All’s Fair In Love and Cupcakes

by Betsy St. Amant

  Somewhere along the way, one batch of cupcakes along the way, he’d tripped right over the label of Best Friends they’d worn the majority of their teen years and landed upside down on the field of Love.

  And suddenly, he had zero plays to call.

  “Ready?” She pushed back into the front of the shop, shouldering the strap of her oversize turquoise bag. He’d teased her last year about the size of her previous purple one until she bought the bigger turquoise just on principle. He wisely kept his mouth shut after that, in case he pushed her into toting around an actual suitcase for a purse. He knew when to prod and when to shut up, when to encourage her to take it one step further and when to dial it back. No one knew Kat better than him.

  Some days he wondered if he knew her better than she did.

  “Lucas? You ready?” The pinch of her brow reminded him she’d already asked that question once. Ready? Well, no. But yes—the main problem being he had no idea if she was.

  He straightened his shoulders. “I’m always ready.” His trademark retort rolled easily off his lips, bringing a smile and erasing the confusion that lingered on her expression. He offered his arm. “To the bank?” He hoped not. He hoped he could walk her straight home and she’d invite him in and they’d cook stir-fry or something else delicious.

  “No, I’ll take the deposit tomorrow. They’re about to close, and Maggie said it wasn’t worth the rush.”

  Win. He struggled to hide his victory smile as she came around the counter and linked her arm through his, exactly the same as they’d done a hundred times over the years. But nothing with Kat was the same anymore. It was exhilarating and frustrating all at the same time.

  She craned her neck to peer up at him, her wide blue eyes inquisitive. “I have some stir-fry at the house. Want to stay for dinner?”

  Another win. “Only if you promise to make dessert.”

  She tried to plant her free hand on her hip, but the giant purse got in the way and nearly swung her off balance. She lifted her chin, apparently in an attempt at indignation instead. “Hey, now. I’m not cooking dinner and dessert after baking cupcakes here all day.”

  He tugged her toward the door, laughing. “Then I’ll handle the stir-fry. You just do what you do best.”

  Her responding smile made him want to offer to do the dishes too. “Nice play, Coach.”

  She had no idea.

  two

  Lucas looked way too much at home sitting in the tiny kitchen of Kat’s rental house, elbows propped on the bar countertop as he rocked back and forth on two legs of the stool, mouthing along to the Sinatra song drifting from the portable stereo. She’d always warned him one day he was going to fall, but so far, she hadn’t been proven right.

  About a lot of things, actually.

  Kat filled a measuring spoon with water from the sink, wrinkling her nose at the dirty dishes filling one side. Leftover stir-fry lay congealed in the pan he’d forgotten to clean after cooking, and she’d have a time of it trying to scrub it off. She should get Lucas to do that now, but he looked so comfortable at her bar, paging through a sports supply magazine, that she hated to ruin the cozy image she was sure to daydream about later.

  Besides, part of her still hoped he’d fall.

  She poured the water into the mixing bowl, dried her fingers on her favorite Parisian dish towel, and began to whisk the ingredients together. She always liked to hand mix, though sometimes she ended up resorting to the electric beaters. Something about staying personally connected to the batter made the end result more satisfying, though. Like she’d earned it.

  “Coconut or chocolate chips?” Her bicep burned from mixing, but she kept at it, humming along to the music warming the room.

  Lucas turned the page of his magazine. “Both.”

  She glanced at the miscellaneous ingredients she’d gathered on the counter in hopes inspiration would strike. “Strawberry or orange?”

  “Both.”

  Kat stopped stirring and shot him a look. He lowered his magazine with a smirk. “I’m kidding. Orange.”

  Coconut, orange, chocolate chip. She could work with that. She resumed mixing despite the ache in her hand. “You should know not to kid about cupcakes by now.”

  “One would think.” He closed his magazine and leaned forward, giving her his undivided attention. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember what to do next. Oh yeah, coconut. She sprinkled the shredded fruit into the mix and stirred again.

  “Let me do that. Your arm is shaking.” Lucas hopped up and reached around her for the whisk, his firm chest brushing against her back. Was it just her, or had Sinatra started singing louder? Her heart beat a heavy rhythm in her ears, and she held on to the whisk, unwilling to let go until he finally pried it from her fingers.

  Which remained in a clamped position.

  She had a claw.

  He shook his head in amusement and dropped the whisk back into the bowl. “Use the beaters next time, Martha.” He reached for her hand.

  She allowed his touch. “As in Martha Stewart?”

  “Or the one in the Bible. Both work too hard.” He winked as he began to massage her fingers, his touch sending a shiver of electricity up her spine. Feeling began to flow back into her hand, bringing both pain and relief. His football-calloused palms were rough but gentle against hers, his nails short and practical. She studied her own hands, her lighter skin a stark contrast to his year-round tan. They both had work-worn hands, born of doing what they loved.

  Except Lucas was living his dream out loud, while hers had to stay hidden in her private kitchen.

  She reluctantly pulled her hand away, averting her eyes. “Better keep mixing. You don’t want the batter to gel before the coconut is fully incorporated.”

  He obeyed without arguing, probably because of the sign she’d bought from a craft fair last summer and hung above her oven range just for him: “Don’t mess with Texas, mama bears . . . or the chef.” She’d almost bought the one that said she kissed better than she cooked, but that might be a lie.

  The familiar wave of insecurity left over from Chase and his selfish choices began to seep around the edges of her heart, healed now but scarred. Sometimes they still pinched. She’d pictured forever after with the man—boy, really, if she got honest about his maturity level. Who tried to switch over to his girlfriend’s sister midcommitment?

  Not that Stella had fallen for it. She’d been smart enough to see it for what it was, but that didn’t change the facts—that Kat might have been the firstborn, but she was clearly everyone’s second choice.

  That wave of insecurity grew into near tidal force, and she drew a deep breath to remind herself she wasn’t drowning anymore. That particular season of her life was over, thank goodness. Chase was over. But man, it’d been a long winter.

  She darted a glance at Lucas as visions of spring danced through her head.

  No. Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  She took a much-needed step away from him and began to wash the oranges, their conversation replaying in her mind. Martha. He thought her a Martha. It niggled at her, but really, what was so bad about hard work? Someone had to get things done—and she knew how to do it. Besides, there were a ton of Bible verses about the positive qualities of work.

  One difference, though—she doubted Martha ever wondered if she had what it took.

  Kat turned to zest fresh orange over the bowl as Lucas kept mixing. Their shoulders bumped, their elbows brushed, and the churning in her stomach had nothing to do with the amount of stir-fry she’d consumed.

  “Don’t forget the chocolate.” Lucas handed her the bag of miniature chips, and she measured a careful cupful over the bowl. Right when she dumped it in, Lucas snatched the bag from the counter and tossed in another handful.

  “Hey! I didn’t measure that.” Panic bloomed in her chest, and she moved the bag out of his reach. She wasn’t working with a set recipe because she was experimenting, but she still knew which ingredients tended t
o take over a recipe and which got completely ignored. Which ones enhanced other flavors and which ones demanded the spotlight for themselves.

  Which ones complemented, and which ones contradicted.

  “Trust me.” Lucas handed her the whisk, eyes steady on hers. “Sometimes the best things in life are born of chance.”

  Very funny, coming from Coach Play-by-the-Rules. Kat took more chances in her baking than Lucas ever took, on or off the field—their lifelong friendship attested to that. So he was going to start preaching today in more ways than one. First she worked too hard, and now she played it too safe?

  Sudden frustration bubbled, and Kat plucked a few chips from the top of the batter and shot them into her mouth. She was so tired of vanilla. “Good idea, Coach. But maybe you need to take your own advice.” Then she began to stir.

  She was going to need a bigger sign.

  Sinatra had been booted in exchange for the television. It currently blasted a cooking reality show featuring several chefs, red-faced and angry as they alternated tossing something resembling salmon in a pan and making snarky comments about the head judge.

  Lucas had finished cleaning the wok about three minutes ago, but he kept the hot water running and his hands buried in dish soap in hopes of looking busy—and staying out of Kat’s range of fire.

  The cupcakes, when they’d been taken from the oven a little while ago, had been so full of melted chocolate they’d turned into a mushy, clumpy mess. They tasted excellent, of course, like a volcano of chocolate lava had erupted in Lucas’s mouth. But for Kat, presentation was half the package, and well—epic failure there.

  Which was his fault.

  Which was why he was doing dishes while she alternated between dejectedly tossing each cupcake into the trash can with a thud and shooting him looks that could have branded his flesh. Something had upset her before the cupcakes had gone into the oven, though, and he knew enough to realize it wasn’t just because of his adding extra chips to the batter.

  Thud. Another cupcake landed in the can.

  Maybe he had overstepped his bounds. After all, the kitchen was her turf. He wouldn’t want someone who wasn’t a professional coming on his field and directing his boys. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t want that even if they were a professional. He knew best for them.

  Thud. Another cupcake met its odor-contained, plastic grave.

  Kat baked without reservation at home, free of the box Sweetie Pies trapped her inside every day. Free to create. Free to be wild within the security of her comfort zone, which was shaky, at best.

  Bottom line, he’d taken her control.

  Thud.

  He shut off the water. “Kat?” He’d almost slipped and said Martha again, but his gut informed him this wasn’t the best time for more teasing.

  Even if it was true.

  He grabbed a dish towel to dry his hands, and at her silence, he turned to face her. She froze over the trash can, caught red-handed with the last of her failed cupcakes half in her mouth, chocolate smeared across one cheek. Her eyes widened behind the evidence covering her face. “What? I never said they didn’t taste good.”

  Oh, he wanted to laugh. Hard. But he had to apologize first. He tried to stifle his smile as she dropped the remaining cupcake portion into the trash can and he handed her a paper towel. She scrubbed her face, but missed a streak of chocolate near her lips. Before he could think twice, he reached out and rubbed it with his thumb.

  She stilled under his touch, and he wished he had the right to kiss her. They’d kissed before—friendly pecks on the cheek after he picked her up from the airport one summer, or a reassuring kiss on the forehead when she cried in his arms when her favorite dog died her junior year.

  But friendly and comforting wasn’t at all what he was feeling right now.

  He lowered his hand and stepped back, wiping his still-damp hands on his jeans. “I’m sorry.”

  She lifted one eyebrow, a trick he had always coveted. “For ruining my batter?”

  “For interfering.”

  Kat’s bravado seemed to crumple, and she sagged against the end of the counter. “I overreacted. Just stressed today.” She momentarily hid her face, then lowered her hands, vulnerable. A smile quirked the corner of her lips. “But you should always obey the sign.”

  Her pointed gaze rose over his head toward the oven, and he grinned at the implication. “How could I forget?” He knew that sign well, had almost bought her one that said she kissed better than she cooked. But he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

  Make that the right idea, but the wrong time.

  Maybe he’d waited longer than he’d needed to. Maybe she felt the current between them as strongly as he did now. It was more than just the come-and-go chemistry that occurred between friends of the opposite sex, though. That had flared occasionally over the years, but never taken dominance—especially after Kat dated that dirtbag Chase for almost two years.

  To her credit, she hadn’t known he was a dirtbag for a long time. But Lucas had an eye for these things, which was only proven after the jerk promised Kat the world and then came on to her own sister—and ended up taking off to see it with someone else after Stella rejected him. After Kat was free, her heart was too spent for Lucas to jump in with more promises she wouldn’t believe. Talk about bad timing.

  Besides, neither of them would have wanted to mess up the security of their friendship then, a friendship that remained steady throughout high school and college, even though Lucas was two years older. He even came back to Bayou Bend High to be Kat’s prom date her senior year.

  But this wasn’t a limo ride and a corsage. Or an influx of teenage hormones. This was Kat. His Kat.

  And lately, the thought of her baking cupcakes for any other man made him throw a football a whole lot harder.

  He inhaled, then let it go, blowing away the thought. “Seriously though, I won’t butt in again.”

  “Yes, you will.” She tilted her head, still in reach though she’d shifted slightly away. “That’s what you do. You push me to try bigger and better.”

  Maybe. He trailed one finger over the trim on the bar, the chipped Formica rough under his skin. “Sometimes I push too hard.” Or sometimes, not hard enough.

  “Yep.” She smirked. “Even when you’re wrong.”

  And that’s what it was really about, wasn’t it? He was afraid—no, concerned—that he was wrong. That any gesture toward her would ruin a lifetime of friendship that he needed more than he needed air. Food. Football.

  Time to man up. But not here, not after he’d screwed up her trust. Kat deserved something big. A real gesture. She needed to believe him.

  He needed to believe himself.

  One thing was certain. If his offer on the land and house was accepted, he wanted Kat with him. And that meant a ring. He wouldn’t dishonor either of them by settling for less.

  He needed a game plan. But his mind felt stuffed with sweet-grass. He never operated without a game plan, not for the important things. Football. Real estate. Love. He opened his mouth, unsure what to say, but realizing if he didn’t say it, he might explode all over her kitchen. “Kat, I—”

  “Round two?” Kat nudged the package of flour still on the countertop, and the hope in her eyes made him bite back the words begging to release. Another time. Besides, he owed her.

  And if this . . . thing was going to happen, then he probably should get used to baking cupcakes in his free time.

  A commercial blared from the television, distracting him from watching Kat grab a clean mixing bowl out of the dishwasher. Cupcake Combat, a popular reality show, was accepting applications for their new season. The slick-haired host looked like he’d smeared cooking oil into his hair, but the judges on the panel this year were names even Lucas recognized from previous cooking shows he’d endured with Kat. This one seemed like quality.

  He noted the deadline date for applications, which was that upcoming weekend. Kat should apply. Talk about provi
ng to the world what she could do. He started to suggest it, but Kat clicked off the TV, shot him a shy smile, and turned Sinatra back on.

  He’d tell her later. Definitely later.

  three

  Tyler, I said grip the ball. Not hand it over to the other team with an engraved invitation for a touchdown.” Lucas bit into his chewing gum to keep from harping further, and clapped Tyler Dupree on the shoulder as he jogged off the field. Sometimes less had to be more.

  “Sorry, Coach.” The teen’s muddy uniform and grass-stained knees showed testament to his effort, but the boy had butterfingers the past few practices. He shuffled to the bench and shucked his helmet, then tossed it at his feet.

  Lucas debated between giving him space and doling out a lecture. He had to rag the guys a little—they needed to stay tough, learn how to listen to it and channel it into their game—but he always stopped short of being condescending. A little sarcasm, a little reproof, and a lot of high fives made up his style.

  It was just that, lately, Tyler had pushed him to the edge of that style.

  Still, these boys were like family, and Lucas was more than a coach. For some of them, he was the only authority figure they had in their lives. That made it tricky to find the balance in his role, and more than once Lucas had to remind himself what was most important. Unfortunately, that answer wasn’t always football.

  Though it usually was.

  The afternoon sun warmed Lucas’s neck, and he adjusted the brim of his baseball cap to block it as he called for fifty jump-ups. He’d wanted to let the guys go home early, but it was nearly five o’clock now and they were still goofing up basic drills. His assistant, Coach Kent, had grilled the defensive line earlier, too, accusing them of picking dandelions. Hopefully not literally.

  What was the deal?

  Not that Lucas hadn’t struggled to keep his own head in the game, especially since last week’s baking session with Kat. Round two had led to perfectly edible, perfectly awesome chocolate-chip-coconut-orange cupcakes, which they’d enjoyed on the bar stools as they talked late into the night. About nothing. About everything.