by Mia Sosa
I suppose I should throw away all my preconceived notions about Lina’s clients. I’d been expecting a bride, but I can now see how antiquated my default thinking is. “So, tell me about Mr. Sands.”
“Mr. Sands—Dillon—is the groom, and we’re here to select his groom’s cake. His bride refused to attend because Dillon’s the most indecisive person on the planet, which means this is sure to be an exercise in patience. Dillon is also the most self-aware person I’ve ever met, so he’ll readily admit to his flaws.”
I settle back into my chair. “That’s a useful summary. Is this something you regularly do for your clients?”
“Cake tastings? Absolutely. I’m here to remind them that their guests might not appreciate a jelly-filled concoction with peanut crumbles and key lime frosting. You wouldn’t believe what people would offer if I didn’t point out that berries are seasonal or that many people have allergies.”
“Why does a groom need his own cake anyway?”
She shakes her head. “Because at some moment in time a groom felt slighted by all the wedding traditions focused on the bride and decided that even in the context of marriage, he was duty-bound to carve out a new tradition that catered solely to him.”
I raise a brow at her succinct explanation. “Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you.”
Lina presses her lips together to avoid smiling. “I can’t. I left my PowerPoint on the injustice of the wedding patriarchy on my office desktop.”
She’s teasing—and I like it. More than I should, probably. I get the sense there’s a whole other person to discover, and I’m intrigued by the flashes of personality peeking through her no-nonsense exterior.
“Oh, there’s something else you should know,” she says.
Get back on track, Hartley. “What’s that?”
“Dillon won’t be able to decide on a cake flavor without a second opinion, but I can’t really help him. Lactose intolerance is such a pain. If you’re up for it, maybe you could offer to be his second taste tester?”
I make a big show of cracking my knuckles. “You’ve picked the perfect person for the task. I can eat cake all day, every day.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
Before I can think too hard about the message in those expressive eyes of hers, Dillon Sands arrives, reminding me that in a few minutes, I’ll be stuffing myself with cake as part of a work assignment. How fucking cool is that?
Chapter Ten
Lina
“I don’t know, Max. Marble’s not my favorite,” Dillon says. “What do you think?”
Max’s head snaps back as though my client slapped him. “How could you not like marble? It’s perfection on a plate.” To emphasize his point, he cuts into his slice with a fork and brings the piece to his mouth as if the fork’s riding a roller coaster.
He’s having way too much fun with this—and that was never the goal.
These men have tried eight different cake-and-frosting combinations and are showing no signs that the tasting is getting to them. Note to self: Men are pigs.
“Hey, Dillon, guess what I’m doing?” Max asks. His eyes are droopy and he appears cake drunk.
Dillon isn’t much better off. His left arm is carelessly draped against the back of his wheelchair as he fans himself. “What are you doing, dude?”
Max devours another forkful of the marble cake. “I’m having my cake and eating it, too.”
Dillon stares at him, until he doubles over in silent laughter, probably because there’s frosting stuck to his vocal cords.
I fail to see the joke. Is this a guy thing? Or does overconsumption of cake negatively affect your brain cells?
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I say, rising from my seat in a huff. “Excuse me.” After exiting the stall and washing my hands, I take a quick look in the mirror above the sink and reapply my lipstick as I ponder what went wrong. This was supposed to go one of two ways: Behind door number one, Max would decline to taste-test the cakes, in which case watching Dillon try more than a dozen cake-and-frosting combos would annoy him to no end. I was there when Dillon selected a style for the groomsmen’s boutonnieres, and it took three hours; I wanted that experience for Max. Badly. Behind door number two, Max would eat his body weight in cake and forever regret the day he walked through the doors of the Sugar Shoppe. But he’s happily shoveling cake into his mouth, completely undisturbed by the sugar and fat he’s consuming.
He’s depriving me of either of the outcomes I’d hoped for, and I want to stamp my foot at the injustice of it all. Maybe I’m not cut out for wicked games. Fair enough, then. I’ll find some other way to extract my petty revenge on Max Hartley.
When I return, Dillon’s slumped back against his wheelchair, and Max’s forehead is resting on the table. The tablecloth is riddled with cake carcass.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “What did I miss?”
Max groans. “He bought a few cakes and challenged me to a cake-eating contest.”
I stare at the disheveled heaps in front of me. “You both lost, I see.”
Dillon opens an eye. “On the contrary, I won. Full disclosure: I hold the record in college for eating the most hot dogs in a three-minute period.”
With his head still pressed against the table, Max whimpers. “That’s information I could have used three minutes ago.”
I mentally give myself a fist bump. This is not how I expected Max’s suffering to come about, but I’ll take it. Felled by his own competitive spirit; that’ll teach him.
“Did you at least settle on a flavor-and-frosting combo?” I ask Dillon.
With his head thrown back, my client tries to nod. “I’m going with the chocolate cappuccino torte. And the butter pound cake for guests who don’t eat chocolate.”
“That sounds fantastic,” I say. “Tricia will be so pleased.”
“Well, if that’s all you need from me,” Dillon says as he rubs his belly, “I’m going to head back to the office.”
Max raises his head long enough to shake Dillon’s hand. “Great to meet you, man. I hope your wedding is everything you and Tricia want it to be.”
Dillon smiles. “Thanks. With Lina at the helm, I have no doubt it’ll be amazing.”
And with my client gone, I’m free to needle Max. Humming my contentment, I take the seat next to him and lean toward his ear. “How you doin’ over there, champ?”
Max falls back over and rests one cheek on the table, his face in my line of sight. “I’m so warm. So full. So bloated.” He ekes out the words in a scratchy voice. “I don’t think I want to eat another piece of cake ever again.”
“Not even marble with buttercream frosting?” I say, unable to hide my amusement.
He shuts his eyes tightly and pretends to cry. “Not even that one.”
He’s adorable. Absolutely adorable. No. Wait. I’m trying to torture him. This isn’t supposed to be cute. But it is, dammit. How could it not be? He looks like a drunk chipmunk. A stunningly handsome drunk chipmunk, but still.
“Should I order you a Lyft or something?” I ask. “Or call 9-1-1?”
He slowly raises his torso and rakes a hand through his dark hair, scrunching his nose as he tries to get his bearings. “Nah, I’ll live. I’ve survived malagueta peppers, remember?” Then he swings his body to face me and wipes his mouth. “Do I look like I just ate five pounds of cake?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Actually, you do. There’s also cake in your eyebrows and on your cheek.”
“Shit, I’m a mess,” he says, fussing with his brows to shake out the crumbs burrowed in there.
“Here, let me,” I say, flicking at his brows with my pinkie fingers. When he juts his chin out to give me better access, I can’t help noticing the gold flecks in his brown eyes. And that’s when I realize he’s a little too close, and my hands are on him, and this isn’t how we’re supposed to interact with each other. But I don’t stop. Because all I want to do is trace m
y fingers across his brows, down the sides of his face, over his lips, and this is the closest I’ll come to doing any of that without him thinking I’m a creeper.
He licks off a crumb at the corner of his mouth, and my gaze snaps to his. His intense stare isn’t hard to read.
Do it, his eyes say.
I want to. I could. Just a few inches separate our mouths.
But wait. What the hell is going on? Why am I even contemplating this? I immediately scoot back, the scrape of my chair echoing through the bakery as though it’s warning me that I nearly crossed an invisible line.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice strained.
“Of course.” I brush off my hands, and when I’m satisfied they’re crumb-free, I continue to avoid Max’s probing gaze by fishing through my purse. “I just remembered another appointment. If I’m going to make it there on time, I should get going.”
He shakes his head. “Right. I, uh, I should get going, too.”
Using my peripheral vision, I watch him smooth his hands down his thighs and give them a hard pat before he slowly rises from his chair.
“You’re probably leaving this place ten pounds heavier,” I quip, hoping to break the growing tension between us. Frankly, I want it to go back to wherever it came from. It isn’t welcome.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he says, his eyes flickering with good humor.
“Oh, before I forget,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I can’t leave here without getting a few of their milk chocolate truffles. They remind me of the brigadeiros my mother and aunts sell at their store.”
He walks with me to the counter, his steps less bouncy than they were when he first arrived. “They own a store?”
“Yeah, mostly Brazilian goods. But it’s a mishmash of items. I used to kid them about it all the time. Jokingly renamed the place Food, Flip-flops, and Flooring. They were not amused.” To the woman at the counter, I say, “Four milk chocolate truffles, please.”
After I’ve paid and she’s handed them to me in a small white bag, I eagerly remove one of the truffles and bite into it. I roll my eyes as I chew, not bothering to finish before I speak. “So good.”
Max studies me as I eat, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Wait a minute. I thought you said you’re lactose intolerant.”
I finish the truffle and lick my lips. “I never said I was lactose intolerant.”
“Yes, you did,” he says, his eyes widening as he stares at me incredulously. “That’s why you asked me to be Dillon’s second taste tester. And that’s why I’m feeling like someone’s kneading my stomach with a rolling pin as we speak.”
I shake my head. “No, all I said was that I couldn’t help him choose a cake. And I mentioned that lactose intolerance is a pain. And it is.” I shrug. “For the people who suffer from it, I suppose. Besides, you watched me eat a ton of chocolate for dessert when we met for lunch. I can’t help it if you jumped to a conclusion.”
With his head cocked, he licks the front of his teeth and nods as though he’s seeing me with fresh eyes. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Ms. Santos, but let’s not lose sight of the big picture. If we get this pitch right, by working together rather than at cross-purposes, a dream job—your words, not mine—awaits. It’d probably do you some good to remember that fact if you’re still hell-bent on pranking me.”
He isn’t telling me anything I’m not fully aware of. But I must admit, I haven’t had this much fun doing my job in a long time. Besides, preparing the pitch and pestering Max needn’t be mutually exclusive. I can see Natalia’s point now. What’s he going to do anyway? Tell on me? And to whom? Giving him the broadest smile imaginable, I roll up my bag of truffles and wink at him. “Thanks for the reminder, Max. But don’t worry. I’m in full control of the situation.”
As I precede him through the door, he says, “Some people eat cake. Others eat their words.”
I turn my head and pin him with a humorless stare. “Is that a threat of some kind, Max?”
He places a palm on his chest and scoffs. “I’d never.”
The haughty tone he injects into his voice is a nice touch, I’ll give him that. But he’s wrong. There’s no way I’m eating my words. I will retain control over the situation. Neither of the Brothers Karafuckoff will ever get the best of me again.
Chapter Eleven
Max
“Heads up, dude!”
Too late. The basketball hits the back of my head with a thwap that makes everyone on the court turn in my direction and wince sympathetically. “Fuck.” I lean over, clutching the spot I already know will be sore the rest of the week.
My best friend, Dean, jogs over to me. “Damn, man, you okay?”
I straighten and shake out my limbs. “I’m fine.”
Dean angles his head as he scrutinizes me, a look of suspicion dominating his sweaty face. “What’s going on with you today? You’ve been in your head this whole time. These guys will smoke you if you’re not on top of your game, and you’re at the bottom. Way bottom.”
He’s right. My brain’s so scattered I’m useless on the court. “I’m calling it quits.”
Dean walks over to the guys hovering nearby and lets them know we’ll no longer be playing. They readjust to a four-on-four game before we even leave the gym. We’re at the Columbia Heights Community Center, a place we frequent when we’re in the mood for a quick pickup game. I’m not the best player, but I’ve never performed as poorly as I did today.
After a brief stop at the restroom, I meet Dean outside, where we squint at each other before we both throw on our sunglasses. Physically, we make an interesting pair. His dirty blond hair is never out of place, whereas my dark hair exists in organized chaos. I try to get away with a five o’clock shadow as often as possible; Dean carries a travel shaving kit in his briefcase. He’s fucking tall as hell, too, towering over me by at least three inches, an asset we typically use to our advantage on the basketball court—when I’m not playing like a scrub, that is.
“You want to stop by my place and hang?” Dean asks. “The shower’s all yours if you need it.” He inches closer and sniffs the air. “And you definitely need it.”
I shove him away. “Nah, I should get going. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy workday.”
Dean lives nearby, in a renovated loft that he purchased with his ridiculously comfortable salary as a law firm associate. His house has more bells and whistles than mine—and a high-tech television that’s so advanced I’m sure it’s going to kill my best friend in his sleep one day. I should be disgusted with his excess, but Dean deserves his toys. The man works about sixty hours a week, evenly splitting his time between private and pro bono work in a sweet arrangement with his firm.
“That’s a half-assed no if ever there was one,” he says. “Just bring your butt to my place. You know you want to talk about whatever’s got your brain fuzzy.”
I can’t argue with that. My brain is fuzzy, and Dean’s probably the only person in the world I’d feel comfortable talking with about the source of my confusion. We met in college, didn’t see each other much for a few years—I was in New York and he was in Philadelphia for law school—but then picked up where we left off once we were living in the same area. He’s that friend you always find your way back to, the one who knows all your secrets and doesn’t care that you’re flawed, the one who’s seen your “before” pictures because he’s in them. “Okay, I’m biking over. Meet you there in ten.”
Fifteen minutes later—I’m more out of shape than I thought—Dean buzzes me into his building. I lock my bike in a storage area past the elevators and climb the three flights of stairs to his condo.
I arrive at the threshold and find the door open, so I stroll inside. Dean’s at the fridge guzzling a gallon-size container of water. He wipes his chin. “Took you long enough.”
I ignore the dig and point a thumb in the direction of his guest bathroom. “I’m showering. Back in ten.”
As I let the hot spray of w
ater work its magic on my sore muscles, I consider how much I should share with Dean. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just imagining this. Maybe I’m an asshole who’s subconsciously seizing on another way to compete with my brother. Jesus, this is all kinds of fucked up.
When I’m done showering, I dress in the extra set of clothes I always keep in my gym bag, throw my balled-up towel in the hamper, and join Dean on the gray leather couch in his living room.
He clicks the remote and turns off the TV. “Leftover pizza’s warming in the oven. In the meantime, tell me what’s going on.”
I spend the next few minutes telling him about the assignment with the Cartwright Group. He doesn’t react much, but his jaw drops when I mention that Lina’s one of the two wedding planners we’re working with.
“Dude, this is wild,” he says. “I get why your head’s not on straight. You’re trying to get more responsibility at the office, disentangle yourself from your schmuck of a brother, and now you’re stuck working with his ex-fiancée and lying about it.”
I’m astute enough to know my troubles aren’t confined to those issues. My worries stem from all that plus the thrill I got from tussling with Lina at lunch, plus the effort I made to get her to a capoeira class I’d never taken before, plus the moment in the bakery I can’t get out of my head—the moment when she brushed cake crumbs off my face and jumped away as though my skin had singed her. “It’s even more complicated than that.”
Dean fixes his gaze on the ceiling and sighs. “I’m going to need a beer for this. Want one?”
“Sure.”
As he roots around in the fridge, I lean forward, place my elbows on my knees, and make a steeple with my fingers, trying to muster the courage to speak the words out loud. Just say what you’re thinking. He won’t judge you. Never has. And he’ll set you straight. No bullshit.
He returns with two uncapped bottles and hands one to me. “Okay, you were saying . . .”
There’s no use in stalling. Dean will get it out of me eventually. “Lina and I met this afternoon, so we could help one of her clients with a cake tasting. Long story short, she wiped a bit of cake from my face and I felt . . . something. I don’t know what the hell it was, but she seemed to be leaning into me, but then she jumped, like being close to me threw her off . . . It made me think she felt it, too. And it’s not the first time I’ve felt something, either. Ever since we reconnected at the Cartwright, I’ve been noticing things about her I probably shouldn’t.” I take a long pull on my beer. “Tell me to disregard all of it and move on.”