testimonial she could add to her website.

  Behind her, Will turned down another finger so only his pointer remained in the air. Then he mouthed the words. Blast off.

  As if on cue, Brittany erupted. “What are we going to do?” She flung herself into Adam’s arms. He stumbled back three steps before he caught his balance. Her fingers curled tight into the front of his T-shirt, gripping the material in both hands. “We can’t have three wedding cakes!”

  Adam nodded, patting her back as the dripping tears turned into shaking sobs. “You’re right, babe. That’s not really possible.” He mouthed the next words to Will. Or in the budget.

  Charlotte began edging her sampler tray away from the now hysterical bride. “So, um, I guess you probably don’t want to sample the mint—”

  Brittany’s wails heightened in both volume and intensity.

  Nope. No mint.

  “Honey?” Adam gently pushed Brittany away from his chest. Charlotte plucked a napkin from the dispenser and handed it to him over the counter. He began mopping her face, mascara smearing across the white paper. “I think I have a solution.”

  “Don’t say vanilla. Don’t you dare say vanilla.” Her shoulders shook with silent cries as she snatched the napkin from him and continued rubbing at her eyes until she morphed into a raccoon.

  “No, no. No vanilla.” Adam pulled her back into a hug, rolling his eyes over her head at Will. “You’re under a lot of stress. Wedding planning is rough.”

  Brittany nodded into his chest, her words muffled. “People just have no idea.”

  Charlotte understood the eye roll, now. How did this guy do it? Forget Bridezilla. This girl was Bridasaurus Rex. She could scare the garters off Bridezilla.

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  Three pairs of eyes drilled into hers. Two hopeful, one doubtful.

  She cleared her throat. “We could layer flavors into one cake, if that helps make the decision less . . . daunting.” She fought to keep a serious expression. “That way you wouldn’t have to commit to just one.”

  Brittany looked up at Adam in confusion, as if unsure how to respond to the crazy cake lady with the horrible ideas.

  Charlotte held up both hands in surrender. “Never mind. Just a suggestion.”

  “It’s not a bad idea.” Will spoke up, finally, a voice of reason from the madness.

  “Are you kidding me? That just makes it even harder. Which flavors do I layer? How many layers? Which ones will complement and which ones will just end up tasting like—” Brittany’s voice cracked again.

  Adam rocked her slowly side to side as he spoke. “Babe, I think you need to take a step back. Delegate a little.”

  “Delegate?” She looked up and sniffed. “You mean, tell other people what to do?”

  He smiled. “That’s your favorite thing, right?”

  Will snorted, then covered it quickly with a cough. Charlotte shot him a look. That was it. Forget word of mouth and new business. She just wanted all of these crazy, nonsingle people to get out of her shop and leave her alone with the petit fours.

  Julie wouldn’t believe what she’d missed.

  “You should delegate some of the planning responsibilities.” Adam’s words rambled faster now, almost mechanically, as if he’d memorized a script. Or maybe he just had a lot of experience talking his would-be bride off the ledge. “You should focus your efforts and attention on the things that matter most. Like your dress and your vows.”

  Brittany perked up considerably. “And the flowers.”

  “Exactly.” Adam nodded. “And leave all the boring, overwhelming stuff like choosing the cake to someone else.”

  “But there’s more than just the wedding cake to pick out.” Brittany looked at Charlotte for the first time in ten minutes. “We’ll need desserts for the engagement party and the wedding shower next month. And maybe the rehearsal dinner.”

  Wait a minute. That was a lot of business. Charlotte straightened. She might even be able to deal with a little B-Rex if it meant dessert-catering a wedding and multiple parties. After all, she needed to start saving for Christmas presents soon, and she still owed the hospital from when they’d taken out Zoe’s tonsils.

  Brittany’s hysterics rallied for round two. “But I can’t just abandon—”

  “Stop. It’s not abandoning.” Adam held up one hand. “Just think of it as getting to tell people what to do three times.”

  Brittany's mouth opened, then shut, as if even she realized she couldn’t argue with that. “Okay. But who would do it? Who would pick all this out for us?”

  Adam turned toward Will.

  Charlotte didn’t know a lot about hunting, but she saw, right now, right here in her bakery, a ten-point buck caught in the crosshairs. Will’s eyes widened. He stepped backward
, arms raised in surrender, shaking his head. “No way. Don’t even think about it.”

  “Oh, come on. You’d be perfect. You’re already in this place, like, what, once a week?” Adam gestured wildly around the bakery. “You know. For Melissa.”

  It was Will’s turn to glare and Brittany’s turn to sweeten it up. “Yeah, Will, and we all know you like to eat. You’d make great choices.”

  There again with the double insult-compliment in one. The girl should audition for the role of a Disney villain.

  Will’s hands went to his stomach—his totally flat stomach, that no doubt boasted a six-pack of abs under that shirt. “Me? Why me?”

  “Because you have good taste in food, and you’re the best man.” Adam clapped his hand on Will’s shoulder and whispered, “And besides, choosing a wedding cake won’t make you certifiably crazy.”

  Brittany’s head snapped back to Adam. “What’d you say?”

  He backpedaled quickly. Again, probably not his first rodeo. “I said, Will wouldn’t be lazy. In getting all this planned out. You know Will.” Adam patted Will’s shoulder again. “He used to be in the military. The dude thrives on a schedule. He’ll get all this taken care of in no time.”

  “Right. No time. As in, not at all.” Will ran a hand over his five o’clock stubble. “No way, guys.”

  Adam’s voice lowered an octave, and the humor fled his tone. “You know Melissa would think you should do it.”

  Will glared at Adam. “Fine. As your best man . . . I’ll do it.”

  Brittany squealed. Adam slapped him a high five, and Will sighed like a man heading toward a frosted guillotine.

  Charlotte plastered on a smile as she tried to dissect the emotions coursing through her body. Relief. Trepidation. New business—that was a good thing. And Brideasaurus Rex was now out of the picture—also a very good thing. Besides, she’d get to work with Will from here forward—

  Yeah, that. Maybe not such a good thing.

  She drew a tight breath. Regardless of how she felt, facts were facts. She’d been handed a lucrative baking contract on a silver platter . . .