Beautifully Baked: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

by Holly Kerr

  He traces the jagged line with a gentle finger. “And what did it do to you?”

  I shrug. “It’s not pretty.”

  “But you still are. Beautiful, actually.”

  I’m the first to drop my gaze again. When I glance back at him, Clay is looking around the restaurant. There are only two other tables still there, both who came in long after we did. “We’ve been here a while,” I offer.

  “Maybe I should take you home,” he says. I’m happy to hear the reluctance in his voice.

  “I guess so. I mean, they probably want us to go.” I gesture to the waiter hovering nearby.

  It’s a quiet car ride home as I argue with myself about what to do next.

  “This has been a great night,” Clay says as he pulls up in front of my house. “Is it wrong to say I’m really happy Dean and Flora didn’t marry who they went to marry?”

  I laugh. “Do you know we’ve barely talked about them at all tonight?”

  “Well, I don’t normally go around talking about Dean, but I can see why I would tonight. But there were lots of other things to talk about. And I’m going to keep talking as I walk you to your door. Can I park here?”

  “Maybe go around the corner,” I suggest. It’s on the tip of my tongue to add So you don’t have to rush, but I don’t say it. Because I don’t know if I want him to rush away. Maybe I do.

  Maybe I want him to stay.

  The night air is crisp and cool for summer.

  The scent of the flowers in the containers at the door brush my nose. Flora uses my porch as advertising for Fleur, arranging plants and flowers in more creative ways than she would at the store. This month she has filled the black urns with shades of orange; zinnias, marigolds, and petunias in a variety of shades, calibrachoa and nasturtium tumbling over the edges.

  I pluck off a dead flower before unlocking the door.

  “You could come in,” I blurt. “For a bit. For a drink maybe. Or something. But that’s it.” I swallow, feeling like my words have tangled up like a bag of yarn. I invited Clay in, but for what? Even I don’t know. “I have to get up early.”

  “I’d like to come in for a bit.” Clay smiles and I relax. “To meet your cats even though I’m not a cat person.”

  “They’re nice cats.”

  “Of course you’d say that because you’re a cat person.”

  Will I ever get used to his smile? It’s so wide and white and if I’m not careful, I’ll find myself panting a little when he uses it on me. “But I need to tell you something.” Clay takes my hand. “I don’t want to sleep with you tonight. Obviously, I do,” he corrects as my eyes widen with surprise and more than a little disappointment. “I really, really do, but don’t let me.”

  “Don’t let you have sex with me?” I repeat.

  “Please.”

  “Please? I think this is the time I get offended.” I pull my hand out of his grasp. “And rescind my invitation to come in.”

  “Ninety-five percent of the dates I go on, I end up having sex with them,” Clay says in a rush. “I know I’m not saying this the right way.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him flustered but it doesn’t help. “That’s so nice for you. Look, thanks for dinner but—”

  “I want to wait for you,” he says, the words tripping over each other in his rush.

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t wait for women. I’m not saying I force them or anything, but it happens. I want to wait for you, for when it means something.” He grabs my hand. “I seem to be doing everything I can to mess up this date, but it’s the last thing I want to do. It’s been amazing getting to know you, M.K., and I want to see you again. Soon. Really soon.”

  “Then why do you want to wait?” I ask quietly. “I don’t understand. I like you. I think you like me and—”

  “I don’t want to leave here with you thinking this was a one-night thing for me,” Clay interrupts. He cups my cheek with his hand, and before I can stop myself, I lean into his hand. “Because it isn’t. I already know I want more with you, and I want to prove that to you. Because I think you’re going to mean something.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “And I would like to kiss you goodnight, but not out here,” Clay says with a relieved laugh.

  “Come in and have a drink.” I pull away from him when every part of me wants to move closer. “And meet my cats.”

  Clay

  That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  I want nothing more than for M.K. to invite me in and for us to see what the rest of the night will hold but no, I have to come up with the most idiotic rejection ever.

  I want M.K. as much as I’ve wanted any other woman, but not tonight. She’s special, and I want to make it special.

  I want to make us special.

  “So how did you get three cats?” I ask, hoping M.K. can’t tell that my voice is a little shaky. I really want to kiss her. It would have been easy to lean forward and touch my lips to hers and—

  “I never meant to,” M.K. says, pulling me out of my stupor as she unlocks the door. “After Ben died—”

  “Who’s Ben?”

  It’s the way she says his name. There has only ever been one woman who has ever said anything to make me jealous, so the sensation is an unusual one. I still recognize the sharp stab of pain in my stomach. “You haven’t mentioned a Ben before.”

  “Long story,” M.K. says stiffly as she opens the door. “Cats.”

  “Dead Ben,” I retort. Thankfully she laughs, so I don’t have to explain that I need to hear about him and any other men in her life more than I need to meet any cat.

  “I’ll tell you about him,” she promises. She gives me a strange look. “For once I really want to tell you about him. But right now the cavalry is coming.” The pitter-patter of paws sounds down the hall as all three cats come running. “This is Gulliver and he’s always first for everything.” M.K. sets her purse on the side table and reaches down to pick him up.

  “Because he’s the biggest.” I take in the long-haired, orange cat as well as the narrow hallway leading into what seems like a living room. M.K.’s house is small and semi-detached. Maybe it’s the cats, or maybe it’s because I’m used to the space in my condo, but it seems cramped. Cozy, but cramped.

  “Twenty-seven pounds. He’s a big boy,” she agrees, holding the cat, so he can check me out.

  “Gulliver, for Gulliver’s Travels?” I give him a cursory scratch on the head.

  “Exactly.” M.K. beams like I’ve won an award, and I smile in return. Her whole face lights up when she smiles.

  She sets Gulliver down and wiggles her fingers to tempt the sleek gray, already winding her way around my feet. “That’s Scarlett, and she’s a flirt.”

  “I’m good with flirting.” I bend to pet her. “Who’s a pretty kitty?”

  “I thought you didn’t like cats?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t like them, only that I’m not a cat person. I’m more into dogs.”

  “You’ll like Flora’s dog, then. She’s got a bulldog named Cappie.”

  “Captain America?”

  “You’d think, but no. Her grandmother named him Captain Jack Sparrow because she liked the pirate movies, but Flora shortened it when she took him after she passed.”

  “Interesting pet names.”

  M.K. laughs as she gestures down the hall to find a tiny white cat lurking. “That’s Pennywise.”

  “Pennywise—from It?” I ask with disbelief. “The scary clown?”

  “You must be a reader. I like that.” She leads me down the hall and Pennywise skitters away. “He’s shy, so don’t be offended.”

  “As long as he doesn’t try to pull me down into the sewer, I’m good. You like to—” The word is cut off as M.K. switches on the lamp in the living room, and I see the shelves reaching to the ceiling, packed with books. “You like to read,” I finish.

  “I do,” she says proudly.

  “It�
��s like a library in here.” I head for the shelves, Scarlett still at my heels. “This is great.” I finger the spines reverently like a true reader does. “Really great. You’ve got quite the collection.”

  “I’ve had some since I was a kid,” she admits, looking at me carefully. “My mother was very happy to get them out of the house. She’s never understood my book fetish.”

  I turn, eyebrow raised. “A fetish?”

  Her cheeks redden and I smile. “I like books.”

  “I like that you like books.” I hold her gaze before turning back to the shelves. I like looking at M.K., but even more, I like making her look at me. It’s like she’s trying to hide at times, to duck inside herself.

  What are you hiding?

  “My sister-in-law forced me to read all these books growing up,” I say as I study the shelves. “She told me it would help me relate to women. Understand them more. Of course I was into that, and therefore was the only twelve-year-old male to read the entire series of Sweet Valley High, thanks to Liv.”

  M.K. laughs with delight. “You’re kidding!”

  I grimace. “Unfortunately not. Todd and Elizabeth forever.” I raise a fist in a mock cheer.

  “Then you need to see this.” She moves along the shelves, books carefully arranged by genre, then alphabetically, and pulls out a book with a red cover.

  I groan as I recognize the blonde twins on the cover. “You’re kidding me. They wrote another one.”

  “They did. I won’t spoil it for you.”

  “Because you know I’m going to have to borrow that.” I shake my head, wondering if Liv knows about the adult Sweet Valley High book.

  “Be my guest.” She hands me the book and as our fingers touch, I swear there are sparks.

  I step away with a laugh. “Was that our electricity, or did you just give me a shock?”

  “Shock,” M.K. says weakly and points to the floor. “Carpet. It happens all the time.”

  “And here I thought I was special.” I hold her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the shelves. “What other treats do you have here?” My fingers trail over her collection of cookbooks. “Wow. You’d think you like to cook or something.”

  “Or something,” she echoes.

  “I have this one.” I point to Nigella Lawson’s How to Eat. “And all of Jamie Oliver’s books. Liv got them for me. She thinks I should have been the Canadian version of Jamie.”

  “You like to cook?” M.K. asks with surprise.

  “I do,” I admit, my gaze still on the books, tipping her edition of Martha Stewart’s Baking Handbook to display the cover. “But I really like to bake.”

  “You’re just saying that because I own the patisserie,” M.K. bursts out.

  I shake my head with a grin. “It’s not the most masculine hobby to have, so I don’t admit it to many people. What do you think the guys on the baseball team would say if they knew I make cupcakes in my spare time?”

  M.K leans closer. “Then you need to see my kitchen,” she whispers.

  My grin widens. “Anytime.” She leads me into the next room, and I whistle even before she turns on the light. “This is going to be fun.”

  M.K. might not have a lot of spare space in her place but she makes the most of what she has. Her cupboards are open, and the shelves are impeccably organized, the cheap laminate counters spotless, save for a thick wooden cutting board beside the oven.

  And the stove… “This is a beauty.” I tap the stovetop, admiring the double oven in the Bosch. “I don’t even have one of these, and I have all the toys.”

  “I know, right? I got a great deal for it, but I had to pay the moving guys almost as much to get rid of the old stove. It’s not gas, though. My next place, I want to run a gas line.” She opens a bottom cupboard door to show me what looks like an advertisement for KitchenAid appliances. “These are the rest of my toys.”

  Mixer, food processor… Is that a pasta maker in there? She’s so excited talking about her appliances that I don’t want to burst her bubble and tell her about my gas stove.

  “What’s your favourite kind of cupcake?” M.K pulls down a mixing bowl. I watch openmouthed as she grabs measuring cups and takes out a spatula.

  “Are we making them?” Out of all the ways this night could have ended, I never would have come up with this scenario. But I like it. It’s spontaneous—another side of M.K. I never expected.

  “We don’t have to,” M.K. says apologetically, taking a big step away from the counter. “I just—I like baking at night. The house always smells so good when I wake up in the morning.”

  “I’m all for good smells. Let’s do it!” I roll up my sleeves, wondering how to ask for an apron without sounding too fussy. “What’s your favourite thing to make?”

  “Are you sure?” she asks doubtfully.

  All night long, I’ve gotten the impression that M.K. has been giving me little situations or scenarios to test me, like she wants me to prove I’m worthy. This is another one and by far the easiest. “You saw that little itty dessert they gave me. You think that was enough?”

  M.K.’s smile is like the last flash of sun during a sunset. I have a pang of fear about when, not if, I’ll eventually disappoint her.

  Or maybe I won’t. Maybe after all this time, countless attempts and relationships that I’ve shied away from, maybe she’s the one.

  I’m not sure if the sensation is excitement at the thought, or fear.

  “I don’t make a lot of cupcakes,” M.K admits. “I mean, I do in my spare time, but these days, anything I make will usually make it to the patisserie.”

  “So what do you make for the patisserie?”

  “Pastries, obviously and muffins, but I’ve been playing around with breakfast bars. There’s this one I want to try with oats, flaxseed, with chia and pistachios.”

  I picture it in my mind. “You need some fruit in it or it’ll be too heavy,” I suggest.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” she says eagerly. “I can’t decide if I want cranberries or dried apricots.”

  “Too predictable. What about blueberries? Or bananas?”

  She’s so sweet when she’s excited. And adorable. I’ve passed this test with superpower speed.

  We spend a few minutes gathering ingredients, M.K. pointing out where everything is. As I peel my first banana, I glance over to see her studiously measuring flour. “You know, if this was one of those romantic movies, you’d spill all the flour, and we’d have a food fight about now,” I say casually.

  M.K. takes a pitch of flour between her fingers and aims it threateningly at me. “I can’t do it,” she says with a gasp, her shoulders slumping. “I can’t even think of messing up my kitchen like that.”

  “Good,” I say with a shudder. “Because I haven’t even asked you for an apron.”

  ~

  Two hours later, we’ve gone through half a bottle of wine while we wait for the cupcakes and my bars to bake. The kitchen is full of enticing smells that have the cats standing guard at the door. M.K. won’t let them enter the kitchen. Twelve perfect cupcakes sit on the cooling rack as M.K whips up a caramel icing and I carefully cut up the tray of breakfast bars—banana oat with Nutella and flakes of coconut sprinkled on top.

  “These aren’t going to be up to your standards, but they’re not bad.” I taste a corner. “Try. They’re still warm.” I’m proud of the Nutella inspiration.

  “Mmm,” she says appreciatively after I pop a small piece into her mouth. “That’s good.”

  “That’s going to be so good,” I say as she finishes the icing. I swipe a finger along the edge of the bowl. “Mmm. I have a bad sweet tooth.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” She’s quick to ice the cupcakes, showing a lot more talent and technique than I do. I watch as she pulls out boxes.

  “You need to have customized packaging,” I say.

  “You mean like with Pain au Chocolat on it?”

  I nod. “Your logo. Your brand.�
��

  “I don’t really have a brand,” she confesses.

  “You need a brand. Do you do orders at the patisserie?” When she nods her agreement, I continue eagerly. “What do you use?”

  She points to the plain white boxes. “Them.”

  I shake my head. “You need something more. You’re wasting the opportunity to advertise. You need to—” Suddenly I stop myself. “Sorry. Got caught up in work stuff. That’s what I do—packaging and branding, and marketing.”

  “That’s stuff I’m not very good at.” M.K. takes a deep breath. “Could you maybe give me few pointers? If it’s not too much to ask?”

  “I’d love to. Can I stop by your patisserie tomorrow?”

  “That’d be great.” As she carefully packages half the cupcakes and most of the breakfast bars for me, I glance at the clock to see it’s after midnight.

  “Wow, I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  M.K. grimaces. “I’m going to have a hard time getting up in the morning. I have to go to bed.”

  “I’d better go,” I say automatically.

  “I didn’t mean that.” Her cheeks flush prettily. I like it when she’s flustered because I doubt it happens too often. “I don’t want—I have to sleep but I don’t want you to go. I mean, if you want to go…” She fidgets with the corner of the box and I take her hands.

  “I’ve had an amazing time tonight.”

  “Me, too,” she says breathlessly.

  “I haven’t kissed you all night.”

  “No…”

  “I wanted to. Driving up to pick you up, that’s all I could think about. When I could kiss you again, when it’s not in front of people in a bar.”

  “Me, too,” she whispers.

  “And then that stuff about Heather and the texts and then here with your books and your baking…Do you know why I haven’t kissed you yet?”

  “I…maybe…I wondered.”

  I lean down and kiss her forehead then her nose. “Because I’m having so much fun with you.”

  “You are? That’s good?”

  “That’s great. At least it is with me. I’ve never had this much fun with a woman. I’ve never come back to someone’s place and talked about my love for Sweet Valley High and cupcakes. This is new for me.”