Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  Dependability, respect, and the utmost professionalism while you work with the artists.

  “I can’t do this any longer.”

  “Dani, he gave it to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bear gave me the song. He didn’t want it after Angie Vega up and married some cholo to please her father. He vowed to never play it again, and told me to do with it what I pleased.”

  I heard Angie’s bitter query in my head: Hasn’t Nash taken enough from this town?

  “So you spun it into radio gold, and now he has to hear it every day of his life? How do you think that makes him feel? Or Angie, for that matter?”

  Now I wanted very badly to lay my hands on him. But I wanted to hurt him, not heal him. He was the faker. Just like the words he’d just sung. But the pain he had left in his wake was real.

  “I changed my mind. I want you to work on my front, not on my back today.”

  When I didn’t move, he made a motion to. My mind went into automatic work mode then. The comfort level and privacy of your client must be kept in mind at all times. I pressed my body against the top sheet, keeping it secure against the table. “You can turn over now,” I instructed. “Away from me.” The top sheet remained taut as he shifted, coming to rest on his back, and I saw tears glistening in his eyes.

  “I know,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t matter how many miles I log, or how many damn birds I tattoo on me.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and let the tears roll in hot rivulets to his ears. “There’s no going around it. I know what I put them through. And Quinn, too. I’m going to make it right, Dani.”

  “Well, that would be a bridge or two mended.” I took his hands in mine and smiled. “What about Quinn?”

  “Quinn’s a superhero mixed with a saint, wrapped up in a friend, inside a total MILF.” His description made me laugh. He sighed. “I need to tell her. Everything. But I’m scared I’ll lose her.”

  I didn’t know what to tell him. That was a chance he was going to have to take.

  Dani

  CAKE COURTSHIP

  The night of my tasting had arrived.

  Closed for Private Party, read a new sign on the Night Kitchen door in those curvy, eclectic letters, yet the heavy blue-black door yielded under my push. The only lights on were the night stars, twinkling on the sky of the ceiling.

  Mick was behind the counter, waiting. Leaning forward on locked arms.

  Bracing himself, for me.

  I think we both knew we were so far beyond the pretense of a bridal cake consult.

  “James, party of one?” His voice echoed richly through the empty, tall-ceilinged space.

  “Lead the way.”

  Two of the high-topped tables were pushed together, displaying an assortment of small square plates. Petit four–sized bites of unfrosted cake sat on the plates in neat little rows, arranged by color. Judging from their subtle hues, I guessed there had to be at least a dozen flavor possibilities. Tiny silver forks impaled each sample. Accompanying them were shot glasses filled with frostings, each with their own little demitasse spoon.

  It was after eight o’clock. And my sweet tooth was in trouble.

  Mick pulled out a chair for me like a waiter at a fancy restaurant. I felt his thumb tangle in one lone curl along the ridge of my collarbone and linger there, as he guided the chair in place.

  “Shall we start with the tame and move over to the more exotic?”

  “I’ll follow your lead.”

  “Who am I kidding? There’s nothing tame about my cakes.” Smiling that wicked smile, he sat down next to me and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt.

  “Yellow butter cake.” He picked up the first fork and swirled it with rich, velvety frosting. “With chocolate buttercream.”

  The fork was cold but his gaze was hot as he watched me devour the fresh, firm tidbit.

  “Simple. Classic . . . ,” I praised.

  “It’s missionary position with the lights out. Tired. Boring. Here, try.”

  He slathered the next cube of snow-white cake with a deep blushing cream, and pushed it past my lips. “White chocolate with raspberry,” he announced, as I gasped.

  The sweet richness of the white chocolate combined with the tart fruitiness seemed like a perfect choice for celebrating a union that touted “in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer” and all that jazz. Until he held up a deceptively ordinary-looking white-on-white sample.

  “Any guesses?”

  “Um . . . vanilla on vanilla?”

  Mick pretended to be highly offended. “Just for that, I don’t think you deserve to try this one.” He lifted the fork to his own mouth, then made a stealth U-turn and toppled it right onto my tongue as I laughed. Creamy coconut and tangy lime shocked my taste buds.

  “Did I just hear you moan?” he asked, incredulous . . . and looking incredibly pleased with himself.

  “Whatever happened to just plain, underrated vanilla?” I asked helplessly.

  He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers to his lips. One rogue brow arched playfully. “You don’t strike me as a classic vanilla.” I felt his knee brush mine. “You don’t kiss like you’re classic vanilla,” he added.

  “Like you’d remember how I kiss,” I challenged. “You’ve had a lot of . . . tastings since then, I’m sure.”

  “I’m pretty sure I remember everything about that night.” He manipulated a few strokes across the keyboard of his computer and the gentle jangle of guitars and tambourine began to play. “But refresh my memory.”

  I took his outstretched hand, and we began to move to Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You,” under the starry Night Kitchen sky.

  “You’re chocolate-bourbon cake with praline buttercream,” he murmured, as my forearms came to rest on his broad shoulders for the first time since leaving him in New Orleans. We danced with no masks, no disguises to hide behind.

  “You’re a tower of whisper-thin French crepes . . .” I shivered with delight as his fingertips ran lightly up the delicate undersides of my arms “. . . three hundred layers, filled with lavender-infused cream. You’re naked almond, with just a dusting of powdered sugar.” He breathed me in, nuzzling my neck.

  “Mick, you’re the only taste I’ve been craving.”

  Mick

  BUSINESS AND PLEASURE

  Her lips were the sweetest flavor, sweeping across mine. There was no way of duplicating that complex and heady mixture I’d first sampled in New Orleans with any recipe I knew of, but time had tested it. Enhanced it. Heightened my appreciation for it.

  “Girl, you’ve got some sweet voodoo, you know that?”

  “You bring it out in me.” She bit her lip. “What?” she wanted to know, as I just shook my head, in awe.

  “Your eyes.”

  “Yeah, they’re blue.” She gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “Nah, I’d say they’re a two-to-one ratio of royal with sky.” I was a serial color mixer; I had been for the better part of my life. I used to think there were more hues of color out there in the world than there were moods. But all the ways Dani made me feel . . .

  “I forgot how amazing they were at close range,” I whispered. She kept her eyes open as our noses gently bumped and I caught hold of her bottom lip in a soft tug-o’-war between both of my own. I felt her surrender, body blending to mine, and watched her face change in a hundred ways as she fell into my kiss.

  I had wished with my eyes open for once, and it finally had come true.

  • • •

  Headlights swept high across the rear wall of the Night Kitchen, and a car door slammed. Julia Morris’s husband hulked past the front windows toward the door, something large in his meaty hand.

  “Oh, shit. Dani. Baby, listen to me. Get in the back, behind the counter.”

&n
bsp; “Not Mrs. Vega again?” She fiddled with my collar, thinking I was playing.

  “I’m serious. Now.”

  She blinked as if coming out of a daze, and her eyes darted over mine, searching out the reason. As my hands dropped from her, she backed up. I cursed myself for not locking the door behind us, and considered making a run for the dead bolt now. Jimmy Morris had a short fuse and an assault record, and if he was lit up on Yuengling and Jäger shots, there was no reasoning with him.

  “Spencer.” His hulking form filled the doorway. It sounded like he had left his car running, which I couldn’t decide was a good or a bad sign. The bag he carried was a brown-handled Night Kitchen bag, heavy from the looks of it.

  “Hey, Jimmy. It’s a little late for making a return.”

  People say your life passes before your eyes at such dire and critical moments, but the only thing I saw was the number of times Julia came on to me, the obvious and wanton lust just there for the taking. But I never once did take her up on it. She fucked me with her eyes over the countertop of Wolkoff’s as we discussed serving sizes for her daughter’s First Communion cake before I had even left for New Orleans, and had all but propositioned me the night before her wedding to Jimmy, a second marriage for both of them roughly a year ago. And the offers had stacked up, layer upon layer, during the time since.

  “Yeah, I got a return for you, all right. You cocksucker.” Drink had definitely roughed up his voice, and he looked like he had been choosing booze instead of showering the past few days.

  “My loving wife told me she can’t fuck me without thinking about you. How’s that for a first anniversary gift? Huh?” With every word, his voice took on a manic curve, as he sidestepped closer to me. “And now, when I think about our wedding night, the happiest day of my goddamn life, how we took that cake of yours and fed it to each other? All I see is your goddamn jizz all over her face,” he hollered, “and she’s loving it!”

  “I never touched her, man. I swear on my life.”

  I knew Dani had heard every word in the back room, and I hoped to God she had called 911. Jimmy was a frequent flier with the local police, and surely they knew how to talk him down. Defuse the situation. The hell if I knew. I eyed the bag, trying to remember if he had a license to carry a concealed firearm. There was a shooting range just up the road and I had no doubt half the townies in Bucks County rode by my shop in their pickup trucks, locked and loaded.

  Jimmy laughed in a way that made my blood run cold. “You think it fucking matters, man?” He had tears trailing down into his grin turned grimace. “I can’t be with her, knowing that she is fantasizing about you.” His opposite hand swept into the bag, and it dropped away to the floor.

  In that split second, I recognized the top tier of his wedding cake. Unlike his vows, it had survived the elements, nestled next to the Hot Pockets and unidentifiable foil-wrapped leftovers in the family freezer for the last year. And I even remembered the flavor, too.

  With a roar, he lobbed the freezer-burnt cake at my head like a fondant rock. I ducked, and felt shards against my back as the entire glass display case to my right exploded.

  My only thought was Dani, whom I had sent back there for safety.

  The low moan of faraway sirens turned into a plaintive wail as two cruisers squealed to a stop in the middle of the street. I heard the shouts and the scuffle as Jimmy was subdued and restrained, but I focused every effort on finding Dani in the darkened back room. Shouted her name, blindly stumbling through the place I knew like the back of my hand, lost without her.

  “Mick.”

  She was crouched low behind two rolling racks. The utility lights above the back exit door accentuated the tears streaking her cheeks as she turned her face up to meet my gaze.

  “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s all right.” She held out a shaking hand, and I helped her up. “Nothing happened with Julia. You have to believe me.”

  “I know. Take me back to the Half Acre, please,” she said quietly. “I want to go home.”

  Dani

  HELP ON THE WAY

  It didn’t matter that Mick was telling the truth. He was still mixing business with pleasure and I just couldn’t. After all the chase and all the wanting . . . if I gave myself to him, I opened myself up to the danger that he may find the “having” not so pleasing as the “wanting.” I kept my distance, and didn’t visit him down at the bakery anymore.

  My wanderlust had started to dig at me once again. Especially since Bear had got Mean Mistress Mustard street-ready. And since Nash was doing so well.

  After testing the waters with Open School Night, Nash plunged headfirst into involving himself at Logan’s school. While Riggs’s list had suggested he donate some new equipment to the school’s computer lab, I had convinced him that the kids would remember an in-school music performance for far longer. It wasn’t long before Nash was performing at elementary and middle schools around the county, and talking to kids about caring for their communities. He seemed to genuinely enjoy it, and it didn’t appear that he had just pulled the short straw in the draw.

  With my help, he had also taken Quinn’s honey-do list of crap that needed to be done and spun it up to a whole new level. It extended far past running Logan to his various activities. Staying active was helping keep Nash’s AS flare-ups at bay, and it turned out, he had taken after his father when it came to home improvements.

  “The place is looking good,” Mick said one day, as he joined me for a jog through the orchard. “I didn’t know the old girl—or Nash—had it in ’em. I guess you guys want the place to look as nice as possible for the wedding, huh?”

  “That’s the plan,” I replied. But my mind hadn’t been on Nash’s and my nuptials for a while.

  My phone, tucked into the waistband of my running pants, jangled a text.

  WWDD if everyone in the world (and their mothers) was trying to plan her wedding for her?

  Poor Laney. She and her mother had come to a tentative truce back in Hawaii, and had been closer than they ever had before. But knowing Vera Hudson, there was no way she was able to keep her nose out or her mouth shut when it came to her daughter’s Big Day. Unless someone were to bind and gag her.

  I’d do something romantic as hell. I texted back.

  “What’s up?” Mick asked.

  “I’m channeling my inner Aunt Sindy, and giving wedding advice to my best friend.” I smiled as my fingers flew across the keypad. Lord knows I had learned enough from her about the self-uniting Quaker licenses that were unique to this part of the country.

  Got three days and two witnesses?

  I hate everyone. Except Noah. And you and Jax. Will you be my witness?

  The mention of Jax’s name flooded me with guilt, but I pressed on. This was about Laney. This was her day.

  Gladly. Just get your butt down here.

  “Everything okay?” Mick asked.

  “Yeah. If my friends come down here to get married next week, will you save a wedge o’ wedding cake for them?”

  “What are friends for? If not to help their friends,” Mick made a point of saying. I smiled gratefully.

  A VW bug rolled past the driveway, then backed up and tentatively crept up the gravel toward us.

  Mick leaned down and addressed the two giggling girls through their lowered car window. “You lost, ladies?”

  “Can you tell us how to get to the Half Acre Bed-and-Breakfast?”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “Oh my God!” The passenger had spotted Nash, shirtless and up on the ladder again. “Is that Nash Drama?”

  “Nope.” I smiled. “That’s the handyman. You can go see Quinn at the front desk to check in. I am sure Nash will make an appearance later.”

  By the beginning of October, the entire inn was occupied. The oracle of Bear had spoken the truth, apparently. Mick even moved ou
t, despite everyone’s protests, to the loft apartment above the Night Kitchen. “No excuses to be late for work,” he joked, but I couldn’t help wonder if it had something to do with me. He had even hired Angie, who had an interior design background, to help fix up the place. “But I promise to still make breakfast.”

  Bear continued to give tours of both the orchard, and all the childhood haunts of their favorite singer, although Quinn threatened him with bodily harm if he so much as walked them by the darkroom trailer.

  Nash, surprisingly enough, was not opposed to making conversation . . . as long as it didn’t take away from his quality time with Logan. The two got up early and shared a silent breakfast together, often forgoing Mick’s elaborate fare in favor of just PB&Js, before heading up to Logan’s room to work on scales. And that was on the weekdays, before the school bus even came.

  One morning, I noticed something was different the moment I got downstairs, and it wasn’t the fact that the entire dining room was buzzing with people. Logan was polishing off his customary PB&J for breakfast, but he was shirtless, and he had gel spiking up his normally tamed blond hair. Mick and Bear were bumping into each other and swearing in the kitchen.

  “What the fuck is that?” Bear asked. He towered over the kitchen island, wearing platform heels that added four inches to his already six-plus lanky frame. His hair appeared to have been ironed flat and looked two shades darker. He had more make-up on than a hooker, and he was frowning over a brown-bag lunch.

  “Logan loves chocolate pot de crème.” Mick tried peering into the bag, but Bear was hogging it.

  “Dude. I’m not sending my nephew to school with a foo-foo dessert in a fuckin’ ramekin. He’s gonna get beat up.”

  “You’re gonna get beat up if he misses the bus because his lunch isn’t ready.” Mick gave Bear a dark glare as he slam-dunked a baggie full of celery and carrot sticks into the paper sack.

  “Guys, what’s going on here?” I asked. “Where’s Quinn?”