Beautifully Baked: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

by Holly Kerr

  “I’ve never talked about it with a man either.” She laughs weakly.

  “I’m glad I haven’t kissed you yet tonight,” I say in a low voice. “Or anything else.”

  “You are?”

  “Because now it’ll mean something, not just be a time waster.”

  “Kissing women is a time waster for you?”

  “It has been before, but not with you.” I touch her lips softly, gently feeling them move under mine.

  She tastes like caramel.

  I enjoy it for a long moment, her hands snaking around my neck, my hands firm at her waist. I want nothing more than to sweep her in my arms and run a touchdown dash to the bedroom, but I know moving too fast will scare her.

  Feeling the way I do about her is beginning to scare me.

  I draw away reluctantly, pressing my lips against her forehead, still with my eyes closed. “I wanted it to be like this,” I murmur. “I hoped it would be. The first time I saw you, the way you smiled…” I pull back and open my eyes to find M.K. staring at me, wide- eyed and tremulous. “I knew it could be.”

  “Me, too,” she whispers.

  “Is that all you’re going to say tonight?”

  “Right now it’s all I can say.”

  “Me, too.” I kiss her again, and it’s a long time before I manage to get out the door to go home.

  Chapter Ten

  M.K.

  Six weeks later….

  Clay groans as I slip out of his arms. He’s a cuddler, something I never thought I’d get used to, but now I sleep so much better when his arms are around me.

  I hover by the bed in case he wakes up, lingering as long as I can before I need to get dressed and to the patisserie.

  His eyes stay closed, the dark lashes brushing against his cheek.

  It’s been six weeks, but my heart still gives a squeeze when I watch him sleep.

  The first date, as terrible as it began, was only the beginning.

  Six weeks and I haven’t gotten past the giddy excitement of knowing Clay is mine. He dealt with the uncertainty and confusion of that first dinner by texting any woman he’d been seeing, or talking to, or even gotten their number in the last two weeks.

  I was surprised at how many there were.

  But Clay went through the list and told them all he was taken; that he’d met someone and was focusing on her. That it had been nice meeting them, but he was a one-woman man now.

  He got a surprising amount of texts in return; some with laughing emojis, some with disbelief, all of them with an undercurrent of disappointment.

  Since then he’d been honest and upfront when women approached him, or when they texted him.

  “There’s no one you have to worry about,” he constantly assures me.

  I’m not worried, or jealous, but I can’t seem to bring myself to truly believe that this man—this amazing, funny, kind, respectful, and hot man wants to be with me.

  Me.

  I brush the hair off Clay’s forehead with the hope he might wake up, but no such luck. Reluctantly, I head to the washroom.

  I prefer to stay at my place because of the cats and because Dean has been staying with Clay, but his place is so comfortable, especially his bed. It’s still hard to get up at four thirty to get to the patisserie by five, almost impossible if Clay wakes up, but I’m getting better at it.

  For the last six weeks, we’ve been together every night; sharing a bed for the last five.

  We had promised to take it slow after that first night, but my slow and Clay’s are two different speeds. The whole relationship has been in fast-forward since we met. It’s a literal whirlwind, and I love it.

  I love him.

  Using the light of the washroom, I slip quietly into the clothes I laid out the night before. Clay gave me a drawer in his bedroom and space in his closet. He made room for my face wash and moisturizing creams in the bathroom, which makes the counter cluttered because Clay has quite a few of his own products.

  Luckily, the condo has two bathrooms because while it’s been interesting to start a relationship with Clay and having Dean right in the middle of it, it might be a different story if we all had to share a bathroom.

  If it was anyone but Dean, I might have had more of an issue, but the truth is that I adore him. He’s become the brother I never had, the brother-in-law I’ve always wanted.

  Thankfully, Flora finally woke up and realized what an amazing person she has in front of her. And it happened after we spent the evening at the karaoke place and right in front of all of us.

  I felt like cheering when she kissed him.

  Flora wanted to make sure Dean was over Evelyn, and from the few comments Dean made, I think he was unsure of how Flora felt about him, but The Kiss seemed to clear the air between them. It seemed like it knocked Dean’s socks off.

  Now Flora and Dean can move forward, and maybe catch up to Clay and me.

  Dressed in my stained kitchen pants, with the tiny burns from a caramel accident last month dotting the fabric, I lean down and kiss Clay’s forehead.

  “Don’t go,” Clay mumbles with his eyes still closed.

  “I have to. The patisserie won’t open itself.” Actually it might soon. Rhoda finally left on her own and even though it stretched the budget, I hired two new employees. Nikki is a cute, second-year university student whose perkiness delights the morning rush, and Reuben, my Scottish highlander, who can make the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.

  Business has been great since their arrivals. And Reuben has hinted he would be willing to start opening, which will give me a few more hours sleep.

  And more time with Clay.

  I’d love the time with him, but I’ll be happy if he sleeps more. Regardless of how carefully I slip out of bed, he still wakes up, and most days he doesn’t go back to sleep.

  Clay’s green eyes blink sleepily at me, and my heart tugs with guilt. “Go back to sleep,” I plead. “It’s Saturday morning.”

  “I’m up now.” He yawns. “Early bed tonight.”

  “You say that every night.” I’ve had years to adjust to the early morning, early bed routine, but often as I crawl into bed, he is still wide awake and ready to play.

  I lean down again and kiss his forehead, his nose and finally his mouth. “You’re already dressed.” He sulks, his fingers tugging on the bottom of my black T-shirt.

  “I’m very quick in the morning.”

  “I wish you weren’t. I wish you were the laze-around-in-bed type.”

  “Not in the morning,” I remind him. “But I can laze around in bed tonight.”

  Even this early, even half-asleep, his smile is blinding. “It’s a date.”

  “You won’t want to go somewhere?” I know I’ve completely turned around his life. Early mornings, instead of sleeping late and rushing into the office ten minutes late. Quiet evenings at home instead of late nights at the latest hotspot.

  Commitment.

  From what Clay has shared about his past, I know that’s been the biggest change for him, but he keeps assuring me it’s the one he’s the happiest about.

  I have to trust him. I have to believe him, and it’s easy to when I’m in the moment, but it’s when the insecurities start dripping into my head like the coffee machine, that I have problems.

  Of course I don’t tell him this. It’s the one thing I’ve kept from him—how I feel about him and how it scares me more than anything. He hasn’t told me he loves me yet, so I don’t think he’s ready. Or that he just doesn’t love me. Maybe he’s waiting for someone better, more suited to his energetic lifestyle, to come along.

  “I’ll make you dinner.” As Clay sits up in bed, the sheets slide down and my gaze flickers to his smooth, bare chest. In the last few weeks, I’ve noticed changes there too, because early mornings means he goes to the gym before work. I was happy with his body the first time I saw it, but I have to admit, everything is just a little more defined now. “I’ve dragged you out for the last few ni
ghts, and I thought you’d appreciate a quiet night at home.”

  At home.

  “You’re going to cook?” I ask teasingly, without letting on the thrill that goes through me at his words.

  “I thought I might bake, too.” His hand fists and gives my T-shirt an insistent tug. Somehow I manage to pull away but he doesn’t let go.

  “The way to my heart is through my stomach,” I say with a rueful smile. “You’re stretching my shirt.”

  “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

  “I like this one.”

  “Don’t you like me better?” He gives me a pleading smile, and reluctantly I kneel on the bed.

  Clay’s hands slide under my shirt as he circles my waist. “I like how you try to make me late.”

  He pulls me closer. “Good. The last thing I want to do is make you mad at me.”

  I ruffle his sleep-tousled hair. “I haven’t found anything to get mad at you about. Should I look harder?”

  “Don’t bother.” He grins with sleepy eyes. “I’m sure I’ll find a way to mess it up.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll jinx it?”

  “Do I seem like the superstitious type?”

  His hands tighten around my waist, and for a minute, I wish I had more time to linger. “You seem like my type.”

  After meeting Heather, after hearing stories of bad dates and Dean’s jokes about how an old girlfriend stalked him, I think I’m the furthest from Clay’s type, but I keep those thoughts to myself. “Good,” I say instead.

  “I suggested that Dean try and find other arrangements tonight,” Clay says, pulling me onto his lap. Despite the ticking clock and the list of what I need to do at the patisserie, I bury my nose into the sensitive skin between his neck and his collarbone and inhale his Clay scent.

  I like the way he smells. I like his cologne, his deodorant, even his soap.

  I like him so much.

  I pull away reluctantly. “Do you think he’ll stay with Flora?”

  “After last night? What do you think?”

  “I hope so. I want them to be as happy as we are.”

  “Are you happy, M.K? Do I make you happy?” Clay’s gaze is intent, serious and for a moment I think he might have the same insecurities I do. This is good, but it’s happening fast, and what if we’re doing something wrong? What if we’re breaking some rule that will make the good deflate like a bad soufflé?

  “Yes,” I say simply, unwilling to give into my thoughts. “I’m happy.”

  Clay

  It’s difficult, but I manage to fall asleep for a couple of hours after M.K. left. It still amazes me how much I miss her when I’m in bed without her. It’s like she’s a variation of the stuffed giraffe I had as a little boy. I refused to sleep without it, would barely let the thing out of my sight. It was horrible when my mother had to wash it.

  I’m a thirty-two-year-old man and Gerry the Giraffe has been reincarnated into M.K.

  When I wander, bleary-eyed, out of the bedroom, Dean is already awake and dressed. “Where you off to, dude?” He turns and I see he’s in the process of rubbing sunscreen on his face. “You’ve got a streak there,” I say, pointing to his cheek.

  “I’m helping Flora with her garden job today,” Dean says, eagerness loud and clear in his voice. But I don’t think he’s looking forward to digging in the dirt.

  “Is this the same cute blonde who planted that kiss on you last night?” I raise an eyebrow as he runs a hand, still greasy with sunscreen, through his red hair. “The one that everyone in the parking lot saw?”

  “I guess,” he says, his cheek pink from embarrassment and the rigorous sunscreen application.

  I scratch my stomach as I stretch. “So what’s going on with the two of you?”

  For weeks, Dean has been insisting his feelings for Flora are purely friendship, but after last night, it’s clear to everyone that he feels differently. And I’m pretty sure Flora does, too.

  Dean shrugs with a bemused grin. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, maybe you should figure that out. A day together has got to help with that. You looked pretty good together last night. You sounded pretty good, too. Singing,” I add when he raises an eyebrow. “I have no idea how your kiss sounded. I wasn’t paying that close enough attention.”

  “Apparently Patrick was.” Dean pulls out his cell to show me a series of texts that Flora’s nephew Patrick sent him last night. I laugh out loud.

  I think Patrick is her nephew. They seem more like cousins or even brother and sister. M.K. tried to explain Flora’s family to me one day when she was baking cookies, but I liked the sight of her in an apron so much, and one thing led to another, and well, she burnt the cookies.

  “Are you doing something with Flora tonight?” I ask, heading into the kitchen for coffee. Dean is a good roommate in that he always puts on the coffee and always makes sure he leaves enough for me.

  Dean follows me. “I’m not sure.”

  I glance up at the hesitation in his voice. “Do you really not have any idea what’s going on with the two of you?”

  “No. We’re friends, but now I don’t know. I don’t know if last night changed things.”

  “Trust me, bro. Things have changed. And it’s about time.”

  “You think?”

  “C’mon, if you saw the two of you going at it, you’d know. She’s into you.”

  “That might have been just last night.”

  “If you’re worried that she’s already friend-zoned you, forget about it. From the looks of things last night, that line has been jumped over. You’re good to go.” I shake my head as I pour myself a coffee, the scent of the brew forcing my senses wide awake.

  “But what if she’s not over Thomas?”

  Now I can hear the fear in his voice. He’s got it so bad for Flora, and that’s a good thing, if he can pull it together. “Look, bro, I don’t know Flora very well, but what I do know, she seems like a pretty cool girl. And from what M.K. says, she’s been over that Thomas arse for a while now. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I don’t think you had anything to worry about when you came up with the friend stuff.”

  “You think?”

  “I trust my girl.” Pride seeps into those four words. I trust M.K. I love M.K.

  I love her.

  And I’m going to tell her tonight.

  “Your girl, huh?” Dean grins. “Have to admit, that sounds a bit strange.”

  I smile widely as I lift my coffee. “I know, right?”

  “But good. Nice. I like her.” Dean pulls the to-go cup from the cupboard and fills it with coffee, adding milk and sugar.

  I hand him a few of the power bars he lives on. “So do I.”

  “More than like?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. Before he stayed with me, there was no way we’d ever have this conversation. Being roommates has done interesting things to our friendship.

  I shrug, unable to stop the goofy grin spreading across my face. “I was going to tell her tonight. It’s been two months since we met in Vegas.”

  “Has it been that long?”

  Reminding Dean about Las Vegas means reminding him that it’s been two months since Evelyn dumped him at the altar. I hope that doesn’t mess him up with whatever is going on with Flora. Because if something happens with them, it’s going to affect M.K. and me, as much as we’ll try not to let it. I want to see Dean happy, but even more, I want to stay happy with M.K.

  I’ve never felt this way about a woman before.

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Dean demands, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Who?”

  “M.K. You’ve got this look on your face.” Dean laughs as I give an offhanded wave. Yes, I was thinking about M.K. I’m always thinking of her, wondering what she’s doing, wanting to tell her something that’s happened in my day. Wondering what’s going on in her day.

  “Go,” I say, pointing to the door. “Flora
’s probably waiting for you. Don’t screw it up.”

  He takes the cup and the bars. “Let’s hope not.”

  Once Dean leaves, I wander around the condo, picking up his things. He’s already taken the sheets and blankets off the couch and folded them neatly. The pile sits beside the couch with his pillow resting on top. It’s not that Dean’s a messy guy, but I’m a bit of a neat freak, and I like to keep things put away. I know he’s trying, but both of us know it’s impossible to keep up to my standards.

  I’ve never had a roommate before and it took some getting used to him, but I haven’t minded having him here as much as I thought I would. He keeps saying he won’t stay for long, and I know he’s looking for a place.

  What choice did I have? I couldn’t let him stay on the street after Evelyn kicked him out of the house. And if my place is impersonal, hotel living would be worse.

  Besides, he says my cupcakes make up for sleeping on a couch.

  I head to the kitchen. A few touches of buttons floods the space with music from my Spotify list, the latest from Drake, Post Malone, and Khalid. There’s a ton of things I should be doing, from getting a jump on the next project at work, to going to the gym, but I feel like baking for my girl.

  I like to bake for M.K. because no one else ever makes her anything. She’s an amazing baker, an incredible cook. She’s my kitchen goddess, and in the weeks we’ve been together, I’ve learned so much from her.

  Our first date ended with cupcakes, so tonight I’ll start with them.

  While I set up the ingredients for a simple vanilla cupcake with brown sugar and bourbon icing, I set up my iPad to FaceTime.

  “Do I have the time difference straight? This is really early for you, Clayton,” Liv says when it connects. It’s the middle of the afternoon in London and she’s at her PC, wearing her glasses and a heavy sweater that droops off her shoulder.

  “I like early now,” I say with a grin, trying desperately to keep my eyes off her bare shoulder.