by Holly Kerr
Beautifully Baked
Holly Kerr
Chapter One
M.K.
Even though I’m not much for marriage, I like weddings.
They’re sweet, pretty, and usually, they involve good food. Even though I’m not one to get weepy at declarations of love, it’s nice to see people willing to stand up and tell the world how much they care about each other. It’s…hopeful. The flowers are beautiful, men in tuxedoes are always nice to look at, and did I mention the food?
I like food even more than I like weddings.
The meal itself is nice, with the chicken or fish choice and seasonal vegetables arranged just so on the plate. The wedding cake is always a treat, a tower of artful confection that has taken someone days to bake and decorate. But it’s those weddings with a sweet table that I get excited about.
Finger pastries. Tiny cubes of cheesecake. Petit fours and macarons, pastries, cakes and fruit-filled delicacies. I love it all.
I love to bake it all.
But this wedding isn’t going to have a sweet table. I don’t think there’ll be a table at all. Or a meal. Maybe not any flowers unless Thomas steps up, and definitely not any cute groomsmen.
Flora decided to elope to Las Vegas instead of the big wedding her brothers wanted. Actually, Flora’s brothers don’t want her to marry Thomas at all, made clear by them forcing her out of the family business. Up until three days ago, I—Flora’s best friend—had no idea Flora wanted to marry Thomas. They’d been together nearly eight years, happy with their weekly Friday night date and occasional sleepover.
I hesitate to use the word happy. Content may be better. At ease with how their relationship worked.
I really don’t think the relationship works at all, but I’m not saying anything. Long ago, Flora and I made a promise not to bad-mouth boyfriends, and I’ve stuck with it even though sometimes it feels that blood is running down my chin from how much I’ve bitten my tongue.
I glance in the mirror in the hotel room and pull my dark hair into place over my scar. Ray’s been begging me to try a pixie cut for years, but the gentle graduating bob works for the structure of my face. And there’s no point changing something that works for you.
“You look beautiful.” Flora smiles at my reflection and steps out of her shoes, leaving her only a few inches taller than me. “You always do.”
I smile but can’t quite meet her gaze in the mirror. “I’m supposed to be telling you that.”
As much as it’s the truth, the sight of Flora in her wedding dress produces an oily puddle of disappointment that sits heavy in the depths of my stomach.
She does look beautiful, but she doesn’t look like Flora. Thanks to Pinterest and Youtube videos, Ruthie and I managed to wrangle Flora’s mass of hair into an innocently elegant updo. It’s been a long time since the days of me practising my French braid technique on her, and since Flora’s usual style is a straight-back ponytail to keep it out of her face when she kneels over her plants, I forgot she has so much hair. With a critical smile, I tuck a wayward strand back into place, wondering if she needs another spray. There’ll be a protest about that—Flora hates most hair products because she claims the chemicals and fragrances suffocate her plants. I had made a special stop at the health food store to find her the most non-toxic, less hazardous spray before we left for Las Vegas.
Flora tugs at the sleeve of her dress. “Is it okay?”
The dress is pretty, but again, it’s not Flora’s style. Cream coloured with a lace overlay and a mid-calf hemline, the dress is too conservative, too ladylike, too restrictive—not Flora at all.
Just like this wedding.
“You look beautiful,” I say dutifully. “The perfect bride.”
Flora’s wide mouth creases into a grimace. “I’m trying,” she mutters.
And that’s why I don’t say anything about the dress or even the shoes because I know how hard she’s trying.
But she shouldn’t be getting married.
When we were seventeen, Flora and I made a pact that we would remain unmarried for our entire life, save when we were old and forty and needed someone to look after us. We would be strong, independent women. We’d travel, focusing on our careers, and especially our friendship. We would laugh in the face of commitment, and if we did find love, he’d have to be pretty amazing to make us believe in a future together.
It was an easy thing to promise since, at the time, I had still been recovering from the bicycle accident that left the scar running down my face, and Flora had been badly dumped by Scottie Davis.
Things shifted over the years as things do. Ben convinced me that marriage wasn’t all so bad, enough that I accepted his ring.
Unfortunately, he also convinced me he believed in monogamy. Since then, I’ve jumped back on the anti-marriage train. But Flora never left. It might have been because of Thomas and the way their relationship only moved in fits and starts, rather than the gradual onwards and upwards of planning a life together.
But I’m still in shock that somehow between margaritas with me on Monday night and today (Friday), Thomas somehow convinced Flora to change her mind.
And now we are here in Las Vegas for her wedding.
“Where’s Ruthie?” Flora asks, stepping back into the nude heels that go so well with the dress but turn her into a knock-kneed little girl playing dress-up.
“She went down to the front desk to see if Thomas had the flowers sent over.” Guilt hangs over me about the lack of flowers, like I’m the one who forgot them. But it’s the maid of honour’s duty to ensure everything runs smoothly and Flora always says I am the queen of organization. You make a plan and stick to it and things always run perfectly.
There is no plan in place for this wedding.
Yet another reason that the little voice inside me is screaming to delay. Stop. Get Flora out of this mess.
I’m doing my best to ignore the little voice but it’s becoming more and more difficult.
“He’ll bring them to the chapel,” Flora says with her usual confidence. Nothing ever seems to faze her, except Thomas.
Shouldn’t that tell her something?
Flora checks her hair one last time. “We should go.” She gives a sigh that sounds a lot like resignation. I doubt she even realizes she made the noise.
“I’ll text Ruthie.” I pick up my cell to summon Ruthie, only to be rewarded by the sound of “Trouble,” by Pink, blaring out of a cell phone somewhere in the ball of sheets on the bed. “She needs to keep her phone on her, today of all days.”
“Everything’ll be fine,” Flora says as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. My heart breaks a little at the wistful expression on her face.
“Of course it will. But…this is what you want?” I take a deep breath, fighting to come up with the right words. “Such a small wedding? None of your family?”
“You’re here.” Flora’s smile doesn’t meet her eyes. “And Ruthie, unless she’s found a better option.”
“Ruthie wouldn’t miss it. Do your brothers even know you’re here?” I ask in a gentle voice.
Flora shakes her head, her expression, for once, unreadable. The words bubble up, begging to burst free. If I’m going to say anything, now is the time, because once Flora takes a step down that aisle, everything is over. Everything will change.
“Everything’ll be fine,” Flora repeats, and the bubble breaks.
Weddings shouldn’t be fine. But this is Flora, and Flora makes everything all right. She’s fun and positive, cheerful and funny. There must be more to Thomas than I can see because how could Flora love someone who’s so wrong for her?
And so I
follow her out the door of the hotel room and into the elevator, keeping up a stream of inane chatter to mask my hesitation. We catch Ruthie at the front desk, flowerless, her long braids sliding flirtatiously through her fingers as she smiles at the assistant manager behind the desk. We find a taxi outside to take us the few blocks to the chapel off the Strip.
Everything will be fine, but it isn’t how it should be. This can’t be her happily ever after.
As we pull up to the little chapel, I smooth my hair as my emotions spin like a tumble dryer.
“We doing this?” Ruthie calls from the front seat.
“Why shouldn’t we?” Flora asks in return.
So many reasons! But I smile and open the door, reaching out a hand to help Flora steady herself in the heels. She takes a deep breath as she glances at the tiny chapel.
“It looks nice,” I assure her. “No Elvis, just like you requested.”
Flora grips my fingers with an icy-cold hand. “Thanks, M.K. For everything.”
“I haven’t done much of anything. You planned this whole thing.”
“But knowing you’ve got my back made it easier.”
“I’ve always got your back.”
She squeezes my hand. “This’ll happen for you, too, you know.”
I really hope not. “I know you don’t want to be late for your wedding, so let’s get in there.” I give her a tight smile and lead her inside. Ruthie brings up the rear.
The lobby of the chapel smells of cheap beer, bad perfume, and fear. It’s not appealing, and neither are most of those unfortunate souls waiting to be married. I avert my gaze from the leering smile of a balding man wearing a cliché of a cheap tuxedo—powder blue and ruffled with the cummerbund almost disappearing under his stomach.
I peek back for another look. “How you doin’?” he says, catching my eye and sounding like an obnoxious Joey Tribbiani.
Flora turns to him just as Ruthie opens her mouth to respond, so I give Ruthie a shove so she won’t cause a scene. “Let’s see if Thomas dropped off flowers for you.”
“I wonder what they are.” Flora is giddy at the thought, as excited as some women are with jewelry or a new bag. Flora loves her flowers. “A bouquet of tulips would be simple or even roses, even though roses are kind of unoriginal.”
“We’re talking about Thomas here, not you, Fleur, the flower queen. I still think that’s what you should have named your store.” Ruthie grins down at her aunt.
Flora’s family dynamics are complicated.
“M.K., where are they supposed to be?” Flora asks, her gaze searching for someone holding her perfect bouquet. The chapel lady hurries over, hands fluttering as she instructs us on our positions and timing. Flora keeps looking and asking.
There are no flowers waiting for her.
In the flurry of confusion of Flora insisting there must be flowers, and the Chapel Lady trying to convince her she doesn’t need them, my heart sinks for my friend. This is not her perfect day; this can’t be her happily ever after.
Ruthie mutters under her breath, most likely voodoo curses against Thomas.
I give her a sharp elbow to stop. “He forgot them,” I say to Flora, the tension making my voice snap. “Or else he didn’t think you needed them.”
“He forgot,” Flora echoes, gazing into the dimly lit chapel where Thomas is already standing at the end of the aisle.
“I’m sure he’ll make it up to you.”
“Can he, though?”
“Flora, I know it’s important to you, but flowers—” At the sight of her stricken face, I trail off with a humourless chuckle. “Are really important to you. He should have remembered.”
She nods.
“Here.” A quick grab pulls off a leaf of a nearby plant. I’m sure Flora knows what the Latin name is, but all I know is that it’s green and alive and might help her get through this. As she looks at it, I know I should be trying to get her out of this instead.
I didn’t need to do anything since Flora handles that herself.
Clay
Dean’s making a huge mistake.
It’s not that I’m against the institution of marriage. I’m really not. Marriage can be amazing. My parents are still happily married, and both of my brothers have found the women of their dreams to spend the rest of their lives with.
Neither of my sisters-in-law are anything like Evelyn.
I barely know her, so I shouldn’t comment on her personality, but what little I know of her, I can tell she’s not going to make Dean happy.
Like now. Dean’s waiting for his bride-to-be outside a chapel in Las Vegas. The man should be over the moon with excitement, not standing ramrod straight, as emotion-less as a tree.
Not that Dean shows much emotion on a good day.
This should be a good day. This should be his best day ever.
It would be my best day. Not that I’ve thought about marriage much or made an effort to find someone I’d like to settle down with.
Why bother searching when women keep falling into my lap so easily?
I smile at one dark-haired beauty as she walks by. She looks at Dean first, then me, which is the norm. Dean, with his height and his hair, is like a colourful fishing lure, there to attract.
Not that he wants to attract. He doesn’t even notice he does. Me, I think I have some radar built in that tells me when there’s a woman within twenty feet. And it doesn’t matter if they’re giving me an admiring glance or not—once I smile at them, I always get one in return.
Sometimes it gets tiring.
Not that I’m saying I’m irresistible to women because I’m not. But I’ve never had a problem meeting them, even in the least opportune moments. But the lure works for me because Dean stands out. He catches the eye. And then they turn to me, and I reel them in.
As I meet the interested gaze of the dark-haired beauty, I think about reeling her in but turn away at the last moment. This isn’t the time. This is Dean’s wedding.
There will be time enough later. When Dean is with Evelyn.
When I’ll lose my wingman, my personal lure, forever.
Dark-haired beauty is replaced by an older redhead and I widen my smile. Even with the harried man at her side staring at the phone like it’s a lifeline, she does a double-take.
I wink, and the smile lights up her face.
All women want to be told they’re attractive, either with words or actions or even a carefully raised eyebrow. I’m good at that. I’m also good at finding something beautiful in everyone female I meet, whether it’s inside or out.
I glance at my watch. Does Dean realize Evelyn is late? Is he worried? Is he annoyed? Is this what life is going to be like for him—waiting for Evelyn?
I hate to be kept waiting.
I wonder if Dean realizes that this will probably be the last time we’ll hang out like this. Flying into Vegas this morning, spending a couple of hours hitting the tables, wandering the streets before stopping for a couple of beers. Dean’s just so easy to get along with.
I’m going to miss him.
I’m going to miss him because Evelyn is a bitch and has this weird hate on anything baseball-related. Which makes it all the more ironic that she’s with Dean because everything about him is baseball-related. I love the sport as well, but I have other interests. Dean lives and breathes ball. And since I’m part of Dean’s baseball world, she’s going to try and cut me out.
I hope Dean sees what she’s like. I wish he’d listen to me if I could come up with the right words to convince him. But how can you tell your buddy he shouldn’t marry the woman he’s in love with? And how can you say any of this only moments before he’s supposed to go through with it?
I miss the first chime of my cell because I’m watching Dean and wondering what he’s thinking. He doesn’t notice any of the tourists milling about or the admiring glances of the females who pass by.
He never notices.
My phone chimes again, and I pull it out of my pocket.<
br />
Evelyn.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to find anything beautiful about her. And now I never will.
I glance at the text and then read it again because I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I take a few steps away from the door.
That’s when I hear the shout: “Flora!”
“Jesus!” Dean stumbles forward a step and turns, catching a blonde in a white dress before she falls. Two women appear in the doorway; one tall and solid with long braids, the other small and slight with swinging, dark hair.
I do a double-take on the small and slight one.
“Flora, come on! How could you not see him?” The tall and braided blonde laughs as she pulls the blonde away from Dean. From the expression on his face, he doesn’t want to let her go.
I don’t even notice her because it’s the dark haired one that has my attention. Her blue dress highlights her delicate build and suddenly I’m hit with the urge to gather her close for protection, like she’s breakable.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until she looks up and meets my gaze.
I’ve never had so much electricity within a single glance.
It’s like there’s a lightning storm without the thunder. I’m instantly struck with the need to find out what brought out the relief in her eyes, to give her my jacket in case she’s cold in her sleeveless dress and to see if her waist is really as tiny as it seems.
I’m stunned, to say the least. I can’t even give her The Smile, just some half-assed grin that makes me look like a moron.
“Get out of my way” the blonde cries. “I need to get out of here.” And then she hikes her dress up above her knees and runs down the street.
And with an apologetic glance, my dark-haired girl is gone, rushing after the blonde.
She’s just gone.
“What the hell?” I shake my head in wonder and disappointment as I lose sight of the blue dress in the crowd. “What was that?” I ask Dean, who looks as stunned as I feel.
“I was standing there and she runs into me. Literally runs into me.”
