All’s Fair In Love and Cupcakes

by Betsy St. Amant

  Or maybe it was something else. Lucas was usually only in a bad mood after losing a game. Was he worrying about his team? A seed of guilt began to sprout. Maybe she shouldn’t have coaxed him into coming if he was going to be that distracted. In fact, he could hurt more than help if he wasn’t focused in the kitchen.

  She tried to ignore the part of her that wanted his complete attention. His team was important—he loved those kids. They weren’t just students; they were closer to family. It wasn’t like Lucas had any family of his own anymore.

  Sympathy coated the guilt and doubled its size. He’d done this all for her, and here she was feeling jealous over a bunch of sweaty boys and bemoaning his lack of concentration. What kind of friend was she?

  She tapped the leg of his athletic pants, nearly losing her balance as the driver swerved around another cab. “You okay over there?”

  He shot her a smile she didn’t believe, and followed it with a nod before propping his elbow on the window edge. His hair peeked out from under the edges of his ball cap, like he’d mussed it before replacing the cap earlier. “A little tired, is all. Long flight.”

  Liar.

  But if he didn’t want to talk . . .

  She turned back to her own window, barely seeing the eclectic group of sports cars, beat-up vans, and shuttle buses that zipped past. Maybe he was just worried about being on camera. He wasn’t used to that kind of limelight, either, though he handled it better than she did.

  The parade in her stomach turned into something more closely resembling a conga line. She couldn’t think about being nervous, or dropping cupcakes, or forgetting her recipes, or any of the other thoughts that had plagued her dreams on the plane. If she wanted to get out of Bayou Bend, wanted to actually live in the real world and make a contribution, then she had to blot out those what-ifs and focus on the main goal—winning. Blowing the judges’ minds. Nabbing the grand prize.

  And never looking back.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Lucas, and her heart twisted at all the unknowns.

  Maybe just a few looks back.

  This hotel room was hers for five nights.

  For free.

  Kat contemplated spinning in a tight circle with outstretched arms like they did in the movies, but settled for tossing her carryon on the floor and collapsing on the king-size bed. The soft down comforter swallowed her up like a marshmallow, and she bounced a few times for good measure.

  Oz had a whole lot on Kansas.

  Maybe she belonged here after all—in a little piece of her own fairy tale. Maybe her family was wrong. Maybe she did have what it took.

  But only if she proved it tomorrow on camera.

  She sat up, struggled to get free of the mattress’s embrace, and straightened the rumpled, satiny striped pillows. The entire room appeared to have been dipped in luxury, from the chocolate on the nightstand, to the shimmery threads in the heavy drapes, to the massive desk stationed in the corner—that still left plenty of floor space.

  Oh, she could get used to this.

  She should unpack, or take a nap, or something productive before having dinner with Lucas that night, but she couldn’t concentrate long enough to even unzip her suitcase. Who could hang shirts in a closet when her entire life was in the process of potentially changing forever?

  Although she really should get that new dress on a hanger.

  She unzipped her bag, removed the dress, and smoothed the wrinkles before hanging it in the middle of the generous closet. The steam from her shower that night would take care of the rest—if she remembered to hang it in the bathroom in time.

  Kat glanced at the remaining clothes in the now-open suitcase, at the dresser drawers, and then at her watch. She was on vacation. Yet what would her mother say?

  She knew exactly what Claire Varland would advise, and that helped make the decision much easier.

  She toed off her shoes, climbed back on the mattress, and rested against the trendy, chocolate-brown headboard that seemed to float above the bed. She’d only seen those on the home decorating channel, usually on those shows where the homeowner had a ridiculous amount of money to spend on their house and wanted to do it publicly to get a discount from endorsing appliance and paint brands. Still, the effect was even better in person than on TV.

  What else had she missed in the real world while stuck in Bayou Bend?

  Not that she could afford to see anything else “real.” It wasn’t like she could travel and spend her life like this—she wasn’t even paying for it. And never could working at Sweetie Pies. If she won the competition, though, and moved to New York . . .

  Her thoughts trailed, imagining life in a loft overlooking Central Park. Strolling through the shops she’d only read about, sipping coffee from a diner, and splurging on giant cinnamon rolls once a week before church. Finding inspiration for new recipes in the taste of the street vendors’ wares, the aroma of blooming greenery in the park, the sound of children’s laughter at FAO Schwarz.

  She had to win this competition.

  Kat really had to lose this competition.

  Lucas tossed his toiletry bag on the sink in the bathroom, hefted his suitcase on the bed—which looked way too soft for his taste—and began methodically removing everything inside. Socks and underwear in the top dresser drawer. Workout clothes in the second. Jeans in the third.

  He hadn’t meant to have an attitude on the taxi ride over, but nothing about this felt right. In fact, it felt a lot like losing.

  He tossed his dress shoes on the floor of the closet and zipped his suitcase. He couldn’t do this travel thing long-term. All the flying back and forth, the fancy hotel rooms with the miniature soaps that were more of a tease than an amenity. The complicated shower faucet and the bed with way too many pillows. How could Kat want this to be her life? Not that she wanted to live on the road, exactly, but she wanted to travel. See the world. Bake her way around it.

  What was wrong with roots? With the same bed every night, sans decorative pillows? With plumbing he could install and repair himself?

  New York would be more of the same. Who wanted smelly subways, disgusting street-vendor food, and the constant bustle of people? Too much concrete and not enough grass. Too much hype and not enough substance.

  People needed dirt beneath their shoes.

  He shut the dresser drawer and moved on to hanging up his button-down shirts. He’d brought a few nice ones at Kat’s prompting, reminding him they’d have some free time tonight and after taping each day to hit the town. He didn’t see why he couldn’t hit it in a sweatshirt, but this was Kat’s deal. He’d play along.

  For now.

  What about forever?

  He tossed his ball cap on the striped armchair across the room and shoved his suitcase under the bed. He was getting too far ahead of himself again. The trip was just a few nights—not forever. And even if she won and went to New York, it was for a year. Not forever.

  Yet he couldn’t help but notice the increasing time span of each step. A few nights, a year . . . wasn’t forever made up of days and weeks?

  He wrenched back the multiple layers of burgundy curtains and looked out over the seven-story view of Los Angeles. Their hotel was only a few miles from Sunset Boulevard, where the producer had told Kat the studio was located. Well, off Sunset Boulevard, anyway, which was still enough to make Kat squeal at the prestige of it all. Man, he was out of luck. She didn’t just have stars in her eyes as their plane had taxied the runway into LAX—she’d had entire galaxies.

  Did he even stand a chance?

  The sun glinted across the horizon, preparing for its nightly descent from the city. Too bad he couldn’t escape as easily. Must be nice to disappear for a while and recharge. He personally wanted to turn on the sports channel, or maybe go run a few miles in the hotel gym—anything to pretend like he was still at home. Pretend like he wasn’t hovering at a crossroads with Kat, holding his breath to see which road she’d choose.

  Pretend l
ike he could follow her regardless of which one she picked.

  But the truth was he had about an hour until he had to meet Kat in the lobby for dinner. Hopefully, they’d find somewhere in town with a decent burger, though he had a feeling Kat was going to be in an uber-gourmet mood. So far, she’d seemed to be in live-it-up mode, and normally, he’d be right there with her. If this was a real vacation, he’d enjoy experimenting, watching the way she lit up at new discoveries, reveling in how beautiful she looked when she dared to branch out.

  But it wasn’t a real vacation. And the weight of what was potentially coming hung like an anvil over his head.

  His cell beeped from his back pocket, and he pulled it out. A text from Darren.

  CAN’T WAIT 2 SEE U IN UR APRON.

  Loser. He snorted and typed back a response.

  JUST WAIT. UR TIME IS COMING.

  PRETTY SURE IT’S NOT SINCE I’M ALREADY MARRIED.

  Lucas shook his head and grinned. Rub it in.

  WHAT’S UP W/BLUE? THOUGHT REAL MEN WORE PINK.

  Hilarious. I’LL BE SURE TO HAVE KAT MAKE YOU A SPARE.

  THANKS BUDDY. HAVE FUN IN THE GOLDEN STATE.

  Easier said than done. But he didn’t want to get into anything heavy through a text message. WILL DO. DON’T START ANY FIRES WHILE I’M GONE. With a fire department as small as Bayou Bend’s, even as chaplain, Darren still worked the line.

  SAME TO YOU.

  Ha. Words to live by. And knowing Darren, he’d said them with innuendo on purpose. He knew about Lucas’s evolving feelings for Kat. But Darren was the one who had pushed Lucas toward getting married and settling down for years now . . . so what did he mean? He zipped back another text with a question mark. He had to know.

  SONG OF SOLOMON 2:7

  There was the chaplain he knew and loved. He was going to make him look it up.

  Lucas sat down in the horribly uncomfortable, fancy armchair, then remembered he’d thrown his cap there and pulled it out from under him. He pulled up his phone browser, connected to the hotel’s free WiFi, and Googled the reference.

  “Do not stir up nor awaken love until it pleases.”

  Ha. Good one.

  He turned off his phone.

  eight

  The wind was stronger than she’d expected. Kat tugged her coral-colored cardigan around her as they climbed out of the cab, grateful she’d opted for skinny jeans instead of a dress tonight. She still might regret the high heels, but she couldn’t spend her first night in LA in her practical work shoes. Some blisters were worth it.

  Lucas looked perfectly unaffected strolling beside her toward the restaurant, the wind threatening the bill of his cap and slightly ruffling the sleeves of his button-down shirt. When she reminded him to pack some nice clothes before they left town, she didn’t think she’d need to remind him to leave the cap behind. Oh well. It was trademark Lucas.

  Sort of like the smell of his cologne. The breeze kept wafting it right up her nose and straight into her heart. The memories of that scent could last her well into the night.

  She turned her head to gain some distance physically and emotionally, wishing she could slip her fingers into Lucas’s or at least hold on to his arm while they walked. They’d just done that a few days ago, as they’d always done, yet suddenly . . . it felt different. Forced.

  Or worse, inviting.

  Did he feel that awkwardness too? That shift? What had happened—nothing tangible, besides this trip together.

  Maybe that was it.

  “Kat?” The question in his tone nudged her, and she stopped as she realized he’d lagged behind. Maybe he felt the tension too. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing like she assumed, and she’d been holding back for no real reason. Maybe it was worth acknowledging, even worth a chance . . .

  “You passed the restaurant.” He gestured to the shiny gold-plated door he held open.

  Oh. Right.

  She followed him inside the dimly lit lobby, nearly stumbling into the hostess desk as she misjudged the distance. Maybe mood lighting wasn’t as cracked up as she’d imagined it to be.

  “Two?” The black-clad hostess—no wonder she hadn’t seen her—smiled a straight white smile and gathered menus. “Right this way.”

  She followed the woman through the maze of tables, mostly set for two, toward the back of the restaurant and fought a swell of panic. Here it was. The candlelit table she’d been imagining since before they’d left home. She wasn’t in her new dress—she’d save that for later in the trip, assuming she gathered the nerve to wear it in the first place—but the rest of the scenario was so far playing out exactly. The white linen napkin that it seemed a shame to spill anything on. The rosebud centerpiece. The uncomfortable, trendy chairs. The low murmur of other couples sharing intimate moments.

  After they sat down, Lucas tugged his ball cap off his head and folded it into his back pocket. “Didn’t realize this place was so fancy.”

  She set her clutch on the floor near her feet. Did he look uncomfortable because of the implied dress code or because of being alone with her? “It was a shot in the dark. The concierge at the hotel recommended it.”

  Not to mention it wasn’t but a few miles from the hotel, so the cab fare was reasonable. She wasn’t sure how this would play out—who paid for what. She fully intended to cover her own meal, but it didn’t seem fair to let Lucas keep paying for the taxi rides, even if they were being reimbursed later. They were here for her, after all.

  Well, they were here for her, but because of him. Maybe that was enough reason to split the difference.

  If they were a couple, these questions wouldn’t be nearly so complicated.

  She spread her napkin on her lap, almost afraid to open the menu for fear the prices would match or supersede the environment.

  No need. Lucas’s eyes were already bugging. “The salad is fifteen dollars.”

  She shrugged. “That’s not too bad.”

  “The side salad.”

  Oh. She flipped to the next page. Definitely not getting the steak. Or the fish. Or the pasta.

  Maybe a small water and they could share that side salad.

  The waitress came and brought their water—which looked to be sparkling—and rattled off the specials that sounded amazing but included buzzwords like wine sauce and lobster that Kat knew were too far out of reach for her checkbook. They asked for a minute to go over the menu and then went back to staring at the overpriced options.

  “So are you excited about tomorrow?” Lucas leaned forward in his chair, accidentally bumping the table and sending Kat’s fancy water dribbling over the side of her glass. She dabbed it with her napkin and waved off his apology.

  “I’m sort of ready to just get it done so I don’t have to be nervous anymore.” She placed her napkin back in her lap. “But yeah, I’m a little excited.” Maybe. Down deep, below the fear, the insecurity, and the full-out horror.

  Why couldn’t she tell him that? She used to be able to tell him anything—and did. She had zero secrets from her best friend.

  Now she had a huge one. And he could never know.

  “Good.” He nodded, picking his menu back up before turning it over and setting it back down.

  The awkward silence morphed into some kind of monster between them, and suddenly, Lucas didn’t look like Lucas. He looked like a complete stranger sitting on a ball cap. The usually easy camaraderie between them seemed doused in vinegar. The candlelight cast strange shadows across his face, illuminating the five o’clock shadow he had yet to shave and highlighting his uncertainty.

  He was miserable.

  And so was she.

  Yet he was enduring this for her. Always for her.

  What kind of friend was she?

  Enough of this. She grabbed her clutch and stood up, accidentally knocking into the tiny table. Lucas’s glass tipped and righted itself, but not before a river of sparkling water doused their candle.

  She refused to take that as a sign.

&nb
sp; “What are you—” Lucas stared at her like she was crazy, and maybe she was. But she wasn’t going to do this to either of them any longer.

  She threw her napkin over the mess and pointed to the door. “Let’s go.”

  She didn’t have to tell Lucas twice. Somewhere between the table and the lobby, he donned his ball cap, then snagged a handful of mints from the hostess stand and held the door open for her.

  He was back.

  The second Kat spilled her water, Lucas fell in love all over again.

  He fell a third time when she instructed the taxi driver to take them to the nearest McDonald’s and bought them both Big Macs—large sized.

  They stood outside, using the top railing of a black iron fence as a table, and laughed as they fought the Santa Ana winds threatening their french fry wrappers.

  Lucas stuffed the last bite of his burger in his mouth and chewed quickly. “I owe you one. This beats an overpriced side salad any day.” Nearby, a car horn honked, followed by a red convertible pulsing a deep bass beat all the way down the street. Two Rollerbladers whisked past their impromptu picnic spot, their neon green skates matching the streaks in their hair. They were certainly seeing a different side of LA than they would have in that stuffy restaurant, and while he still wasn’t necessarily a fan, at least there was fresh air. And beef.

  “No kidding.” Kat’s hair tangled across her face in the breeze, and she shook it back, but not before missing her mouth with one last ketchup-laden fry. He used a napkin to wipe the ketchup off her cheek for her, then balled it up and stuffed it in his empty burger container. “And you don’t owe me anything. You’ve been paying for all the cabs.” She started to say more but stopped, averting her gaze to follow a middle-aged couple strolling past them hand in hand. Man, he hated that. She used to tell him everything.

  What went on behind those baby blues these days? Was she that worked up over the show? Though come to think of it, she’d been like that for a while now—since before the contest acceptance. Maybe her family had been getting to her for longer than he’d realized.