Though it had come at a cost. No matter how calm and centered she remained, that kind of life took a toll. She thought about all the baking therapy she and Char had done together during that time. Usually in the wee, wee hours. Those sessions never had anything to do with their respective jobs.
And everything to do with salvation.
Their worlds might be uncontrolled chaos, but baking always made sense. Flour, butter, and sugar were as integral a part of her as breathing.
Lani had long since lost count of the number of nights she and Charlotte had crammed themselves into her tiny kitchen, or Charlotte’s even tinier one, whipping up this creation or that, all the while hashing and rehashing whatever the problems du jour happened to be. It was the one thing she truly missed about being in New York.
No one on Sugarberry understood how baking helped take the edge off. Some folks liked a dry martini. Lani and Char, on the other hand, had routinely talked themselves down from the emotional ledge with rich vanilla queen cake and some black velvet frosting. It might take a little longer to assemble than the perfect adult beverage ... but it was the very solace found in the dependable process of measuring and leavening that had made it their own personal martini. Not to mention the payoff was way, way better.
Those nights hadn’t been about culinary excellence, either. The more basic, the more elemental the recipe, the better. Maybe Lani should have seen it all along. Her destiny wasn’t to be found in New York, or even Paris, or Prague, making the richest, most intricate cakes, or the most delicate French pastries. No, culinary fulfillment—for her, the same as life fulfillment—was going to be experienced on a tiny spit of land off the coast of Georgia, where she would happily populate the world with gloriously unpretentious, rustic, and rudimentary little cupcakes.
“That’s me.” She lifted her pastry bag in salute. “Cupcake Baker Barbie!” She aimed the silver tip, and bulleted a row of raspberry shots with rapid-fire precision, then another, and another, before finally straightening, spent pastry bag cocked on her shoulder like a weapon. She was a take-no-prisoners Baker Barbie, that’s what she was. “Yeah. Welcome to the Cupcake Club,” she said, giving it her best Brad Pitt impersonation. She grinned at that, and tried to convince herself she was ready to take on the true test of her newfound toughness, the real proof of her independence.
The phone call.
She could do it. She would do it. She didn’t need to bow down to the whims of Baxter Dunne any longer. Wasn’t she standing right there, in her own kitchen, working for her very own self?
“Damn straight I am.” She moved to the next tray, discarding the spent bag for a freshly filled one, then positioning it like an expert sniper lining up his next kill shot. “Hear that, Chef Hot Cakes?” She completed the next three rows with deadly precision. “I ... don’t ... need ... you.” She punctuated each word with another squeeze.
She straightened. And swore. “Yeah, that’s why I’m standing here at the crack of dawn, shooting raspberry truffle filling like a woman armed with an AK-47.” But, she had to admit, it felt good. Powerful, even.
Salvation cakes, indeed.
So, she went with it. Moving to the last tray, she shot another squirt of raspberry, picturing his smiling, handsome face as she did so. “Why are you doing this to me, Bax?” Pow, pow, pow. “Why are you invading my world?” Bap, bap, bap. “My world, my kitchen, my home.” So many questions scrambling her brain. Making it impossible to think straight, impossible to concentrate on anything except—
“Dammit !” Lani glared at the oozing, overly truffled cupcake like it had committed an unspeakable cupcake crime.
She blamed Baxter for that, too.
She might have growled, just a little. It was stupid to be so upset about this. Like Franco said, she was operating from a position of strength here. Who cared why he was coming to town?
Or what laying eyes on him again might make her feel?
She’d handled worse things, she reminded herself. Far, far worse things. Losing her mother two years ago. Almost losing her father ten months ago. “I can handle Baxter Dunne,” she muttered.
But as she stood there with flour powdering her hair, a smear of raspberry truffle across her chin, a spent pastry bag in her hand—happily content in her own element—she thought about it all, and tried to harness her inner Smackdown Baker Barbie ... she really did. But she kept picturing his face, hearing his voice, seeing his hands move so precisely perfect, so beautifully efficient as he worked, making every step look so effortless, so simple ... and wishing he’d put those smart and clever hands on her ... and found herself failing. Miserably.
The sound of the delivery door slapping shut behind her made her spin abruptly around, the flailing pastry bag sending at least a half dozen freshly filled cupcakes skittering to the floor.
The sight that met her eyes sent her heart skittering as well. As only Baxter could.
He was very tall, with long arms and legs that would be gawky and awkward on anyone else, but were graceful and elegant on his lean, muscular frame. He had a wild thatch of wheat-blond hair that was forever sticking out in all directions, brown eyes so rich and warm they rivaled even the most decadent melted chocolate, and a ridiculously charming, crooked grin that always made her secretly wonder what trouble he was about to get into ... and wish, desperately, that she could join him.
“Hello, luv. Happy to see me? My God, you look a fright.” And, always—always—too late, she remembered the trouble she was forever getting into ... was him.
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 Donna Kauffman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Brava and the B logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-7787-9
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: February 2012
Notes
1
Earl Grey may be substituted.
2
Cinnamon may be substituted.
3
Canned lightly sweetened peaches, drained, may be substituted, but of course they don’t taste as good as the real thing.
Sweet Stuff Page 31
