All’s Fair In Love and Cupcakes

by Betsy St. Amant

  Such as how stupid one could be when in it.

  Her stomach churned, and she wiped her palms on her apron, wishing she hadn’t bought those blasted aprons in the first place, wishing she could just bake already, distract her runaway thoughts, and channel her hovering aggression into something tangible.

  Wishing she could dunk Lucas’s face into a bowl of cupcake batter.

  How in the world could he not see how he’d controlled her all these years? Maybe the motivation behind his actions wasn’t a negative one, but the facts remained the same. All this time, she had doubted her own ability, doubted her talent, felt trapped in the binds of her insecurities and fears . . .

  All while Lucas held the ropes.

  Maybe love was blinder than she realized. After all, she’d never noticed the truth before, and apparently Lucas still couldn’t see it. If he was still blind, did that mean he was in love too?

  Or was he just that oblivious?

  With men, it could go either way.

  Her eye suddenly caught Thad’s from behind the judges’ table, and he offered a subtle wink. Feeling a flush creep up her neck, she looked quickly away, feigning interest in Sam’s never-ending soliloquy. Hopefully, Lucas didn’t catch that, or else he’d blow it up to ridiculous proportions.

  “Today, bakers, you’re going to create three different cupcakes that demonstrate the beauty, pain, and blindness of love.” Their exaggerating host paused for effect. “All in two hours.”

  Great. What could she make that represented the beauty, pain, and blindness of love? She couldn’t ask Lucas’s opinion on what to bake, that much was certain. Not after she railed on him last night on the Ferris wheel about his backing off and her doing it all herself. In fact, she was halfway surprised he’d even gotten out of bed this morning and come to the show in the first place. Probably because she’d have been eliminated if he hadn’t.

  But wasn’t that what he essentially admitted to wanting in the first place?

  Focus, Kat. She shook off the negative, distracting thoughts of Lucas and crouched slightly, ready to run to the shelves of ingredients at Sam’s word. She could do this. She had to do this. She’d just figure it out when she got there—with or without Lucas.

  Probably without.

  “This round will be scored on a combination of both taste and decorations, so don’t hold back, guys.” Sam clapped his hands. “Start the clock! Ready, bakers?”

  She stiffened, felt Lucas’s eyes on her back, felt the challenge, the loaded question. Could she do this? Could she prove herself once and for all? She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. Of course she could.

  That nagging feeling in her stomach—fear? regret?—would dissipate eventually. Right?

  “Three . . . two . . .”

  And if not, well, she’d gotten what she came for. Self-respect. Self-esteem. Self-pride.

  The nagging feeling intensified, and she swallowed.

  “One! Go!”

  Ready or not.

  This wasn’t working. Her meringue was more sloppy than fluffy. Her rhubarb filling was so chunky it looked as if she’d only considered the blender instead of actually using it. And her black fondant sunglasses appeared more Johnny Bravo than Johnny Cash.

  Meanwhile, Lucas hovered just out of reach, following the instructions she tossed at him but taking no initiative. When he finished a task, he stood and waited with expectation for his next mission rather than looking around to see what needed to be done and just doing it as he always had before.

  She apparently had just graduated to being both chef and sous chef.

  And the pressure was about to make her shove her apron into the blender and hit puree.

  She gritted her teeth. “Lucas. The filling on the stove.”

  “What about it?” He asked calmly, rocking back on his heels like Sam continued to do over by the judges’ table. Was that just a guy thing? Was Lucas mocking Sam? She didn’t know anymore. Didn’t have time to care.

  Besides, if someone didn’t prevent that second batch of rhubarb compote from burning, she was going to do some fancy footwork of her own. Like kick her tennis shoe straight up—

  “Bakers, forty minutes!” Sam barked from the front of the room, appearing way too gleeful at the grim announcement. Kat bit back a rush of panic and cast a frantic look at her competition. Tameka and Tonya, faces grim, lips pressed into straight lines, bent over their decorations as they cut pink fondant into shapes she couldn’t recognize from this far away. Piper and Amanda, who had been strangely quiet all day, worked steadily as well. Maybe even they were tired of the cattiness and had decided to just concentrate on winning.

  Which just made Kat all the more nervous.

  She swung her attention back to the stove. “Lucas! Take the compote off the burners.” Please. She couldn’t make herself say it. If she showed any hint of compassion or friendship, she’d crumble faster than the coconut in her chocolate cake. She had to stay mad or she’d never make it through this round.

  “Aye, aye, boss.”

  Well, at least Lucas wasn’t making her angry goal hard.

  He ambled to the stove, wrestled an oven mitt onto his hand in seemingly slow motion, and removed the pan from the top. He stood there, then, holding it like a programmed robot that could only hear and absorb one comment at a time and waited for his next prompt.

  Frustration balled in her throat. She couldn’t swallow it back, couldn’t breathe. She flapped her hands at her sides, tried to inhale around the tennis ball of anger that lodged there so tight. She couldn’t explode. She knew why he was doing this, and deep down, beneath the ball, she knew it was her own fault. She’d asked for this, and pretty rudely, at that. What did she expect? Lucas to ignore her childishness and schemes and be the bigger man—again?

  Yes, actually she had.

  But she couldn’t depend on that. On him. It was all on her.

  She had to make her dreams come true. No one else was going to do it. At this point, no one else seemed to even support her dreams in the first place, much less be willing to help her achieve them.

  Maybe not even God anymore.

  The ball widened, and she choked back an unshed tear. Maybe God wanted her to prove herself too. Maybe she’d been dependent on Lucas for too long, and God was giving her the reins to do this herself. Make it happen herself and prove that she didn’t need anyone.

  Or maybe he just wasn’t all that interested either.

  Maybe she was on the wrong path, and he’d given up on her already.

  No. The panic swelled. She could—no, would—make this happen. No matter what.

  And if not, then, well—she’d go down trying.

  With a deep breath that dislodged the ball, she snatched an extra oven mitt from the counter, grabbed the pan from Lucas’s hand, and took it to the mixer. She stared unseeing at the concoction bubbling into the bowl, gave it a brisk stir, and loaded the piping bag.

  Then realized she hadn’t cored the cinnamon cupcakes yet.

  Deep breath times two.

  She grabbed the corer and began hastily cutting out the centers, then poured the filling inside.

  All while Lucas stood beside her, arms crossed, watching. Waiting.

  She’d almost rather go home than play this game with him—and lose.

  But not quite.

  “Would you finish the fondant sunglasses? Less animated, if you can. More legit.” She didn’t look at him, proud of the way she kept her tone in check. Not even a hint of the indignation she felt bubbling inside hotter than that compote. She licked her lips. “Please.” She didn’t want to be a complete bear, though she couldn’t seem to figure out how to retract her claws.

  “Sure.” He swung around the work counter to face her, and went to work on the fondant glasses.

  She hated that he made them perfect. Did what she couldn’t.

  Again.

  Deep breath times three.

  She quickly creamed some extra butter into the stubbo
rn meringue, and it stiffened right up. Ha. See? She knew what she was doing. She could do this. She was capable.

  Had to be.

  She iced the remaining cupcakes, ignored Lucas standing motionless near the finished sunglasses, and then placed the completed decorations atop the cinnamon cakes. The caramel apple cakes were already decorated with red fondant, split-down-the-middle broken hearts, and the chocolate coconut cakes boasted little books with tiny sugar crystals pressed inside to represent Braille.

  “Ten minutes.” Sam’s joyful alert didn’t strike panic in her heart for once, because for once she was ahead of schedule. Now she could stand back and watch Piper and Amanda scurry around in a frenzy.

  Not a drop of sympathy to be given there.

  Kat untied her apron and leaned against the counter, exhausted. She did sort of wish she could lend Tameka and Tonya a hand, as they’d been consistently friendly to everyone for the duration of the taping. They were still scrambling to finish their decorations, which looked amazing so far, but that wouldn’t matter if they didn’t actually make it on the cupcakes in time.

  She closed her eyes briefly, then jerked them open to double check that their cupcakes were plated and ready to go before closing them again with a sigh of relief. Funny how this round—the round in which she’d had the least help—had gone the smoothest. No shady tricks from Piper. No accidents in the kitchen. No possible sabotage from her own team member.

  “Good job.” Lucas’s quiet words of affirmation in her ear, probably intended to soothe, just rubbed irritatingly raw. What was he trying to do here?

  “No thanks to you.” The words fell from her lips like miniature missiles, and she wished she could swallow them back. But then she’d blow up inside, and that wasn’t any better.

  He nodded slowly. “I deserved that. Don’t worry.”

  “What’s your deal, Lucas?” Kat tried to keep her voice low but struggled. “You barely did a thing today. This is the round that determines the finals, and I had to practically babysit you.”

  “You told me to back off, give you space. Not hold you back.” He shrugged, then crossed his arms over his blue apron, which still made him look way hotter than he’d ever know. “Just doing what you asked.”

  She had asked that, yes, but—since when did he listen to her? She shook her head. “Whatever, Lucas. I’m just tired of this.” Tired of herself. Tired of him.

  Tired of the unspoken currents between them that kept carrying them away into no-man’s-land.

  “So am I, Kat. I came all the way out here to help you, and it’s been one attack after another.” His words sounded sharper somehow at low volume, more intimate and intense. More sincere. She tried to dodge their pointy barbs, but they landed in her heart anyway. “You know, you’re so obsessed with winning and with this dream of yours.”

  “I’m obsessed? You pushed me out here. You made me come!” Kat yanked her tone back to a whisper as Piper’s gaze rose and her head tilted their direction. She turned slightly to put her back to the opposing team.

  Though lately, it seemed more like her own teammate was the real opposition.

  “Exactly.” Lucas leaned forward, his warm peppermint breath wafting against her hair. “I wanted to help you make your dreams come true, Kat. Not turn them into an idol.”

  She reeled backward, heart somehow simultaneously in both her shoes and in her throat. “Get out.” Leave. Go. Go away. She couldn’t hold back the tears pressing, burning, about to consume her. An idol? How could he say that?

  Could it be true?

  “Gladly.” He untied his apron and tossed it at her. “See you in the waiting lounge.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she balled the apron in her hands.

  No. He wouldn’t.

  There was just no pleasing a woman.

  Lucas, careful to keep his phone angled toward him and away from the chatting women perched on the couches near him in the lounge, punched in a text to Darren. Deleted it. Then tapped it in again and hit Send before erasing it a second time.

  He had no idea what to say, how to sum up what had just happened over the past twenty-four hours. He just knew that everything was different, and he hated it.

  He leaned his head back against the couch and sighed. Maybe Darren had been right. Maybe he had been trying to stir up or awaken love before it was time, and this was the disastrous result. Maybe he should have just been Kat’s friend and supported her and left it at that. Left it for God to work out instead of taking over himself and messing it all up.

  Well, that was a pretty good start for the text.

  He keyed in the realization, then sat back and waited, hoping his friend had some words of wisdom to share before the decision for this round was announced. Kat had yet to come into the lounge to meet him. Was she avoiding him?

  Could he blame her?

  He’d called her dream an idol. Not even just labeled it, but accused her of making it that way, no less.

  What was it about this show that made the worst of each of them jump out and claw at the other? They’d spent more time fighting each other lately than banding together against the other competitors.

  Speaking of, Piper had been laying low this round—a fact that made him more nervous, as Kat’s Aunt Maggie would say, than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  He stole a sideways glance at the snarky younger girl, and realized with a start she was boring her gaze right back into him. Unashamedly staring, with a smirk.

  Angling that rocking chair leg right toward him.

  His phone beeped, and he jumped. Piper laughed. He glared back. That striped-sock witch in the movie he’d watched with Kat the other day had nothing on this chick.

  Incoming text from Darren. Finally. WHAT’D U SAY 2 HER?

  Well, no turning back now. He started typing. CALLED HER DREAM AN IDOL.

  OUCH.

  Lucas snorted. I KNOW. JUST HATE HOW BLIND SHE IS, MAN.

  LOVE IS BLIND, RIGHT?

  Well, that was ironic. Darren didn’t even know about the theme of the round. Lucas thought a moment, then keyed in a response. SHE’S LET THIS CUPCAKE DREAM BECOME EVERYTHING TO HER.

  EVERYTHING HOW?

  U KNOW. IT’S ALL SHE WANTS. ALL SHE THINKS ABOUT.

  HMMM.

  Man, he really hated Darren’s “hmmms.” That noncommittal, I’m-not-going-to-say-anything-until-you-realize-stuff-for-yourself-first trick. Made him almost as anxious as Piper was making him now as she whispered with Amanda over in the corner. Where was Kat, anyway? He should go look for her.

  But she didn’t really seem to want to be found.

  He hesitated, then continued typing. IT’S THIS OBSESSION THAT’S CROWDING OUT ANY HOPE FOR REAL HAPPINESS. FOR OTHER DREAMS.

  U MEAN, YOUR DREAMS?

  Ouch.

  He powered his phone off.

  Once again, she was outside behind the studio, fuming—except this time, she’d propped the door with the same wooden doorstop from inside the door Thad had used.

  She did learn some lessons.

  How dare Lucas tell her she’d made her dream an idol? Talk about hypocritical. Here he’d been shoving her toward her dreams all these years, taking the final steps to help launch her into her desired future—and now he wanted to pull the rug out from under her and say never mind? To cast judgment?

  Easy to say to someone who didn’t have any dreams because they were already living theirs out. Lucas had everything he wanted—dream job, dream career, small-town fame. He had a purpose and a plan every day. He had obtainable goals and had already won a championship to prove it. He didn’t know what it was like to feel like you were constantly missing the mark, like everything you hoped for was always just a step out of reach. That, worse yet, everyone who knew you the best didn’t believe your dreams were even possible for you.

  Yet he wanted to point fingers at her motivation and her goals?

  Men.

  She texted a quick summary of recent events
to Rachel, who wrote back with a brief OMG and sympathetic MEN in all caps.

  Not entirely helpful.

  She lifted her face to the breeze blowing through the alley, trying to inhale peace. Catch her breath. Not think about the fact that here in just a few minutes, her entire fate would once again be determined by three assorted, famous bakers sitting behind a metal table.

  Was God involved in this process at all? Or had she kicked him out?

  Sure felt like she was alone.

  Her phone beeped again. SORRY, DIAPER EXPLOSION.

  Kat wrinkled her nose. NO PROB. Rachel definitely won the pity party battle of the day with that one.

  LUCAS IS JUST PROJECTING. IGNORE HIM.

  Ignore him? How? He was her baking assistant. Her best friend. And the only other person she currently knew in Los Angeles. EASIER SAID THAN DONE.

  HIS OPINION MATTERS 2 U. REMEMBER THAT.

  Ugh. TRYING TO FORGET.

  THAT’S THE POINT. IT MATTERS ANYWAY.

  Kat frowned. WHAT’S UR POINT?

  MY POINT IS: HAVE YOU WORN THE BLACK DRESS YET?

  Oh good grief. She powered her phone off.

  “There you are.” The male voice wasn’t Lucas’s, as she halfway expected, but Thad’s. He had been looking for her?

  Which she hadn’t expected.

  “Nervous?” Thad grinned around the cigarette in his mouth as he clicked on his lighter.

  “Not at all.” Chin up. Head high. She wasn’t requiring any sympathy or pep talks this time—not from Lucas or any man. Confidence would be her new mission. Fake it ’til she meant it, anyway.

  Anything to keep the tears at bay that still sprang at the ready from Lucas’s verbal assault.

  She blinked rapidly and looked away, down the alley, as if the Dumpsters and piles of abandoned cardboard boxes held the answers she so desperately sought.

  “I wouldn’t be nervous. Pretty little thing like yourself.”

  That jerked her head around. She watched as Thad took a drag on the cigarette and exhaled away from her, the wisps of smoke curling into the air. The resulting aroma floated around them, and she took a step back, already feeling nauseated in the pit of her stomach. “Well, thanks for the compliment, but that has nothing to do with my baking.”