Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  Nash and Logan were already twirling their sticks into the flames. Dani had edged away from father and son, to either give them some privacy or to move out of the smoke’s current path. She stood there, empty skewer in hand.

  “You didn’t think I would forget about you, did you?” I asked, soft enough for her ears only.

  “It’s okay if you did,” she came right back with. “I gave up desserts after dark anyhow.”

  My back was to the fire, but the heat I felt between us had it totally beat. In the firelight, her blond hair haloed her face like a blazing ring. She plucked a powdery puff from the bag that hung from my finger and impaled it on my skewer, her eyes never leaving my face.

  “Well, for old times’ sake, then.” I pushed one slowly onto the tip of hers, before dragging my eyes off her.

  Bear was bouncing around, like a Native American performing a fire dance. “Got a show tonight,” he whooped. A black leather vest had been added to his ensemble, over his skinny bare chest.

  “One of your cover bands?” Nash asked.

  “Tributes, man. It’s all about the tribute.” He held up the marshmallow-topped skewer his sister had prepared for him in reverence. “Tonight it’s Ozzy.” With his free hand, he finger spelled O-Z-Z-Y for Logan’s benefit, then stuck out his tongue, Gene Simmons–style, and substituted index finger for thumb to change his Y into the universal sign for metal: the devil horns. Logan threw back his head in silent laughter. “Are you guys coming down to the gig?”

  “It’s been a long day, Bear. Maybe next time,” Nash said slowly. Dani smiled apologetically from behind a yawn.

  “Next’s gig’s Tuesday. Empty Garden . . . it’s an Elton John tribute.”

  “Oh. Jeez. Maybe the time after that.” Nash gave a laugh. “Promise.”

  Bear turned to me.

  “Sorry, man. I gotta get back to the Night Kitchen and get a few things done.” Birthday festivities aside, my normal Sunday work schedule had taken a backseat the minute Dani walked into my shop.

  “I’m not even going to ask you.” Bear dismissed his sister. “You never want to go anywhere.”

  “Hello? Got a kid, remember?” Quinn said. “Speaking of which . . .”

  Logan was sneaking more chocolate and crackers, eating them sans marshmallow middle. The excitement of the day had worn him down; he wasn’t even trying to read lips and keep up with the conversation. Like any other ten-year-old, he was just trying to catch that last sugar high before crashing.

  “Go brush your teeth extra-well,” Quinn signed and spoke aloud to her son. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Logan made his way around the campfire, doling out knuckle bumps to everyone. I caught the signs he and Bear had used that morning for “cake,” right before Logan double fist-bumped me in thanks. “You’re welcome, buddy. My pleasure.”

  He turned to his mother. Fingers slashed through the air and elbows jabbed. Logan stole a glance at Nash, and Quinn gave him a Mom look that clearly meant we’ll talk about it in the morning. Logan’s shoulders slumped, and he gave a tired wave to everyone before trudging toward the house.

  Bear grinned. “See?” he said to Nash. “He totally likes his gift. He wanted you to teach him a few chords before bedtime.”

  “Classic stall move.” Quinn thrust her skewer into the fire, like a champion fencer going for the winning point with her foil.

  “If it wasn’t so late,” Nash said hastily. “We still have to drive to Philly. We haven’t even checked into our hotel yet.”

  “Hotel, schmotel. You should totally stay here,” Bear suggested.

  Holy hell.

  Dani’s marshmallow caught fire.

  Dani

  GUEST BEHAVIOR

  “Bear?” Quinn managed through gritted teeth. “A family consult first would be nice.”

  Embarrassment flamed my face and I felt about as crispy as my burnt marshmallow. I knew Bear meant well, but Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick, he was clueless. Quinn had all but rolled up the welcome mat when we arrived.

  Bear waved off his sister’s drama like he had heard it all before. “We’ve got tons of room here and this way, Logan can get to know his dad better. And vice versa. Isn’t that why he’s here?”

  Quinn narrowed her eyes and focused in on Nash. She had no camera to hide behind this time. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “He’s my kid. Yes. Dani and I . . .” Nash paused, and that was my cue to take up his hand. “We want to be a part of his life, and him to be a part of ours. Summer’s almost over and . . . I want to show him stuff. Like fishing and guitar . . . and maybe take him places, like the Philadelphia Zoo.”

  “Are you crazy? I don’t care that your girlfriend knows her ABC’s. You don’t speak his language. You haven’t given a rat’s ass to get to know anything about him for the last ten years! I wouldn’t let you cross the street with him, let alone the county line!”

  Bear laid a hand on his sister’s arm. “My point exactly. Why should Nash and Dani spend money on a hotel all the way in the city and keep driving back and forth?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” she sputtered. “He’s got tons of money to go blow on a beautiful suite at the Four Seasons.” Her finger jutted in the darkness toward the driveway. “He’s got a goddamn Porsche!”

  The Porsche belonged to Riggs, but neither of us commented. For all I knew, the guy I showed up with could have a garage full of them back home in L.A.

  Nash jutted his chin out. “That’s right. We are booked at the Four Seasons. It’s not like I counted on anyone keeping a light on for me in these parts.”

  I watched his eyes trail to the dark edges of the property, and wondered if it was the spot where his dad’s trailer had stood. Sure enough, he turned on Quinn. “I’ll bet you tore it down, didn’t you? Got rid of the old white trash eyesore?”

  “No,” Quinn said, but didn’t elaborate.

  “I converted it. It’s her darkroom,” Bear informed him. “She didn’t want all the chemicals in the house.”

  Nash laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks. “Perfect, Quinn! So perfect. Shut everything off and leave everyone in the dark, right?”

  Quinn ignored him, focusing on her brother instead. “I’m trying to run a business here, Bear.” Exasperation laced her voice. “Not a home for your wayward friends.” She waved her skewer toward Nash and Mick.

  Mick lived here, too? One glance in his direction, and I felt like someone had pulled my charred, brittle shell away, leaving nothing but that melted, sticky center. The vivid visions I’d had of his sex-den bachelor pad faded until they were as sheer as the lace curtains hanging in the Half Acre’s upstairs windows. Surely he did not entertain his women here?

  He stood, keeping his eyes on the fire. “I was just leaving.”

  “You’ve been saying that since you ran away from New Orleans, Mick,” Quinn accused. Hearing his name, and that city, dropping from someone else’s lips had a surreal feeling to it. “Yet here you are! At least you cook a decent breakfast. Which, by the way, Dani, is served from eight until ten.”

  She stomped off toward the house.

  “In case you didn’t know it, that was a yes,” Bear said with a grin. “I knew she’d cave.” He fished into his pocket and tossed something to Nash. “Back atcha, man.” Two keys clinked together. “Number twelve. Best room in the house.”

  Mick

  ALL-NIGHTER

  Holy hell. They always say “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” but I knew my willpower had no chance against that woman staying under the same roof as me.

  And knowing she was behind closed doors with Nash would surely kill me.

  I eased the Night Kitchen van through the still, dark New Hope night. Most people were probably home, vegging out in front of the TV or in bed by now. Or out on the make in ba
rs. Or in bars trying to make something of themselves, like Bear. Passing the tavern where his band would soon take the stage was like having a car speed past you with its radio blaring. The noise level rose, but only for an instant before I glided down the silent hill toward the bakery.

  The lights were on at the Night Kitchen. My team. They had started without me. I pushed open the door, the din shattering my thoughts about Nash and Dani. Soundgarden blared from the sound system, and trays banged in the back. Tom, my right-hand man, gave a wave from behind the huge mixer, which sounded like it was prepping cement rather than cake batter. The interior was the antithesis of night: fluorescent lighting, gleaming countertops, flour and sugar blinding white in shiny steel bowls.

  Sheena was the crumb-coat queen, only taking a break from prepping cakes to chug the iced coffee sweating on the counter beside her. Doris, a holdover from Sindy and Walt’s reign, was my supplier of Monday morning breakfast-to-go items: six kinds of croissants and muffins would be tucked into baskets, along with cinnamon buns cooling on the counter, by the time she left to curl up with her husband Ivan, who worked an overnight warehouse shift. And my aunt would be in bright and early to sample one of the goods before she hustled them into bags for her commuter crowd.

  But the night was still young, and it was mine. I was a rock star, and this was my arena. I wove through my team, who were all moving from one task to another without even asking me what I wanted them to do next. It was a seamless, relentless business, and we all loved it. I hauled a sack of flour in, contemplating what I would make Dani for breakfast.

  Dani

  INNER SANCTUM

  The room was charming, less stuffy Victorian and more rustic English cottage. Its walls were washed in a soothing pale gray, and the iron and brass king bed beckoned invitingly with its crisp linens of white and pale blue. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not a hint of chintz or a tassel to be found. The only throwback appeared to be a well-worn vintage velvet chesterfield sofa in an amazing olive green, nestled next to the fireplace. I ran my hands over its rolled arms, relishing each deep-buttoned tuft. Laney always joked about lying on my invisible psychiatrist’s couch, and this specimen appeared to have been plucked from her imagination and made to order.

  Nash kicked off his snakeskin boots and collapsed on the bed. “The inner sanctum,” he announced to the ceiling. Propping himself up on an elbow, he added for my benefit, “First time I’ve been allowed past the first floor.”

  “Are you okay with this?”

  “I should be asking you that.”

  I thought about the suite at the Four Seasons, sitting untouched, un-checked-in. With my own bedroom and turndown service. And the closet full of new-with-tags clothing from the finest stores in Rittenhouse Square, wifey-wear all purchased by Riggs’s assistant to prime me for this visit. Along with the spa appointments booked for my downtime, for when I wasn’t on the clock. Here I would have to be on the clock, keeping up appearances, at all times.

  Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, considering the fact that Mick Spencer had a bed under the same roof, somewhere within this grand old mansion.

  “How many rooms do you think they have here?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. Asking for separate rooms would raise a major flag.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll take the couch.”

  “Why?” Nash stretched his arms out like an eagle about to take flight. “More room on this king bed together than separately in the bunks on the bus.”

  He had a point. And had his mission been to take advantage of me, he’d had plenty of nights on the road in which to probably do that. The bed rustled invitingly as Nash nestled his head into the pillow and yawned.

  “You’re not going to sleep with your clothes on, are you?” I asked him.

  He lazily worked at the button fly of his jeans and wriggled until there was a pile of denim and balled-up socks on the floor. Guys. Even the high-maintenance types were slobs.

  My jeans were sticky with marshmallow goo, and the fire pit had infused my sheer blouse with its smoky smell. I made my way across the room and pawed through my backpack for a clean T-shirt to wear. “All right. Turn around.”

  “Oh please. You’ve seen—and touched—every part of my body, except for my junk.”

  True, I had massaged the buttocks of a rock star. I had pinched the man’s earlobes, for God’s sake. And dragged my fingers between each of his toes. Still, I shot him a pointed look.

  “Like I haven’t seen you naked before,” Nash scoffed.

  “Um, it’s a little different when you’re covered in glitter and airbrush paint,” I mumbled, modestly holding my nightshirt to my chest and blushing at the memory.

  “Funny, it takes the power of destiny and fate to bring some people together.” He grinned, pushing his hands behind his head, elbows out. “All we needed was a really strong ganja goo ball.”

  “That was not a goo ball.” I would’ve recognized it right away if it had been, and would not have touched its sticky-ass poison with a ten-foot pole. No, this was a huge, blue-ribbon-prize-at-the-fair-winning chewy cookie, sparkling with sugar and studded with luscious chocolate chunks. It looked like it had been baked with loving care by someone’s gingham-apron-wearing grandmother. Not by some junkie scientist, clarifying butter for baking with the strongest strain of cannabis on the planet and leaving it on a tour bus. When I saw the plate of them on the narrow counter of Nash’s bus that day, covered with plastic wrap and topped with a bow, for God’s sake, I couldn’t resist. I had been so good about sticking to my rule of no sweets after dark. What harm could come from eating this glorious cookie in the middle of broad daylight?

  I should’ve known. All baked goods were dangerous.

  Nash shifted to lay like Tut in the tomb, his arms tight across his chest and his hands clenched. I thought of all those CDs he’d signed earlier, his autograph spreading joy to hundreds who believed in his music like a newfound religion.

  I lowered myself gently on the bed next to him and ran my fingers between the grooves of his knuckles on one tight fist. He sighed, allowing me to take his forearm and lift it away from his chest. I studied the veins and tendons with a light touch, reading the guitarist’s arm like a road map, tuning in to subtle pulls and twists.

  In a gentle squeezing motion, I worked my hand down his arm, pulling as I went. It was a slow process, but my reward was the therapeutic pulse of heat as the tissue gave in to me. His hand went slack, and I began to milk his fingers, grasping, locking, and pulling down on each one. He gave a groan as I stretched his thumb, locking his elbow. I braced it and eased his pinky back to finish his left hand.

  “Thank you, China Doll.” His breathy praise was better than any tips in the jar. I smiled, cradling his head and massaging his neck before moving to his opposite side to begin the process all over.

  Nash was at his truest state when he was at his most vulnerable.

  • • •

  Lemon and maple sifted into my dreams. I snuggled into the stockpile of crisp pillows, relishing the rarity of waking up in a real bed after months on the road. Now this was hospitality. Despite Quinn’s chilly reception, her qualities as an innkeeper were top-notch. I gathered the Swiss-dot duvet closer to my chin, its just-off-the-clothesline fresh scent enveloping me. The silence was almost loud, with no sound of crew calls or load-ins. Threads of long, flaxen hair covered Nash’s face, and he was snoring lightly, his lips pursed like it was finally his turn to make wishes over birthday candles.

  I hoped he was being careful what he wished for.

  I propped myself on an elbow to study him. Headlining artists hit the stage after dark, so Nash had a moonlight tan at best. His bare shoulder looked pale against sheets of robin’s-egg blue. Maybe he’d get a little color while we were here for the week. I set a little reminder to have him show me around the grounds, and around town.

 
As I arched into a delicious stretch, the press of Mick’s fingers at the small of my back, guiding me through the party tent, came to mind so vividly that I gasped.

  This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.

  Nash’s challenge to his old friend had been an innocent joke yesterday. But if he knew my and Mick’s not-so-innocent history together . . .

  It’s all eyes on me, China Doll. I’m your world. Got it?

  I moved to push the hair off his forehead, but paused, thumb in the spot where his own hand rested during the party. Fingers splayed wide. Father.

  Nash was a dad.

  His son was adorable.

  We’re just one big happy family here, were Quinn’s words. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. Quinn was going to be a challenge.

  As was Mick.

  I sighed and looked at the bedside table clock. It was eight o’clock on the nose. What I considered “sleeping in” was what Laney called “an ungodly hour” or, more aptly, “ass o’clock in the morning.” Sharing an apartment with me and my up-and-at-’em habits must have been cruel and unusual punishment for her back in the day.

  Well, at least I wasn’t the only early riser in this house. Someone was whipping up something amazing in the kitchen. I doubted it was Mick, as I had heard his van crunch up the gravel and his tender footfalls in the hall as he passed by my door at about two A.M.

  Not that I had been listening for them or anything.

  The room transformed as daylight sifted through the casement windows. Last night it had been a cozy nook; now it was bursting with light and I could see it was actually quite large, taking up a corner of the house, with windows on two walls. We had a beautiful claw-foot tub in the bathroom that overlooked the orchard, and a skylight above it.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if Bear had given us the honeymoon suite.

  After ensconcing myself into a jog bra, I pulled my T-shirt back on, knotted it at the waist, and threw on a pair of running shorts. I could see paths snaking through the orchard that were perfect for a morning mile. Maybe Nash would be up by the time I got back, so I wouldn’t have to face the breakfast crowd alone.