Nothing Without You

by Monica Murphy

  The ultimate dream is to have an actual bakery with a glass case displaying the various cakes, cookies, and pies I create, along with breakfast pastries. Maybe I could offer up coffee, too. Keep it open through lunchtime and have sandwiches, paninis…

  Dreams. I have lots of them.

  “Hey, Maise.”

  I come to an abrupt stop when I see who’s standing in the middle of my tiny, cozy spot.

  Freaking Tucker.

  “What are you doing here?” I snap. His eyebrows lower in that glowering way of his, but I’m not deterred. “Please tell me Stella didn’t send you.”

  “Stella didn’t send me,” he says, frowning. “And is that any way to greet a potential client?”

  My mouth pops open. “Potential client?”

  “I made an appointment. With that handy appointment page you have on your website.”

  Wait. What? “You’re my three o’clock?” Oh my God. He used a fake name. I glance at my planner, where I wrote Nancy and Bob, 3 p.m.

  Nancy and Bob McCloud. Tucker’s parents.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Tucker nods in response to my question. Rubs his hand along his jaw, and I swear I can hear the rasping of his whiskers from here. Not that there’s a huge amount of distance between us. Remember what I said? About Cake Nation being small and cozy?

  Yeah. Tucker is anything but small, and he feels extra close. In fact, his mere presence is eating up all the space, and his overwhelming gravitational pull is tugging me in. Pulling me closer.

  I try my best to resist, but it’s difficult. Without thought, I step closer, until I’m standing directly in front of him, and I can smell his delicious, intoxicating scent.

  For a moment, I sort of forget about everything, and just enjoy the fact that Tucker is here. With me. In my place of business—the place of my dreams.

  But then I remember that he is my next potential client and I need to remain strictly business.

  “Why did you make an appointment using your parents’ names?” I ask him.

  “I need an anniversary cake.” He shrugs. “And I knew you wouldn’t meet with me if I said your appointment was with me.”

  He’s right about that, but I’m still a little confused. I blame Tucker. For existing. “Who do you need the anniversary cake for?”

  “My parents. Bob and Nancy.” He smiles, and it completely transforms his face. His smile is adorable, reminding me of a time when he was young and sweet and all mine. “They’re going to celebrate their fortieth not this weekend but the next one.”

  “Oh. Forty years? How wonderful.” I blink at him, then turn and sit on the pale blue velvet sofa, grabbing my planner and flipping it open. “Unfortunately, I have two weddings that weekend.”

  I’m trying my best to sound extra disappointed, but truthfully, I’m relieved that I’m not available to make and deliver that cake. The more distance between Tucker and me, the better. I don’t want him back in my life.

  He complicates things. Just by existing.

  “Are those two weddings on Saturday?” he asks just before he settles on the sofa.

  Right next to me.

  He’s so close, I can feel his body heat radiating, drawing me in.

  “Yes. Saturday.” I nod, feeling like a dummy. I wish he’d chosen the chair. He’s so close.

  Too close.

  “I know this is sort of last minute, but Georgia was talking about how great your cakes are, and Stella said we should ask if you’re available. Luckily for us, their anniversary party is on Sunday. Oh, and it’s a surprise, so you can’t tell anyone, especially Mom and Dad.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and turns his head, contemplating me. “Whatcha think? You up for it?”

  My logical brain screams, No! Don’t do it! Tell him to get the hell out of your business—and your life!

  But my heart…

  And my body…

  “Sure. I’ll do it,” I say with a tremulous smile.

  Yeah. My heart and body have different ideas.

  Chapter Four

  Tucker

  That smile Maisey is aiming at me is like an electric zing straight to my heart, amped up at full voltage. I take a deep breath and smile at her in return, ignoring my body’s instant reaction to her easy, sexy smile.

  Because damn, the woman is sexy. Maisey at sixteen had stolen my heart, but this version of Maisey could probably steal my damn soul if I don’t watch it. She smells amazing, and her eyes are so dark—full of mystery. Secrets I want to know. She’s curvy in all the right places, and she’s actually a business owner, which I happen to think is…

  Pretty hot.

  To be honest, I didn’t expect her ready agreement to make the cake for my parents’ anniversary party. I’d been fully prepared to hear a resounding no. And I wouldn’t blame her for refusing me, either. If she’s still pissed, which I think she might be, then I can’t change her feelings.

  But to harbor a grudge for that long has to mean something, am I right? My mama always said there’s a thin line between love and hate.

  “You’re serious about making their cake,” I say when I realize she’s waiting for me to respond.

  “I am.” She sighs, glances down at her planner, and starts writing something in one of the little squares. “I don’t know why, but I am.”

  “This is great, Maise. Really. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. How much my entire family appreciates it.” I sit up straighter, run a hand through my hair, my brain full of sudden, over-the-top cake ideas. Like maybe I want to impress her or something? As if I have cake decorating knowledge?

  Give me a break.

  But I plow ahead anyway.

  “For the cake, I was thinking something elaborate,” I start, noting how her delicate brows draw together just before she drops her gaze to her planner once more. She used to do that when we were together too, the eyebrow thing. Some things just don’t change. “A completely over-the-top themed cake to celebrate my parents. Married couples rarely make it to forty years, you know?”

  “True.” She pauses, turning to look at me with those huge, chocolate brown eyes. “How elaborate were you thinking?”

  “Maybe you can make tiers? Five of them?”

  Uh oh. She’s frowning. “Five?”

  “Maybe four,” I say in a rush, changing my tune. Maybe I’m asking for too much. “Four tiers to represent forty years. That’s a good idea, don’t you think?”

  Right? God, I know nothing about cakes. She’s the expert. I should let her do all the talking and planning. Or get my sisters in on it.

  They wanted in on it. Stella wanted to meet with Maisey without me and I refused. Half the point of me coming to this appointment was to talk to Maise. Like I’d hand it over to Stella to take care of?

  Get real.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a sheet cake. Maybe two? One to represent your mom and one for your dad? I guess it all depends on how many people you’re inviting to the party,” she suggests.

  “A sheet cake?” Boring. “And this party is going to be huge. We only came up with the party idea a few days ago, and we’re pretty much inviting the entire town.”

  “Of course you are,” she says dryly, setting her planner on the coffee table in front of us. “Give me a minute and let me go grab my portfolio. Hopefully you can get some inspiration from my previous work.”

  I watch her rise to her feet, openly ogling her as she walks away. She’s wearing a dress. Tiny white flowers on a red background, the skirt stopping just above her knees. The fabric hugs her curves in all the right places, emphasizing the perfection that is her ass, and my gaze lingers there. Remembers touching it. Walking the hallways at school with my hand firmly planted on it, as if I were staking my claim.

  And I was. Always so damn proud to call Maisey Henderson mine…

  Until I dumped her like a complete dumbass.

  What would’ve happened if we’d stayed together? Would we have
lasted? Maybe she would’ve followed me and we’d have gone to college together. Lived together. I might’ve asked her to marry me right before the NFL draft. Changing teams and cities would’ve been hard on her, but we could’ve made it work, as long as we had each other. Hell, if we’d stuck together, we could have a couple of kids by now. A girl who looks just like her and a wild little boy just like me—

  “Here you go.”

  I blink to find Maisey standing there, trying to hand me a white binder. I take it from her with clumsy hands—and I never have clumsy hands, it’s my job to catch fucking footballs for the love of God. I flick open the portfolio, my eyes widening when I see the photos laid out before me.

  Simple white frosted wedding cakes with fresh flowers winding a path down the tiers. A pale purple tiered cake dotted with delicate butterflies suspended by thin wire, appearing ready to take flight. Another white cake, two square tiers trimmed in gold leaf.

  I turn the pages slowly, remaining quiet as I take her work in. These aren’t just cakes, they’re like little works of art. Too beautiful to eat.

  Though I bet they taste damn good.

  “Your cakes…” My voice drifts as I keep flipping the pages, taking in the artistry, the variety, the smiling faces of the occasional bride and groom posing next to their cakes. Cakes Maisey created for their special days.

  “My cakes what?” she asks, and I hear the nervousness in her voice, catch the way she’s clutching her hands together in her lap when I glance up to find her sitting next to me on the couch once more.

  I didn’t even realize she’d sat down. I was too entranced with her photos.

  “They’re amazing,” I tell her, lifting my head so my gaze meets hers. I want her to know I mean what I say. “They’re like art.”

  Her cheeks flush and the pleased closed-mouth smile curling her lips makes me happy. “Thank you.”

  “I mean it. They’re beautiful. And I never think cake is beautiful.” I sort through the pages, searching for one cake in particular, slapping the page with my palm when I find it. “I think I want a cake like this for my parents.”

  She scoots closer to me, her hair brushing against my shoulder when she peers down at the page I’m indicating. The cake is constructed of three square tiers, frosted in white and gold and black. It’s something Mom would like, I just know it.

  “Art Deco style?” Maisey leans in, tapping the photo with her index finger. Her nail is short, and painted a pale pink. “Like The Great Gatsby? I loved that movie.”

  “My mom did too. She’s redone their bedroom over the years to have that mirrored look. Straight lines everywhere. Lots of gold.” An idea forms in my head. “Maybe we should make it a costume party.”

  “But I thought it was a surprise party?” She sits up straight, turning her head so her gaze meets mine once again, and our faces are so close.

  Almost kissing close.

  “I’m sure we can put something together without them knowing exactly what’s going on.” Maybe we can. Or maybe I can just sit here and stare at Maisey’s lips for the rest of the afternoon. They’re full and pink, formed in the slightest pout, and I remember her taste. How sweet her kisses were. How much I enjoyed kissing her.

  We did a lot of things when we were teenagers, but we never actually did the deed. I’ve kissed that mouth for hours, though. I bet all those hours add up to days. Weeks. Maybe even months.

  “Where’s the party at?” she asks, sounding the tiniest bit breathless.

  Like maybe my nearness is having as much of an effect on her as having her so close is on me.

  I mention the very hotel I’m staying at near the lake—it has a giant ballroom—and Maisey nods her approval, scooting away from me. Guess we’re back to business. “That’ll be perfect. Let me work on a sketch tonight and I’ll send it to you. Maybe via email?”

  “You can text it to me, if that works,” I suggest, wanting to get her number.

  She’s a little hesitant at first, but eventually she’s got my phone in her hands, adding her name and number to my contacts. I take the phone from her when she’s done, sending her the quickest text, and then she’s hustling me out of her little cake shop, the door closing with a firm slam behind me.

  I’m left standing on the sidewalk, blinking against the intense late afternoon sun, my head spinning, my body vibrating with need.

  Yeah. I’m not ready to go back to California yet. I have some unfinished business to attend to here in Cunningham Falls.

  And that unfinished business has everything to do with Maisey.

  Chapter Five

  Maisey

  “So.” Brooke leans against my kitchen counter, a wineglass dangling from her fingers. Her smile is smug, the smile of a woman who is happy, confident, and madly in love. “You haven’t filled me in on the details about your encounter with Tucker yesterday.”

  Ugh. I want to punch her in her too-happy face.

  Wait. That’s not true. I don’t want to hurt my sister. Finally she’s in a place in life where everything is going her way, and no one deserves it more than her. I would never admit this out loud, but I’m a little envious. Yeah, yeah, my life is good. I’m pleased with how quickly my business is growing. I have a cute duplex I rent and I’m saving money in the hopes to eventually expand my business and maybe, possibly buy a house someday soon. A little fixer-upper. Something cute and charming and all mine.

  But right now, those things are just…dreams. Future visions on my imaginary vision board.

  Hmmm. Maybe I should make a vision board. If you put it out there, eventually all of your dreams will come true—

  “Maise.” Brooke snaps her fingers right in front of my face, startling me.

  “What?” I blink at her, then blindly reach for my own wineglass to find that it’s empty.

  I immediately grab the wine bottle sitting nearby and pour myself another glass.

  “Your meeting. With Tucker. How did it go? What did he say? What did you say?” Clearly Brooke is repeating herself, and getting annoyed with me too.

  “How did you know I met with Tucker?”

  Brooke rolls her eyes. “You told me. Remember? Last night, via text?”

  “Oh. Right.” I nod, like I know what I’m talking about, but deep down, I’m a little confused. Still blown away by the fact that Tucker made an appointment with me yesterday, and how…pleasant it turned out, to sit and talk with him.

  I’d felt such pride when he studied the photos of my cakes with awe. His compliments were the perfect balm to my bruised ego, because I can’t help but feel a little bruised and beat up in Tucker’s presence. He hurt me so badly all those years ago with his callous ways, how easily he broke up with me, and while the sting has definitely faded over the years, I still sort of hate him for what he did.

  Though hate is such a strong word. One I don’t like to use unless I really, really mean it. And when it comes to Tucker, I don’t really hate him.

  No way could I ever hate him…

  “He was perfectly nice,” I tell her when I see she’s anxiously waiting for me to give her more details. “I thought it was sweet, how much he cares about his parents and their anniversary.”

  “So this meeting wasn’t a ruse to spend time with you?” Brooke raises her brows.

  I shake my head. “No, not at all. He is clearly planning a party for his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, and somehow he’s the one stuck with getting the cake.”

  “I would bet big money he requested that job,” Brooke says dryly.

  “Maybe.” I shrug. Take a sip of my wine. “Maybe not.”

  He probably did. He seemed very eager to get my phone number. I never did send him any renderings of the possible cake, but I did work on it this morning.

  And this afternoon.

  Yet it’s still not right, and now I’m frustrated. When Brooke texted me earlier asking if she could come over with a bottle of wine, I practically begged her to get here ASAP.

  I
needed the wine. And the company.

  “You are being way too nonchalant about this entire thing,” Brooke accuses and her words trigger something inside of me buried deep.

  Making me explode.

  “Nonchalant? Tell me how I should act then. Should I slobber all over him and beg him to take me back?” I toss out, my voice edged with anger.

  Now it’s Brooke’s turn to blink at me. “Well…no. Definitely not.”

  “Okay. So should I be cold and rude to him, and tell him to stay the hell out of my life?” I ask.

  “Well…no. You probably shouldn’t do that either.”

  “Right. So meeting with him like we’re two logical adults about to do business with each other is the way I should handle it, am I right?” When she nods mutely, I smile in triumph. “Then quit giving me shit over this. I don’t know how else to handle Tucker.”

  “If he looks as good in person as he does on the TV screen, then I can think of a few extra special ways you could handle Tucker,” Brooke says sarcastically, waggling her eyebrows at me.

  “Please. He’s not interested in me that way.” I shake my head, perking up when I hear a notification. I move closer to the sink, where I left my phone, and pick it up to see I have a text.

  From Tucker.

  Like he could feel me talking about him. Thinking about him.

  How’s the cake design coming?

  I should’ve texted him first and given an update. Now I feel unprofessional.

  I should have something for you to look at by tomorrow! Sorry I didn’t text anything last night.

  I chew on my lip, thinking up the right thing to say.

  I’ve been busy.

  Lame, but he’ll probably buy it.

  No problem, he says seconds later. Can’t wait to see what you come up with.

  The pressure is on. I do not want to disappoint him.