Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  Don’t blame me for leaving

  Blame the time, the place, the night

  How was I to know

  Without warning

  Something would start to feel so right

  Logan took turns strumming, signing the words, and smiling at us. The crazy thing was, it sounded like a song. And even crazier, the lyrics weren’t written in Nash’s handwriting. They were written in Quinn’s.

  My mind raced. It was always my first instinct to blame Nash for everything, and not trust him as far as I could kick him. But Quinn? Was she sneaking off with him on the sly? And here I had pushed them together, during that stupid double date and after, begging her to spend as much time as possible with her son’s father so I could have more time with Dani.

  I tapped the cover of the journal questioningly. Logan gave me an innocent shrug. Every room had a journal, even those occupied by the inn’s regular residents. I rarely used mine, only to jot down a design idea or dessert recipe. Bear probably used his to keep track of his tribute itinerary. Logan’s, of course, had become our secret communication handbook. I had no doubt that Quinn normally kept her journal under lock and key, probably under the mattress of her Teen Dream canopy bed. I handed the book to Logan and pointed up the stairs, indicating he should put it back where he found it. He began his trudge up the stairs.

  Dani was at the computer for guests’ use that sat in the nook under the spiral stairs. Corn silk curls fell before her eyes as she leaned over the keyboard. I tucked a lock behind her ear, watching as the screen lit up her eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “What’s up?”

  “‘Si Nos Dejan’ . . . Bear’s song tonight? It’s a traditional proposal song.” Now the screen was reflected in her tear-filled eyes. A smile slipped out from behind her hand. “It’s known to have the most romantic lyrics and melody you will ever hear in a song . . . according to Wikipedia.”

  “Well now, gotta trust the divine oracle of Wikipedia,” I joked. “Si Nos Dejan . . . What’s that translate to?” The height of my Spanish language exposure was circa tenth grade and pretty rusty.

  “If They Allow Us,” Dani said softly, clicking the Internet browser closed. The words, on her lips, sounded like the most beautiful and forlorn thing. Her eyes were shaded a melancholy blue as I wrapped my arms around her.

  “It kills me to listen to you and Nash make love, night after night, knowing what I know,” I blurted.

  Dani’s angelic eyebrows rose. “And what’s that?”

  “That Nash has no intention of marrying you.”

  “And?” She didn’t bat an eye.

  “And that the evening you spent with me in New Orleans meant way more than you’re letting on.”

  “Ah.” Dani stood up and moved toward the stairs. “Follow me, I want to show you something.” There was no flirtation in her voice. “Well?”

  I followed her up the spiraling staircase. She raised her brows at me as she pushed open the door to her room.

  “Olive!” The Half Acre’s most elusive resident was perched in the middle of the bed, not a care in the world. When she saw me, she gave a mew and rolled over on her back, one paw up in the air like she wanted a high five. “You furry little traitor!”

  Dani smirked. “She’s been sleeping with me every night.”

  “Lucky cat.”

  I’d been in room number twelve before, but not since she and Nash began . . . occupying it. Still, it looked the same as I remembered. King bed. Old couch. And a great view of the river and orchard. Dani slowly eased the engagement ring off her finger and set it on the nightstand. I moved to the window and peered out at the view illuminated by the moon, my memory conjuring up the voices of children as they wove between the trees.

  Mick the Spic!

  Stewie Nash is trailer trash!

  Nash, Bear, and I would scurry up the slats nailed to the big maple and hunker down on the wooden platform wedged between the branches. We’d throw rotten apples from our arsenal, pelting Queen Quinn and her friends, to drive them out of the orchard. Get out! No girls allowed!

  And in later years, when Bear would pin his sister to the garden gate and let us kiss her through the scrollwork. Punishment for some wrong she had inflicted upon him at the time. Cooties! she’d yell, kicking at our shins under the gate with all she had.

  It was easier when it had simply been boys against girls. Now things were far more complicated.

  Dani’s hand slipped under my shirt, and I felt her lips brush the back of my neck. “Come to the bed,” she hushed into my ear, sending ripples of pleasure through me. She broke away and walked to the edge of it. I followed, picking up the ring between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Did you know that, traditionally, a bride used to pass tiny, fortune-blessed morsels of cake to guests through her own wedding ring?” I held it close between us as I inspected it, matching her stare through the small platinum band.

  Her lips parted as her gaze dropped to my mouth. “No more stories,” she whispered, pulling the ring from my hand and setting it down again. I reached for her. She shook her head, stepping behind me. “Shirt off. Facedown, please.”

  I slowly peeled my shirt off, and lowered myself down.

  “This,” she said softly, straddling the backs of my thighs, “is what I do with Nash, up here in this room.”

  I felt an elbow dig deep into a knot between my shoulder blades, eliciting a moan from me that vibrated through my skull. Sweet pain and agonizing pleasure buzzed through every nerve ending.

  “What do you think of that?” Humor laced her tone, followed by a satisfied click of her tongue as the knot in my muscle dissolved under her touch and she attacked another one.

  “I think those elbows are lethal weapons,” I managed.

  “Yep. Registered weapons in ten different states.” She cooed close to my ear as she moved firm, warm hands over my shoulders. “How’s the old baker’s arm?”

  I laughed. “You tell me.” Hours spent lifting, kneading, whisking, folding, and cake decorating were murder on the shoulders.

  “Ice is your friend, especially with repetitive motion strain. And so is a good massage therapist.” Her fingers gently kneaded the past twelve hours of work out of my joints and my mind.

  “Oh yeah, right there. Don’t stop.” I groaned loud enough to shake the apples from the trees outside. I realized how it sounded, but I didn’t care. “Nash is a lucky bastard.”

  “Nash is a friend,” she began slowly, “who happened to need a good massage therapist. And an unusual favor.” Pressure eased as she raised herself slightly, giving me the advantage to rotate quickly, still beneath her. God, she was gorgeous. My thumb grazed the bottom of her lip, tracing its troubled path.

  “I don’t mix business with pleasure, Spencer.”

  It was the first time she had called me that, since the day Nash introduced us. Not that we had needed an introduction. Her body, her voice, her laughter had been etched deep below the smooth, shallow surface she and I had been skating on since she arrived in New Hope. Grooves with no end, constantly spinning through my thoughts and emotions. Like a beautiful song that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, yet I couldn’t stop humming its tune.

  “I don’t understand.”

  There was a shimmer in the satin ice of her eyes as she blinked to stave off the tears. “I know. And I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. I never would’ve agreed . . . never would’ve even come here if I had known you—”

  “Shhh, no. Don’t say that.” My fingertips brushed the feathery curls falling over her cheeks as she slowly shook her head. “Dani.”

  Her hands braced my shoulders, and just as I rose to her touch, she pushed off the bed and stood. My shirt was handed to me at the door.

  “I can’t mix business with pleasure.”

  Dani

  POLVORONE PALS<
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  A repentant Angie blew into the bakery in a cloud of perfume and a clack of high heels. “God. My mother.” She covered her eyes with her hands, those long red nails mingling with her wavy black bangs. “I’m so embarrassed, Mick. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy to show you. You remember Dani, right? From mariachi night? She’s here to learn, too.”

  Angie flashed me a bright smile. “Of course.”

  Within minutes, Mick had us in aprons and up to our elbows in confectioner’s sugar and ground pecans.

  “So you’re staying with my Bear, then?” she asked. I liked that she was so fondly and unabashedly possessive. “At the Half Acre?”

  “Yes, for a little while longer. Just until Nash gets his award,” I explained. I wasn’t sure how much Bear spoke about family dynamics in mixed company, but I figured basic was better.

  Angie’s smile hardened. “Hasn’t Nash taken enough from this town?”

  I winced; there really weren’t a lot of members in the Nash Drama fan club.

  “Here.” Mick interrupted us, placing a huge bowl of flour in front of us. “Dani, cut the butter and add it to the flour in chunks. Angie, get in there with your hands and mix it. Don’t break a nail.”

  Angie smirked and flipped a plastic-gloved middle finger in his direction. We got back to work, no choice but to make nice in such forced proximity.

  “So, you’ve known Bear a long time, then?” I ventured.

  Angie’s long lashes fanned against the tops of her cheeks as she smiled down into the bowl. “Since the ninth grade. He was always so sweet to me. But my dad was pretty strict.” She sighed, plunging her hands in the flaky, crumbly dough. “Bear didn’t give up, though. He always held that candle for me. And the feeling was very, very mutual.”

  I smiled, thinking of Bear telling me back at the garage about swallows mating for life, as he had nibbled thoughtfully on one of “Angie’s” cookies.

  “We even went to prom together. Finally, my father gave just that little bit.” She emphasized with her sticky thumb and her index finger. “Bear was so excited. He even got Old Man Jenkins to loan him his antique Rolls-Royce for the night.”

  Her words played out like a movie in my head, and I pictured a young Bear and Angie, dressed to the nines, sliding into the fanciest car. Nostalgia washed over me as I remembered heading to prom with Jax in that sleek, sexy white Lotus on loan from his family. It was followed by a wave of sadness so profound, I had to stop what I was doing.

  I missed my beautiful friend.

  Jax hadn’t deserved the horrible treatment I had given him.

  “Here. You have a turn squishing the dough.” Angie offered up her spot in front of the large bowl. “It feels so good under your fingers.”

  She was right; diving into the butter and flour mixture was very therapeutic.

  “Of course, the crazy car was so old, it broke down on the way home. Bear tried everything to get it started, but we were out on this deserted road and couldn’t get a jump”—her laugh turned sultry at the memory—“so we just passed the time, if you know what I mean.”

  “Wow, go Bear!” I giggled, and she jostled me like Laney would’ve, had we been kissing and telling back in high school.

  “He even wrote me a song that night . . .” She sighed at the memory. “The sweetest song. It broke my heart to have to walk away. But at the time? Family.” She knocked her fist sadly to her heart. “I was late coming home, and my dad threw a holy fit. I was forbidden to see Bear after that, or any of the Bradleys.”

  She turned toward the walk-in to make sure Mick wasn’t in earshot. “You know, my mom and Mick’s mom were neighbors. The Latina girls in this town, they all stuck up for each other back then. Didn’t matter if they were Mexican, Puerto Rican, younger, older . . . my mom was like a big sister to her. She always said . . .”

  Angie drifted off as Mick came back for the next step. He stood at my side, guiding me as I sifted the powdery pecan sugar mixture into the dough. I loved watching his strong, tan arms strain, and the way the dark hair curled at his wrists. I was so distracted, I almost lost half the mixture to the floor.

  “Can’t take you ladies anywhere, can I?” His teasing was affectionate, but the sexy arch of his brow was directed solely at me. My hands might’ve been covered in Mexican wedding cake dough, but my belly felt full of Mexican jumping beans.

  “Nope,” Angie said. “Just leave us be in the kitchen, Mick. Shoo.”

  He gave us scooping instructions and did indeed leave us alone, and with just the rest of the kitchen staff bustling behind us, Angie continued her story.

  “My mother always said the Bradleys had too many skeletons in their closet. And after the fire, well . . . too many ghosts in their river.”

  I rolled a ball of dough in quiet contemplation, thinking about Mick confronting Quinn and Bear’s dad. The guilt that must’ve followed him, after mustering up such courage, was a heartbreaking thought.

  Together, Angie and I placed ball after ball of the dough on cookie sheets Mick had provided, giving each a gentle tap, and into the oven they went.

  “Well, Boss,” Angie demanded, as Mick pulled one of our golden brown baked goods from a cooling tray and nipped it with gusto.

  Lucky cookie.

  “Airy, buttery . . . slight crunch,” he noted, dropping the rest onto his tongue. “Mmm. You ladies must’ve had a great teacher.”

  Angie gave him a one-two punch while sneaking a cookie sample to try. “Want one, Dani?”

  “Not so fast,” Mick said. He had shakers of confectioner’s sugar in his hands. “Go ahead, go wild,” he advised, as we showered them with an extra dusting of powdered sugar. “These cookies can take it. Now, try.”

  Angie and I paused, cookies held poised at our respective mouths, and both bit down at the same time. The customers up front must’ve assumed a three-way was in progress, given the groans of satisfaction.

  “Tastes better when you make it yourself, eh, Angie?”

  “And easier than I thought,” she agreed. “I wonder why my mother’s always fall flat, then?”

  “Too much butter. And I’m pretty sure she overworks the dough,” Mick ventured a guess.

  Angie smirked. “My mother? Overworking, and fussing too much over something? You don’t say.”

  We boxed up some of our handiwork, and Mick had his staff plate the rest for today’s offerings behind the glass displays. “I think I’m going to bring mine to Bear,” Angie said, twirling her white box by its candy cane bakery twine. “I’ll give you a ride, Dani. But first . . .” She blinked confectioner’s sugar off the mascara lengthening her lashes and laughed, “I think a trip to the powder room to de-powder myself is in order.”

  I turned to Mick. “Thanks for the baking lesson.”

  “Don’t think this gets you off the hook, you know. We still have a tasting to do.”

  I pressed my lips into a sheepish smirk, and he pushed his flat, black bakers’ toque back a bit with his hand. “You know what I think?” he added.

  “What?”

  “I think you’re dragging your heels picking out a cake because you don’t really want to marry Nash.”

  “Really. Well maybe I haven’t picked out a cake yet because I want to keep spending time with you.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really.”

  “So . . . you want to marry Nash then, and spend time with me?” He grabbed an order form from the counter next to him.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “My point proven,” he said smugly, placing pencil to paper.

  I laughed. “Your point is broken.”

  He mock frowned at the pencil. “Okay, so you’re right about one thing.” He tossed it, and the order form, onto the counter. “But this charm you pulled from your sister’s cake?”
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  I held my breath; his fingers had found an excuse to fondle the bit of silver gracing my neck. “What about it?”

  “I don’t think it means you’ll be the next to marry.”

  “No?”

  “No. There’s usually—and there probably was—a ring charm. I think pulling the cake charm meant you were destined to meet a baker.”

  • • •

  I paused outside the door of room number twelve. I could hear the chords of the song Nash had been working on with Logan. Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob.

  Nash was by himself, a pair of noise-canceling headphones on. He was strumming with his eyes closed, his lips moving slight but silent. I wondered if he could, like Bear had said, “feel” the music. He began singing louder, adding a new verse to the song I hadn’t heard before.

  Faking your way

  Leading me along

  Dying each day

  As I sing you my song

  He seemed to feel my presence, as he soon opened his eyes and stopped playing. Slowly, he pulled off the headphones.

  “‘Jumpstart My Heart’ . . . that wasn’t your biggest hit, was it? It was Bear’s song.”

  Nash set his guitar into its velvet-lined case with the gentleness of a lover, snapped it shut, and turned to me. “So what if it was?”

  “So?” I sputtered at his inability to grasp the significance of the situation. “You took a song that some guy poured his heart and soul into, and passed it off as your own? And made thousands . . . I don’t know, maybe millions of dollars on it?”

  “Go on.” He pulled his shirt over his head, and shucked off his pants. “I’m listening.”

  I watched, incredulous, as he climbed right up between the sheets on the massage table and lay down on his belly. Reaching back, he yanked the top sheet over his glutes and a moment later, his boxers fell to the floor.

  Something caught my eye and I stepped closer. He had added a second blue swallow to his opposite shoulder, just like he had said he wanted to, early on.

  Nash did whatever he wanted.

  The new tattoo was still raw and red. I had half a mind to rake my fingernails over its fresh ink to show him what I thought of it. But I couldn’t.