All’s Fair In Love and Cupcakes

by Betsy St. Amant

  And Lord help him if it was.

  His cell phone buzzed from the bedside table and his eyes flew open. Text message.

  Yet he couldn’t make himself move.

  His gaze found Kat’s again, and time suspended, his decision to act or not to act hovering over the two of them like a wisp of a cloud that was both foggy and transparent all at once—just tangible enough to distort, yet not present enough to possess. This moment—it mattered. It counted.

  And he had no idea what to do. God . . . the prayer froze in his thoughts, crystallized. Slammed against an invisible ceiling between him and heaven.

  His phone vibrated a second time.

  Kat sat up so fast her forehead almost clipped his chin. He ducked out of her way. “Should you get that? It might be one of your football boys.”

  Might be. Or it might be the president of the United States, and it still wouldn’t matter enough to drag him away from her side.

  But the spell had broken. Answered prayer? Or Murphy’s Law?

  With a muffled groan, he shoved away from the bed and stood, his back to Kat, and picked up his phone, reaching up with his free hand to massage the tension in his neck.

  Two incoming messages. Both from Darren. Perfect timing, as usual.

  He jabbed the envelope icon on his screen.

  DID UR APRON FIT?

  He snorted. Hardly worth the interruption. He dared a glance over his shoulder at Kat, who had sat up and was sipping on her Diet Coke, engrossed in the ending of the movie. Maybe it wasn’t too late to recreate the moment. Give himself a second chance.

  He scrolled down to the second message.

  DON’T 4GET. SONG OF SOL. 2:7

  He tossed his phone back on the end table, palms slick. The verse was burned in his brain. Do not stir up nor awaken love until it pleases.

  Definitely not Murphy’s Law.

  But God knew his heart for Kat, knew the sincerity of it. So why the red light? He clenched his hand into a fist. Maybe because of the direction his thoughts had been slipping . . .

  Kat, looking oblivious and completely unfazed, continued to watch the movie and nurse her soda, none the worse for the wear. He should be grateful she didn’t realize the battle that had just been warred over her. But the lingering what-if settled on his shoulders like an itchy wool jacket, a constant irritation he couldn’t scratch.

  He couldn’t stay here.

  He snuck a peek at his watch. It was too early to call it a night, but he couldn’t be in this room with her for a minute longer, not in this mood. Not with the truth of Darren’s reminder pounding in his ears like Bayou Bend’s marching band drummer.

  Not with Kat in those pizza-stained sweatpants.

  “Let’s go work out.”

  Kat turned, midsip, and raised one eyebrow. “Now? We just ate.”

  “It’s been long enough.” It hadn’t been, really, but they weren’t swimming. Oh no. Not swimming. That was the last thing he needed to see before going to bed.

  He pulled one arm in a stretch, then the other while bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’ll go jog.” Or walk. Or bear crawl. Or do a thousand burpees. Anything to burn off the what-if circling his head like a vulture, a vulture with terrible, terrible timing.

  Kat slowly stood and reached for her shoes, continuing to stare as if he’d lost his mind, but that was okay. He’d rather she think him crazy than recognize the true train of thought he’d been fighting. The train that Darren—and the Holy Spirit—had derailed.

  He ushered her out the door, barely remembering to shove his key card in the pocket of his athletic shorts. Crazy was definitely better than humiliated.

  Or rejected.

  Kat supposed rejection was better than being humiliated—though the two felt sort of the same at the moment.

  Her feet slapped a rhythm on the treadmill, a steady punctuation to the drilling of her thoughts. Los-er. Los-er. Los-er.

  She’d thought they’d had a moment there, with the pillow fight, and the pizza box, and the laughing over his Wizard of Oz prank. Clearly she’d imagined it. Clearly she’d landed in some form of Oz reality herself, thinking the entire exchange had been anything other than what it was.

  Re-ject. Re-ject. Re-ject.

  How embarrassing. Her stomach shifted into a knot cinched with regret. The flirty eyes she’d thrown at Lucas, the way she’d held her breath hoping and waiting for a kiss that never came. How pathetic and obvious could she get? No wonder he’d suddenly decided to leave the room. She’d probably scared him half to death. First she dragged him across the country to be her baking assistant, of all things, then she’d practically thrown herself at him.

  So-dumb. So-dumb. So-dumb.

  She ignored her racing heartbeat and cranked up the machine’s speed, pushing herself in a desperate attempt to drown out the haunting beat.

  Just-friends-just-friends-just-friends.

  Still not fast enough. Her feet thudded against the belt, spasms shooting up her shins.

  Hopelesshopelesshopeless.

  Enough.

  She jumped her feet onto the stable sides of the treadmill and bent over, gasping for breath as the conveyor belt churned beneath her. Maybe there was hope. Maybe she hadn’t been as obvious with her feelings as she thought. But why else would Lucas leave their cozy dinner and a movie setup so suddenly if she hadn’t given off a vibe he hadn’t returned?

  She never thought she’d be jealous of Dorothy. But a tornado spinning her off into a land full of wicked witches and singing peers and cotton-brained sidekicks sounded halfway appealing at the moment.

  On second thought, she was sort of already there just by being on set in LA.

  She watched the treadmill eat up the belt between her feet. Maybe there had been a spark of chemistry between them. Maybe she’d imagined it. Either way, she had to push past this. It was probably just the trip throwing them together in such constant proximity that had her hormones whipping like the exercise conveyor.

  She inhaled deeply, heart begging for oxygen, her side cramping into a stitch. They were friends. Best friends. Closer than that, really. This was Lucas—the man who knew her best and wanted to be her friend anyway. The man who had cleaned her kitchen sink almost as many times as she had. The man who had once brought toilet paper and Sprite to her door when she’d caught a stomach virus and her parents were out of town. The man who’d nursed her back to emotional health after Chase had hit on her sister behind her back—not that she didn’t have a way to go to becoming the strong woman she really wanted to be.

  No, she had no business entertaining these thoughts and feelings of more—even if they had set up camp and refused to leave. She was in charge—she could boot them out. There had to be a way.

  God . . . She tried to pray, but the words choked in her throat. Her poor divided heart. She wanted more, so much more, so badly—but Lucas didn’t fit in with her dreams for herself. That had to mean something—the fact that they didn’t mesh. They weren’t meant to be.

  But one day, someone would be the right woman for Lucas, and their relationship would change forever. There was an inevitable end careening toward them, regardless of how hard she tried to protect their friendship now. One day, reality would collide with the present, and everything would be permanently different.

  She needed to win. Needed New York. Needed to prove herself.

  Because Lucas wouldn’t always be there to lean on. Not like this. Not like she needed.

  It was time to stand on her own two feet.

  She jumped back on her machine, punching the Down arrow to slow it down slightly. The last thing she needed tomorrow was sore muscles on the set.

  Lucas, his iPod earbuds in, didn’t seem to notice her internal debate from a few machines down. He ran hard, chest heaving, his typically perfect form almost sloppy. In fact, it looked like he ran as if something was chasing him.

  Maybe her?

  She risked a second glance at him from the corner of her eye, bu
t he only ducked his head and increased his stride. Fine. She quickened hers to match his, concentrating on her breathing, refusing to allow worry and fear to interrupt her focus. If Lucas was running, she wasn’t going to stand still. Somehow, they had to set their pace to work together on the show.

  One thing was certain. For all her previous doubts earlier, now she knew for sure—she had to win Cupcake Combat.

  Because there was no way she could keep up this pace forever.

  fourteen

  There wasn’t strong enough coffee in the world to get him through this round.

  Lucas groaned and wished he could take back the past half hour he’d spent griping to Kat and anyone else who would listen—not that there had been many—over how long it took to get any kind of action rolling on this set. He’d give anything at this point to go back to being bored and antsy.

  Because shifting his weight from one sneaker to another, counting the tiles in the floor, and playing about thirty-seven games of tic-tac-toe with Kat—and three with one of the bikers—remained preferable to actually participating in round two.

  Thanks to Sam Carson—or whoever was responsible for dreaming up this crazy love theme. And he thought the circus concept was bad . . .

  “Think love is romance in this round.” Sam wiggled a red rose—it looked fake—from his spot near the judges’ table, then stuck it between his teeth and snagged Georgiana’s arm. Before the boisterous woman could protest, he’d spun her in a quick twirl and dip. She snatched the rose from his lips and waved it at the contestants as Sam righted her and sent her back to the panel.

  He brushed the lapels of the tuxedo he was wearing today and picked up as if nothing had happened. “In this round, taste is key and will be scored the highest. But the judges still expect quality decorations to go with the love theme of your cupcake selection. Be creative, be bold, be romantic—and most importantly . . .”—his voice trailed off and lowered into a loud stage whisper—“be on time.” He pointed to the clock, which had quickly become every contestant’s archenemy. “You have one hour to impress the wings off Cupid. And . . . go!”

  Lucas watched Kat run with the other contestants to the supply closet, dodging an overeager Tameka and nearly getting shoved by Piper along the way. Probably not an accident, though Kat had managed to avoid the cheap shot.

  He started to follow after her, for bodyguard duty if nothing else, then hesitated, choosing to give her space to make her choices alone for this round. He wouldn’t mind throwing a few elbows in Piper’s direction—or at least teaching Kat how to do so. But he refused to be one of those “do as I say, not as I do” coaches when it came to sportsmanship.

  Still, something about that younger girl rubbed him raw. It was cupcakes, for crying out loud. Not worth losing one’s integrity or character over.

  Or sanity, for that matter.

  His gaze found Kat again as she flitted around the shelves, snatching items and then rummaging through the giant refrigerator, brows furrowed with concentration. So far, so good. It looked like she had a plan, at least. Would she pull through, or freeze up under the pressure again?

  Speaking of frigid—she’d all but ignored him in the exercise room last night, after that terribly awkward—and terribly wonderful—moment they’d shared in his room before Darren’s texts interrupted. Judging by the way Kat had attacked that treadmill as if she held a personal vendetta against it, she apparently wanted to avoid the subject as badly as he did. He’d never seen her run like that—not without something chasing her, anyway.

  Had she been trying to burn off stress from the taping? Burn off her doubts, burn off her memories . . . burn off him?

  This stupid show was going to be the death of him.

  And not just because he was still wearing an apron on national television.

  Kat returned, loaded down from the stockroom—meltdown free—and he quickly moved to help her dump the items on their workstation. She’d done it alone, but he wouldn’t point that out right now. That would just backfire and remind her of yesterday.

  Neither of them needed to relive any part of yesterday.

  “What’s the vision, boss?” He needed her to smile. Needed to know their usual camaraderie was still alive and well beneath the junk he’d piled on top of it last night.

  Needed to believe nothing had changed—but that the possibility for change still lingered.

  Really, he just needed a football field and a chance to clear his head.

  “I’m getting the impression the cornier the better for this round.” She jerked her head toward Sam, who had started waltzing around the judges’ table with an invisible partner. “So I was thinking of going all-out romance. Lots of red and pink.” Her lips pursed as she studied the materials on the counter in front of them.

  He looked away from her mouth. Red. So . . . “Strawberry?”

  “Raspberry lemonade torte.”

  His stomach growled on cue. “The one that can bring world peace?”

  “Exactly.” She turned her full smile on him, and for a minute, the drama disappeared. The awkwardness that had lately colored their vibrant edges gray vanished, and she was Kat, and he was Lucas, and there was no almost-kiss. They were just baking cupcakes like they’d done a hundred times in her kitchen.

  They could do this. He could do this.

  He just wouldn’t think about the consequences until later. He’d cross that bridge—or jump off it, rather—when the time came.

  He picked up a lemon and a handheld grater. “I’ll start on the lemons.”

  She nodded. “I’ll start the batter.”

  Teamwork.

  Like usual.

  Nothing to see here.

  He grabbed a mixing bowl and began to zest, only slightly embarrassed anymore that he knew what that term meant. His boys on the team loved to tease him about his kitchen knowledge, but after he’d cooked for them once or twice, they’d shut up fast. Especially Tyler, who thrived on anything that felt like home.

  He sobered as he moved on to blending the raspberries. He should have texted Tyler by now, checked on him. Just in case. He’d only been gone a few days, but in Tyler’s world, a lot could change overnight. And often did.

  He shot a glance at Kat, who paused from using the electric mixer to brush a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes. She’d had to resort to the mixer because of their time restraint on the show, and he could tell she hated it.

  He definitely needed to be here—as Kat had reminded him, this whole thing was his “fault.” But he couldn’t ease the nagging sensation that he needed to be back in Bayou Bend too. His team needed him, and not just for the upcoming game.

  If he’d stayed home, he wouldn’t be tormenting himself with this proximity to Kat, with these thoughts of the future that wouldn’t go away. His dreams involved her on his soon-to-be-acquired (hopefully) ten acres, but clearly, this wasn’t the right time to pitch the idea. Not with Kat all over the place, distracted with the show, and not with his own roller coaster of emotions.

  He really needed to get out of this apron.

  He shut off the blender and finished measuring the other icing ingredients. “What’s next, boss?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, then back at her mixer, using a spatula to scrape the batter from the sides of the bowl. “I’ll add the butter. You can come pour this batter into the tins.”

  He changed places with her and dismantled the bowl from the mixer stand. “What’s our decoration?” Raspberry lemonade torte cupcakes with the fruit whipped icing . . . that had to win. The thought tied his stomach into a knot any Boy Scout would be proud of.

  Odd in his profession to realize that, for the first time, winning was not equivalent to victory.

  “What do we have here?”

  Lucas jerked, missing the muffin cup and spilling a clump of batter onto the edge of the pan.

  Thad smirked across the counter, where he stood near Kat. A little too close, in Lucas’s opinion. “Sorry there
, man. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He didn’t scare him. There was nothing remotely scary about the guy—except maybe his ability to have a say in Kat’s future. “No problem.” Lucas grabbed a paper towel and cleaned the drip, keeping one eye on the preppy judge and his conversation with Kat. What was he doing walking around, anyway? Yesterday the judges had stayed put.

  As they should.

  He frowned over at the panel. As Georgiana and Dave still were.

  “It gets boring at that table for an hour, watching all of you prepare to wow us.” Thad crossed his arms over his striped suit jacket, which he had rolled up to his elbows and worn with dark denim jeans. Skinny jeans? Lucas didn’t want to look close enough to tell for sure. Man, the guy was metro, and today the black wire-rim glasses he wore only added to the costume. “Though some are more entertaining to watch than others.”

  Kat blushed under his attention as she poured the remaining ingredients into the icing he’d started. Flustered? Or attracted?

  No way. Not a single way possible.

  Lucas filled the remaining empty muffin cup and picked up the pan. “Twenty minutes?”

  “Eighteen.” She didn’t miss a beat in her conversation with Thad, just tossed the number over her shoulder at Lucas and kept listening as the judge went on about humidity and baking environment factors.

  But all Lucas could hear as he headed toward the oven was the voice of Charlie Brown’s teacher. Wahhh wahhhh . . .

  She really needed to be concentrating on piping roses and creating lace out of fondant. Not trying to psychoanalyze every word that came out of Lucas’s mouth. Not trying to read between the lines of his every gesture and expression.

  Not trying to decide if she should demand he explain what he was actually thinking last night.

  She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as she piped another rose. Focus . . . focus. This icing bag tip was tricky, and she’d messed up three roses before this one. They were running out of time, and if she didn’t figure this out, their cupcakes wouldn’t look anything like a valentine.