Beautifully Baked: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

by Holly Kerr

  “Ah,” Imogene’s face relaxes.

  “Who is this M.K.?” Heather asks with a note of irritation in her voice.

  “Flora’s friend. She works at Pain au Chocolat,” Imogene supplies. “You met her when you came in for the interview.”

  “I take it you got the job.” I glance between them. “Congratulations.”

  “Tomorrow will be her first time on her own,” Imogene says, her hand still resting on her stomach. “Not soon enough for me. This little guy feels like he’s about to pop out any minute.”

  “You look great,” I say automatically. Heather clicks her teeth and my heart sinks. Who knows what she’s going to say about me? At least I’m telling Imogene the truth. “Pregnancy suits you. There’s a glow, just like they say.”

  “They also say you get your energy back in the final trimester. They lie.”

  I smile. “Good luck with everything.” My smile falters as I glance at Heather. “I—uh, I need some flowers.”

  “Of course you do,” Heather says under her breath.

  “And here I thought you came in to see me.” Imogene smiles.

  “I always come in to see you.” The easy banter I’ve developed with Imogene feels awkward in front of Heather, who is now standing with a sour expression and her arms crossed across her chest. “M.K. is my girlfriend,” I explain quietly to Heather.

  “A girlfriend?” she asks skeptically. “A real, live girlfriend? From the king of anti-commitment?”

  “People change,” Imogene says. “Love does strange things.”

  “I know—it seems impossible, doesn’t it?” I say, wanting Heather to stop scowling at me. “But we met in Las Vegas two months ago, for about an hour, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I didn’t know her last name, where she was from and I had no way of getting in touch with her. But fate stepped in and we found each other.”

  “Literally right around the corner from each other. It’s a nice story,” Imogene says dreamily. “Almost as good as Flora and Dean’s, if they ever get together.” She pushes away from the counter. “I’ll get your flowers. Do you have a preference?”

  “Something pretty,” I say weakly, at a loss to even name a flower right then.

  Imogene laughs and waddles over to the refrigerator where colourful blooms sit inside buckets of water.

  “I’m so happy for you,” Heather says sarcastically. “That you’ve found true love.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I hold her gaze. “I had no idea I’d ever find M.K. again.”

  “Even if you hadn’t, it would have never worked out with us.” Heather rolls her eyes. “You made that perfectly clear.”

  “I don’t think I made anything clear,” I say. “Except that I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until M.K.,” I correct. “I think we were looking for two different things.”

  Heather tosses her head. “It doesn’t matter now. You don’t matter, at least not to me. But some people…” Her tone changes, becomes sly. “Do you remember my friend Abby, who you also went out with?”

  I take a step back. Abby. Abby of almost a year ago; fun, sexy. Dancer. “Of course I remember Abby.”

  A memory nudges me. Didn’t Abby text me a couple of weeks ago? When I first met Heather? “I didn’t realize you were friends.”

  Heather smiles knowingly and I feel the first prickle of fear. Obviously I crossed signals with her, and now I have to suffer. But there’s nothing she can say or do—it’s not like I promised her anything.

  It was just drinks.

  “It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Heather says mockingly. “I bet you don’t remember that Abby was trying to get in touch with you, too.”

  “I saw that. But it was at the same time as—”

  Heather cuts me off with a wave. “I know. M.K. Love of your life. But you should really get in touch with Abby. She has some big news.”

  “I doubt she’d want to share anything with me,” I say ruefully, looking to see if Imogene has finished with the flowers. She has a bouquet in her hand but keeps adding to them.

  That’s enough flowers for today.

  “Oh, I think she would.” Heather gives me a sly smile.

  “I’ll have to text her, apologize for not getting back to her.” Is that what Heather wants? For me to grovel to every woman I’ve ever known?

  “Apologize? That might be a start.”

  I narrow my eyes. “A start to what? As far as I remember, Abby and I left on good terms. No hard feelings there.”

  “Yes, but how good is your memory? Seems to me that you’ve forgotten a few things. Basic courtesy, the fact that Abby had your baby…”

  I drop the bag holding my pain au chocolat.

  Chapter Twelve

  M.K

  I rush into the kitchen as soon as Clay walks out the door of the patisserie. Did the customers hear that? Was the elderly man at the corner table with his paper and café au lait listening to every word?

  Did I really hear Clay say he wants to move in together?

  I did. I really heard Clay say those words.

  Were the two women in their running outfits who stopped in to get the full-sized latte, with an extra squirt of vanilla wondering how I could have agreed so quickly?

  Did I really agree to move in with Clay with no plan or schedule in place? And buying a place together? Did I really suggest that?

  When I bought my house, I took a week to decide, spent two sleepless nights and almost gave myself an ulcer. Why would I want to do that again?

  Because Clay asked me.

  I lean against the wall beside the swinging door and hug myself. “He wants to move in together,” I whisper. How can I keep quiet when all I want to do is shout, scream, sing and tell the world I have a man who wants me.

  I can’t do that with a patisserie full of customers but I can dance.

  I flick the volume of the radio and am rewarded with an AC/DC song playing.

  AC/DC was a personal favourite of my father’s.

  I dance around the kitchen, shaking my head, my hips, my ass with moves that would make a stripper proud. Grabbing a spoon off the counter, I mouth the words with abandon, wishing I was alone in my car so I could sing loud and proud.

  Clay wants to move in with me. Clay wants to live with me.

  Clay wants me.

  Suddenly sober I stop mid-step, still holding the spoon as a microphone. How can Clay want to live with me so soon? It’s too soon. We’ve only been together a few weeks; there’s no way he can be ready to make such a decision. There’s no way that I can be ready.

  My shoulders slump as Pink Floyd replaces AC/DC on the radio. I can’t move in with him. Because what happens if I give up everything, and Clay figures out that it’s too soon, or he’s not ready, or meets someone else…

  “He’s not Ben,” I hiss. “He’s Clay and he loves me.”

  He loves me.

  Does he? He hasn’t even said it. And what if he does? What does that mean? Where is this leading?

  What do I do now?

  Adam bumps open the door with his hip, a questioning smile on his face. “What is going on back here? I heard music. Are you—it seems…you’re dancing.”

  “No, I’m not, it’s just—”

  “You were dancing,” Adam corrects. “You only dance when we sell out of croissants or you get an office-party gig. It means you’re happy.”

  “I—yes,” I admit. “I’m happy. I think.”

  “Why do you have to think about it? What did The Man say to get you so giggly?” Adam carefully closes the swinging door and leans against the counter. From the expression on his face, he’s not leaving anytime soon.

  “I—” I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my giggle. Why can’t I finish a sentence? A thought. Why can’t I blurt out to Adam what Clay said?

  What happens if Clay takes it back?

  “M.K.?” Adam crosses his arms with an expecta
nt glare. “Moira Margaret? What’s going on?”

  “I should have never told you my full name,” I mutter, turning away from Adam’s eagerness.

  “I would have stolen your wallet to check if you hadn’t. It’s a tease when you go by initials. And so is this conversation!” He tosses his head and then is suddenly distracted by a container of macarons I pulled out earlier. Carefully selecting a mango cookie, he pops it in his mouth.

  I watch him, feeling the words bubble inside me like a pot boiling over. “Clay asked if I want to move in with him,” I confess in a rush.

  Adam blinks, his mouth full of macaron. “Is that all?”

  “Is that all?” I parrot.

  He chews and swallows, taking time to choose his words. “Well, yes. You spend every night together as it is. Plus it would save on rent.”

  I shake my head. For all his exuberance about life, Adam has a practical streak that constantly surprises me. “I guess.”

  “What’s your problem, then?”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “You totally do. You were in here dancing and I’m sorry I missed that because obviously you’ve gotten it in your head and talked yourself out of being excited about it. Probably gave yourself a talking to about how Clay is going to meet someone else and renege on the whole thing.”

  Now I’m the one blinking with surprise. “How do you know that?”

  Adam waves his hand before pulling a bag of milk out of the walk-in refrigerator. “Please. I’ve been working here for two years, five months and sixteen days, and while you don’t offer much in terms of backstory, you do tell me some. And when I get a nugget, I can go to Patrick and ask him because, in case you forget, he has known you since he was born.”

  I frown. “What exactly did Patrick tell you?”

  “Nothing bad. Nothing you wouldn’t have told me yourself, given a chance and a bottle of tequila.

  My shoulders sag. “You know about Ben.”

  “Yes.” There is no hesitation in his voice. Adam may be a lot of things, but he’s exceedingly truthful.

  “You know about my father?”

  Another wave. “That’s old news, and nothing to be ashamed, or angry, or offended about. Or anything else.”

  “You should get out front. I’ll be there in a minute,” I say in a low voice.

  “Which means I’ve offended or angered you, and you don’t want to talk. Look, M.K., you’re clearly freaking out here, so why don’t you run and talk to Flora? She’s always able to talk you down, and I can hold down the fort here.”

  “She’s doing a garden today. I’ll talk to her later.”

  “Make sure you do.” Adam touches my shoulder. “The two of you are really cute, you know. You and Clay, as well as you and Flora. I like the two of you. Don’t mess it up by being in your head, or I’ll make a move on him, okay?”

  The thought of that brings a faint smile to my lips. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

  “What are you talking about? If Patrick and I really used the mojo, I’m sure we could convert both Clay and Big Dean. Once you’ve had gay, you’ll always want to be my Bae,” he sings, and my laughter bubbles out. “That’s better.” Adam smiles with satisfaction. “Get out of your head. Things will be just fine.”

  Clay

  Flowers forgotten, my phone is in my hand as the door of Fleur swings shut behind me. At least I picked up my pastry bag.

  A baby?

  Abby had a baby—my baby?

  The timing works. I hate to say it, but it works. Abby and I dated for six weeks—a relationship length of time for me—a year ago. I remember because I went to my parents for Thanksgiving and didn’t invite her. Liv had been furious with me, but Abby took it in stride, or so I thought. We mutually ended things soon after.

  Thanksgiving was last week.

  I liked Abby. She was cool and liked things casual. I liked her as much as I could like someone who isn’t M.K. But—a baby. She wasn’t pregnant when we broke up. I would have known.

  What do I do now? What am I supposed to do with this information?

  I don’t bother texting Abby. This calls for person to person, or at least voice to voice to begin with. I find her name in my contacts as I stalk to my car, the bag with the pain au chocolat crumpled between my coffee and my hand.

  “Clay?”

  Abby’s voice is hesitant as she picks up. I stand frozen by my car at a loss what to say. “Did you have my baby?” I blurt.

  “What?”

  “I just saw Heather, and she said you had a baby, and it’s mine. Is it?” I hold my breath, not knowing what I want her to say.

  Do I have a child that I never knew about?

  “I tried to tell you,” she says defensively.

  My breath whooshes out in a huff, and I sag against my car. “You had my baby?” I whisper hoarsely. “My child.”

  “I tried to tell you,” Abby echoes.

  “You didn’t try very hard!” I glance around, not wanting anyone to hear this conversation, not wanting M.K. to hear. “Jesus, Abby, how can you just throw this on me?”

  “I’m not throwing anything on you. You’re the one who called me. I wasn’t even going to tell you.”

  “Why not?” My voice raises enough that a customer walking into Pain turns to look at me. “Look, we need to talk about this. I need to know things—a lot of things. And not here on the phone. But now.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  I pull my cell away from my ear and stare at it like it’s about to self-combust. I’m about to self-combust. How could Abby keep this from me?

  “Of course I’m sure. This is a baby we’re talking about.”

  “My baby,” Abby corrects.

  “Our baby,” I insist.

  “Fine, if this is really what you want. I’ll meet you at your apartment in an hour.”

  ~

  It’s the longest hour of my life.

  I forget about going to the office, my plans with M.K. for that night. All I can think about is that I have a child.

  And it’s not like the news has destroyed my world or anything. It’s like Abby telling me she had my baby makes everything clearer, more concise. I’m a father.

  I’m pacing the condo after picking up everything small enough to fit in a baby’s mouth when Abby buzzes. I doubt I’ll ever remember where I put my car keys.

  I have the door open at the sound of the elevator chime.

  Abby greets me with a cool smile as she walks down the hall. “Clay.”

  I don’t say anything, just stare at the car seat she’s holding. “Is that—?”

  “Something smells good,” she says, walking in. A blanket covers the car seat so I can’t see the sleeping baby.

  I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. How could I not ask that?

  Would it matter? “Abby,” I warn, “is that—?” My throat is tight and drier than a bottle of fine Chardonnay.

  “This is Theo. Your son.”

  A boy. I have a son. My chest puffs with pride as I shut the door behind her. “Theo. My son.”

  “Hope you like the name.” Abby strolls into the condo, her gaze flickering to the couch, the kitchen, the table. We spent a fair amount of time here during the weeks we were dating.

  At the open bedroom door.

  We spent a lot of time in there, too.

  She sets the car seat on the coffee table and sinks onto the couch.

  “Can I—can I see him?”

  Abby rolls her eyes as she folds back the blanket. “Don’t wake him up.”

  My heart clutches in my chest as I set eyes on my son. Theo is asleep, his hands fisted in his lap, his downy, blond hair ruffled. I search him for signs of myself. “He’s mine?”

  “I’m happy to do a paternity test, or you can trust that I was only sleeping with you during that time. You know as well as I do that we had a good thing going, and I wasn’t about to mess it up. Even though neither of us wanted a commitm
ent.”

  I turn my gaze to Abby, at her cool smile, her unblinking brown eyes. I remember how it was with us; I know she’s telling the truth. Theo is mine, the result of a miniscule margin of failure in birth control. “Looks like we’ve got some commitment now.”

  “And some issues.”

  “How old…?” I try and do the numbers in my head and fail miserably. I lean forward and study his face intently. Is that my nose? The wisp of hair falling onto his forehead is a darker blond than mine. My hand reaches forward on it’s own volition, stroking a gentle finger along his fist resting on his leg. He’s wearing gray jogging pants and a blue shirt. One of his white socks is falling off and I carefully adjust it.

  “He’s eighteen weeks old. Almost five months. He’s a good boy—sleeps well and growing bigger every day He’s twelve pounds now. He eats well.” I can’t help but notice that Abby tells me this without the tired but proud smile of a new mother. I’ve seen that smile so many times on Liv’s face. Even Imogene lights up when she talks about her pregnancy.

  But there’s no light in Abby.

  “How was the pregnancy? The birth?” Why didn’t you tell me? I want to scream, but I know the answer. Abby was—is—independent to a fault. It’s something that drew me to her. She never needed me, never needed anyone. She would have had the baby by herself just to prove that she could.

  “The pregnancy went well. I was able to keep dancing until I was six months, and then I spent the next two months training my replacements.”

  “Was that healthy for him?”

  She gestures coolly to the sleeping baby. “As you can see, he’s just fine.”

  “I don’t know that he’s fine because he’s sleeping. And I can’t tell that he’s fine because I’ve never seen him before!” The hold on my anger slips, and the words erupt like gunshots.

  Abby only shrugs. “You should have texted me back.”

  “That was six weeks ago! You had months to tell me.”