by Cindy Kirk
She knew the feeling. She rarely got a break from her own burdens. In fact, if it wasn’t for the light Zoe brought to her life and the fact that she got to bake for a living, she’d buckle right underneath them. God had been good to her, despite her mistakes, and had blessed her in spite of herself.
Her defensive guard slipped a little under this wave of compassion toward Will, and she fought to rebuild the retaining wall, avoiding eye contact as she brushed at some imaginary crumbs on the counter. “Sometimes. Julie’s a redhead, so you never know what you’re going to get.”
“She can’t be as bad as Brittany.”
Charlotte snorted. “No one’s as bad as—” She winced. This was a client she was railing to—and the best man, no less. Not exactly professional. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe.” Will winked, and the stress lines around his eyes edged away as a real smile replaced the forced. “I mean, the truth hurts, right?”
“It definitely can.” A huge understatement. Painful or not, knowing the bad was infinitely better than being deceived. She shrugged away the memories. “I guess some people don’t realize how they come across.”
Will’s fingers drummed a rhythm on the countertop. “Just between us, I think Brittany knows how she is, and just chooses to be that way anyway. Mostly because everyone lets her.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance she’s misunderstood?” Charlotte knew not to jump to conclusions, not after she’d naively dated an engaged man for months. Everyone on the school campus had assumed she knew exactly what she was doing, and she hadn’t had a clue. She’d let herself be swept away, let herself be sweet-talked against everything she’d ever stood for.
No one believed her, especially after she turned up pregnant. And she wore the Scarlet Letter all the way to graduation day. Zoe’s father refused to be a part of any of it. Never showed a moment’s interest, never paid a dime in child support.
It was just as well. Charlotte wanted nothing to do with him, ever. At least she’d been able to move back to her hometown, start The Dough Knot, and make a decent life for her and Zoe.
“There’s always a chance, I suppose.” Will shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter.
Charlotte’s breath tightened in her chest. His flippancy over such a deep topic annoyed her more than it should.
“I just don’t believe people change—not easily, anyway, or completely.” Will’s eyes flickered with some undefined emotion. “My mom used to always tell us that if someone tries to show you who they really are, then let them.”
Charlotte felt her neck flush with indignation as she pushed away from the counter. Away from Will’s judgment. “But what about those people who are really good at appearances?”
She fell headlong into the flashback, feeling exactly the way she had in college, defending herself all over again. No one believed she was innocent—especially not her ex’s fiancée, who had accused her of being a home wrecker in front of a stadium full of students.
Charlotte crossed her arms over her apron and ignored the rose petal icing that smeared across her elbow. “What about those people who make you believe they’re one way or one thing, when they’re really not?”
Will frowned, confusion replacing the tired creases in his forehead. “What about them?”
Reality sank in, and as her anger diffused, Charlotte let her arms slowly unfold. What had she just done?
“Never mind.” Embarrassed, exhausted tears pricked at her eyelids, and she brushed at the front of her apron until she regained a semblance of control. “Um . . . maybe we should just discuss the cake order.”
Or maybe he should just leave. Maybe she should forget baking for this entire wedding. But no—she needed this. For Zoe. For their security. Who knew when the next big order would come in?
Will stared at her until she had no choice but to make eye contact. “Charlotte.”
She raised her eyebrows, still not trusting her voice, and blinked a few times to clear her eyes.
He leaned forward over the counter, something soft and inviting sparking in his hazel eyes. “Were we having the same conversation just now?”
No. She opened her mouth, then shut it, debating how much to divulge. She’d clearly been fighting some battle with her past and projecting it onto this man—this taken, unavailable man. Her palms grew damp. What was she thinking? She couldn’t confide in him or get emotionally involved. Was she so scared of history repeating itself that she was destined to self-fulfill the prophecy?
There was only one thing to say.
“Are you leaning toward the lemon, white chocolate, or strawberry cake?”
Will knew after the first bite that the secret ingredient in Charlotte’s amazing snickerdoodles was cream cheese. He knew that if an egg was spoiled, it would float in water instead of sink. And he knew rolling limes with the palm of your hand made them easier to juice.
Will knew food.
But Charlotte Cantrell was one recipe he couldn’t analyze.
From his position at the counter barstool, he watched her through the kitchen doorway as she quickly fixed another tray of cake samples. She had switched from passionately debating some inscrutable point, to nearly crying over the same topic, then changed subjects so swiftly he half wondered if he’d made the whole thing up.
The hardest part to figure out, though, was that it wasn’t anything like crazy-Brittany-I-need-attention. No, he’d gotten good at reading people during his years in the service, and he’d bet his last dollar that Charlotte was operating out of a painful past.
“Here you go.” She set the tray of cake bites on the counter before him, each one nestled on top of some girlie, lacy looking white paper. “You didn’t eat any the other day when Brittany was here, so I figured it’d be best if we just started over.”
Started over . . . with the cakes?
Or with him and her?
Will took a bite of the little yellow square before he attempted to answer his own question and get them both in trouble. “That’s really good.” He tried the next one—white chocolate, or something along those lines. It melted in his mouth. “Okay, I’m starting to see Brittany’s dilemma.”
“Are you going to cry?” A tiny smirk twisted Charlotte’s lips, and he nearly sprayed crumbs with his laughter.
“No tears. I promise.” He swallowed, still chuckling. “I mean, it’s not that good . . .”
Silent laughter lit her eyes, and she swatted him across the counter with a pink oven mitt. “Give it time. You haven’t tried the marshmallow caramel apple cake.” She turned the tray and he obliged.
Heaven and a campfire and a late summer fruit tree collided on his taste buds. “Wow. That’s amazing.”
Charlotte practically glowed under the warmth of his praise. It was a little unsettling how much she enjoyed it—and how much he enjoyed giving it to her.
Then her light dimmed. “It’s not traditional, though, for a wedding cake.” A troubled frown pinched Charlotte’s brow as she studied the sampler between them. He wanted to smooth the crease with his finger, make her laugh again. Erase her worry.
And figure out exactly what the heck had set her off earlier.
Most of all, he just wanted her light to turn back on. “What if we did the marshmallow caramel apple for one of the prewedding events?”
She tilted her head. “That could work.” The light began to shine, just a little, as her hopes rose. “Let’s see. Brittany mentioned an engagement party on . . . what date?” She pulled a daily desk calendar from a stack near the register and began flipping through the pages.
“It’s soon. Like, next week.” Will pulled out his phone and read the dates and times for the upcoming parties. “Adam texted me the schedule last night. Yeah, there’s the engagement party, next Friday night. And a couple’s shower two weeks later, at six p.m. on Saturday.”
One he’d have no date for. Melissa would never let him hear the end of that one.
“And
she wanted dessert for the rehearsal dinner too?”
Will adjusted his position on the barstool. “Adam mentioned cupcakes for that one. To mix it up.”
“Okay, perfect. What if we did the caramel apple cake as cupcakes that night? I could use my autumn harvest colors for the frosting.”
The light was back. Mission accomplished.
She was on a roll now. “And for the engagement party, what about cinnamon pecan petit fours? With caramel orange icing?”
His stomach growled in resounding agreement. “And for the couple’s shower?”
She tapped her polka-dotted pencil against her chin. “A different batch of cupcakes?”
“What about snickerdoodles?”
Her smile wavered, just slightly, but enough that he noticed. The mention of the cookies had disappointed her. She corrected, but it was too late. “Sure. That’d be . . . good.”
She said good the way a person would have naturally said sewer. Or toxic waste. “It was just an idea.”
He could have kicked himself, but he still had no idea what he’d done wrong. Or why disappointing her was one of the most unsettling things he’d ever experienced in his life.
He pressed his fingers against his temples. This bakery was like some kind of time warp. It did things to him, made him forget the past and wish for a different future and expect things in the present.
So, so dangerous.
“Did I say something wrong?” He had to know. The longer he sat there, the more trapped he felt, caught in a perfectly wonderful, terrible, addicting kind of parallel universe. He’d never cared what people thought before. He lived his life, did his duty, took care of those he was responsible for, and that was it. If someone didn’t like it or how he went about doing it, that was their problem. He knew his role in life and performed it well. He never intentionally hurt anyone, but he’d learned not to waste time on opinions.
And somehow, suddenly, offending Charlotte or hurting her feelings seemed akin to a sin he couldn’t bounce back from.
She shook her head, not speaking, which only confirmed that yes, he’d said something horribly wrong.
“Charlotte?”
She averted her eyes, rearranging the remaining samples on the tray between them. A fierce and irrational desire came over him—to knock the cakes out of the way, slide over the counter, cradle that adorable face of hers in both hands, and insist she confess right away. After he kissed her, of course.
The more rational part of him was staying busy just trying to convince the first part not to act.
“You didn’t say anything wrong.” She rolled in her lower lip, an innocent action that increased his initial desire tenfold. “I just . . . I just forgot.”
Forgot what?
Unfortunately, judging by the seconds ticking away on the cupcake-shaped clock on the wall, he might never know.
A hushed silence pulsed over the counter. Then came her voice, small and timid and two octaves hopeful. “I could make a snickerdoodle cookie cake.”
The proposition sounded like a peace offering. But what was she even apologizing for?
“That sounds delicious. And unique.” His voice sounded tired, even to his own ears.
“Will Brittany like it?”
Who cared anymore? But yes, she would. He nodded in affirmation.
She kept shuffling the samples around the tray. “And you . . . you’ll like it?”
He met her gaze, suspecting that something immensely important was riding on that question, but for the life of him, he was unable to decipher exactly what. All of the people skills, survival skills, and analytical skills he’d developed over the course of his career were absolutely useless in the undertow of Charlotte’s sea-blue eyes. “I’d like it a lot.”
Was that his voice, so husky? He sounded like he had strep throat.
He rocked back off the barstool so forcefully that it clattered to the floor. He had to get out of this bakery. Before those cake samples went flying and he did something really stupid and totally wonderful.
Like kiss Charlotte Cantrell and forget all his obligations and promises to his sister.
It’d been a week since Will had flown off The Dough Knot’s barstool so fast that he hadn’t even picked a wedding cake flavor. Charlotte wasn’t sure if she should call him, wait for him to contact her, or just go ahead and pick a flavor by herself. He hadn’t even come in for his customary Tuesday cookie purchase. What had gone so wrong that he propelled himself out of the bakery with little more than “Gotta go, see you later”?
She had replayed their conversation over and over in her head, but couldn’t see where she’d offended him. She had embarrassed herself, for sure, by connecting with him . . . really connecting . . . only to remember he was taken the moment he said the magic word, snickerdoodle.
When would she ever learn?
On the one hand, she was glad he’d left so fast, glad something—whatever it was—had broken the spell. That felt a lot safer than all their laughing and joking and bonding. Safer than the way she’d felt her heart bloom under his praise for her baking. Safer than noticing how his eyes lit with extra fire when he looked at her.
Fire. See? Time to quit playing with it, before she let her heart go up in smoke.
After she’d tortured herself with all the possible reasons for him to leave so quickly, in the end she had done nothing. Nothing but stall in making a decision while checking her watch, playing Candyland with Zoe, and hosting a pretend baking contest for her daughter’s plethora of stuffed animals.
And now, in a few minutes, the decision would most likely be made for her.
Charlotte maneuvered the two giant trays of cinnamon pecan petit fours out of the back of her van, grateful Julie was with her this evening for the delivery. Thankfully, the engagement party started after the bakery closed for the day, so one of them didn’t have to stay to man the counter. After last week’s confusing and emotional interaction with Will, Charlotte was grateful for her friend’s company and the distraction she offered.
And thankful for the extra set of arms.
“Anything else, Boss?” Julie teased as Charlotte set the second covered tray of petit fours into Julie’s arms and shut the door to the van. She pretended to stagger under the weight. “I could juggle or spin some plates for you real quick.”
“Very funny.” Charlotte took the second tray back, and motioned for Julie to walk first up the walkway to the house—no, on second glance, make that mansion—that was hosting the party.
“What a house,” Julie mumbled as they made their way up the bricked path to the monstrous red door. “They better tip well.”
“Julie!” Charlotte tried to infuse a touch of shock and offense into her tone, but couldn’t quite pull it off since she’d just been hoping for the same thing. If she had to see Will and deal with the awkwardness between them, it had better be worth it.
Her stomach twisted into a nervous knot. Maybe when she saw Will, she’d realize her silly crush had been just that, and had passed. Merely a temporary physical attraction to a handsome man who frequented her shop.
Julie shifted her tray to her shoulder and rang the doorbell. Charlotte tried to look at her watch, but couldn’t risk tilting her own tray. When they pulled up in the van, the clock had read twenty til time for the engagement party to begin. They had deliberately come early to put the petit fours out before the official start, but apparently, the party was already in full swing. Music, heavy with bass, thumped from inside the house, and loud laughter rang from the backyard.
The door swung open, and a middle-aged woman in a white blouse directed them to the kitchen. Charlotte focused on the end goal as they traipsed through multiple rooms, all decorated with black and white balloons and ornate signs congratulating the happy couple. Hopefully they could just leave the disposable heavy trays in the kitchen and head out before she even saw Will.
“Brittany asked if you ladies would please arrange the desserts on the silver holders.”
The woman gestured to several sterling tiered stands on the table.
No such luck.
They set down their trays and began arranging the petit fours, which seemed to multiply by the second, onto the decorative stands. The woman bustled away.
“Was she a servant or someone’s mom?” Julie whispered.
Charlotte tucked another petit four into place. “I was wondering the same.”
Julie giggled. “I can’t even imagine all this chaos and expense once I get married. If my wedding or prewedding events cost more than my first house, please promise to slap me.”
“I promise.” At this rate, Charlotte didn’t have to worry about securing the same guarantee. Always a baker, never a bride. For now, that seemed the safer route, for both her and Zoe.
She glanced at Julie’s progress unloading the petit fours. “Try to hurry. I’ve got to pick up Zoe from her after-school babysitter.” That was part of why she was rushing, anyway. Not a total lie. She cast an anxious glance toward the picture window displaying the yard, but couldn’t see well enough to know if Will was anywhere in sight.
“Are they here yet?” Brittany’s strident voice preceded her entrance into the kitchen by mere seconds. Not nearly long enough to brace for the onslaught.
“Finally. Better late than never, I guess.” Brittany swirled the contents of her champagne glass and raised it in acknowledgment.
Beside her, Julie stiffened at the insult, and Charlotte quickly handed her another petit four to place on the stand before her friend could voice the thoughts rolling through both their heads. “Ignore her. She’s tipsy,” she whispered.
“That’s still not an excuse to be rude.”
Charlotte snorted. “You should have seen her sober.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Brittany’s voice slurred, and she pointed with her glass, nearly spilling the contents on the kitchen floor. “Hey, if those square thingies don’t taste good, do I blame you? Or Will?”
Great question. Not that she particularly cared, though Brittany seemed legitimately confused about the potential dilemma. Right now, Charlotte just wanted to finish arranging the stupid things and get back to the van before she saw him. Wanted to pick up Zoe, go home, make popcorn, and watch some mindless show on the Disney Channel while snuggling her little girl and reminding herself of all the reasons why they were better off this way.