ZONDERVAN
Love Takes the Cake
Copyright © 2015 by Betsy St. Amant
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
ePub Edition © July 2015: ISBN 978-0-310-39599-7
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Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Interior design: James Phinney
To Jason and Tara Hardin—for living out a real life example of love. I love your story and your hearts!
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Much gratitude to my editor, Becky Philpott—I love you more than cupcakes!
To the entire editorial and marketing team at HarperCollins—you guys rock!
And to my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray with the Steve Laube Agency—thank you for your consistent support and cheerleading.
To Anne, for being a friend, a first reader, and a voice of reason and truth. I am so grateful for your friendship.
To Jacki, for always being willing to fly with me into the unknown. You’re a warrior!
And to Audrey—my Little Miss, who’s always up for dessert. I love you! Let’s eat cake!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of pastries is in need of a hungry man.
He was back.
The bell on the door to The Dough Knot chimed a heads-up as the tall, semidark, and handsome not-quite stranger strolled inside, head down as he typed on his phone.
Charlotte Cantrell tried to disregard the flutter of butterflies in her stomach, but it was rather like ignoring a herd of stampeding elephants. You didn’t linger in denial—you just got out of the way.
But Charlotte had nowhere to go.
Behind the display case full of pumpkin cheesecake muffins, orange-coated petit fours, and cinnamon pecan cookies, she pretended to clean the already spotless counter and tried to look nonchalant. Like it was every day a drop-dead gorgeous man with amazing hazel eyes walked into her bakery and placed an order.
It wasn’t every day—it was actually only every Tuesday at 5:40. She could set her watch by him.
Charlotte automatically reached to box his standard to-go order—two of her delicious, secret-ingredient giant snickerdoodles—and hesitated. Would it be good customer service to let him know she remembered his order, or would it just come across as desperate?
She might be a single mom, but she certainly wasn’t desperate.
She waited, taking the opportunity to study him while he was occupied with his phone. The sweep of dark hair over his forehead. The perfect cut of his button-down shirt.
Mr. Right, who came every Tuesday, without fail.
And bought cookies for another woman.
He looked up then, caught her in her hesitation, and offered a sheepish grin that made him all the more charming. “Sorry.” He held up his phone. “I had to answer that. My friend’s on his way to meet me here.”
“It’s no problem.” She forced herself to act nonchalant. Or tried, anyway. Attractive, polite, and apologetic for something as small as texting while walking into a business?
So that’s where Mr. Darcy went.
It was enough to make Charlotte swoon like one of Jane Austen’s heroines, but then there’d be no one to work the register, and Ms. Mystery-Right wouldn’t get her weekly treat. Besides, swooning had only left her with a broken heart in the past, and she had no desire to repeat history.
Mr. Almost-Right caught her gaze then and smiled broader, as if somehow he could read her thoughts. She blushed, afraid the heat of the attraction pulsing toward him over the counter might overbake the baked goods. “The usual?”
So much for pretending she didn’t know.
She was a glutton for punishment. The man clearly had someone else in his life, someone he cared about enough to make a special trip to the bakery every single Tuesday. And yet Charlotte had deliberately sent her friend and part-time employee Julie on her afternoon break at five thirty so that she would be alone when Mr. Right showed up. What did she expect? That he would throw himself across the counter and proclaim his undying love?
It didn’t matter. Julie was due back any time now. A new bride—Julie called her Bridezilla—was coming in to taste a wedding cake. Julie was going to work the counter while Charlotte dealt with the bride.
Charlotte had spoken with the woman on the phone the other day. She had managed to compliment and insult the bakery all at the same time, and yet somehow left Charlotte eager to please her.
Such evil was almost impressive.
“The usual, yes, please.” He slid his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled his wallet from the other side. No ring on his tanned left hand. A few weeks ago, she had wondered if maybe he was a single dad, and the sweets were for his daughter. She usually had a pretty accurate radar for picking out fellow single parents.
But all of his comments over the last month or so hadn’t added up to that deduction. Melissa said to tell you thanks. She said the cookies this week were even better than last. Melissa said she hasn’t had a cookie this good since high school.
Melissa was one lucky woman.
A wave of guilt pressed on Charlotte’s shoulders, familiar and tangible. Had she been too flirty with this mystery man, considering she knew he wasn’t available?
Charlotte had been on the other side of that equation. The rugged, football-playing smooth talker she’d dated her senior year in college hadn’t been entirely honest about his relationship status—in other words, he’d outright lied to her face and was engaged to someone else. Charlotte ended up in the role of the “other woman,” the home wrecker. And even if it had been unintentional, it was both painful and guilt-inducing, and she never intended to go that route again.
Once she found out the truth, that was the end of it, despite the positive sign on the pregnancy test. She would go it alone as a single mom, for better or worse. She was done with the handsome, charming types who knew, along with the rest of the female population, that they were handsome and charming.
As she told Zoe every time her daughter asked where her future stepfather was—they were waiting for God to send them a safe, predictable nerd.
Preferably one who bought baked goods for her, not for another woman.
Charlotte slipped the snickerdoodles into the bakery’s signature turquoise and brown box, then removed her plastic glove and punched the buttons on the register. He was already handing her a five-dollar bill. At this rate, he might as well start a tab.
“Listen, there’s something you should know.” He darted a glance over his shoulder at the picture window, then back at her, a sudden seriousness lighting his ha
zel eyes. “There’s sort of this wedding, and . . .”
Wedding. Her stomach knotted. Of course. So Melissa was a fiancée. She dropped the money into the register and slid out his change, the quarters clanging loudly against the metal drawer. Why on earth did men not wear engagement rings the way women did? It wasn’t fair to not be able to tell at a glance that a man was taken.
Still, it didn’t matter. Not really. This man wasn’t safe. Not judging by the things he did to her stomach. And while he might be a little predictable with the every-Tuesday-cookie thing, he wasn’t a nerd. Not by far.
Charlotte needed “safe” for her and Zoe. This guy was a five-alarm fire.
“Wedding. Right.” She fought for her most professional smile as she handed him his change and receipt, trying not to imagine what he’d look like in a tuxedo at the end of a long church aisle. “Congratulations.”
Her mind raced through a blur of images, snippets of conversation pulled from their interactions over the past several weeks. How in the world had she known his favorite color was green, and that he loved desserts with extra nuts, and that he liked camping in Arkansas—yet didn’t know he was getting married?
“No, no.” He looked over his shoulder once more at the door, lowering his voice. “It’s not for—”
“Here it is!” The door to The Dough Knot flung open as if rocked on its hinges by the force of the proclamation. A short, stick-thin brunette rushed inside, flaunting a white tank top with the word Bride spelled across the front in hot-pink rhinestones. On her heels trailed a guy in a ball cap and ripped jeans who mouthed the words I’m sorry as they entered.
This had to be Brittany, the Bridezilla who had the appointment for the cake tasting. She was early.
And even louder in person than she’d been on the phone.
Charlotte pasted on her most patient, professional smile—one she’d mastered over years of donating free pastries to school bake sales. She refused to complain about Brittany—or to Brittany, for that matter. Cake sampling equaled potential customers, and potential customers equaled money in the bank—not to mention exposure and word of mouth. The majority of The Dough Knot’s custom wedding business came from guests who wanted a similar cake for their own upcoming nuptials.
And considering this past quarter’s bottom line containing all of her spring wedding business, she couldn’t afford not to keep Brittany happy. Not if she wanted to keep Zoe in private school, and keep them both in the safe, friendly apartment complex where they lived. Not if she wanted to keep baking.
And attempting to atone for her past.
“It’s smaller than I pictured.” Brittany planted her hands on her hips as she gave the bakery a quick look of disdain. Then she shrugged a tan shoulder. “But I guess we shouldn’t judge the quality of the cake by the shop’s décor.”
Not fair—or accurate. Charlotte’s shop was cute, with turquoise walls, trendy wall art, and gleaming mahogany tables, each boasting a teal and brown striped table runner. A chalkboard stand advertised the day’s specials by the entrance. Just yesterday she had hung a beautiful crimson and orange autumn wreath on the door. Charlotte bit her lower lip, reeling in the sarcastic responses that crowded her mind. Too bad the customer was always right. Because so many things about Brittany were just plain wrong.
The man in the ball cap fist-bumped Mr. Not-So-Right over Brittany’s head. “Sorry we’re late.” Wait, what? They knew each other? Oh. His friend he said was meeting him here. Then that meant . . .
Not his wedding.
Hope rallied, then immediately deflated. Melissa still existed, even if she wasn’t quite ring-worthy yet. Charlotte needed to quit this train of thought, right now. She’d hold out for an accountant or a lawyer. With suspenders. And a bow tie.
Definitely not distressed-denim jeans and a dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled halfway up.
“It’s okay, you’re not late.” Mr. Right turned back to Charlotte. “I was just telling . . . um, Ms. . . .?” His voice trailed off and he raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to fill in the blank, but the direct eye contact made her forget.
He didn’t know her name.
Well, at the moment, she didn’t either. She knew his favorite football team was the Saints and he knew she had an addiction to all things Jane Austen—but he didn’t know her name. How had they never actually introduced themselves?
“Char—Charlotte.” Great. This was college all over again—stuttering and moony-eyed over a hot guy who would inevitably break her heart if she handed it over. Chemistry wasn’t everything. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way? She was a grown-up, a mom, with her own business—and the debt to go with it—and had no time to waste on what-ifs that shouldn’t be. She squared her shoulders. “Charlotte Cantrell.”
“Charlotte. Right.” His voice dipped low, and he held his hand out across the counter. “I’m Will Martin.”
She shouldn’t have taken off the glove she’d used when gathering his order. The contact of her palm against his sent a shiver down her spine and a burst of heat through her chest. “Nice to meet you.”
“You might think otherwise in a minute.” Will turned back to the bride and groom. “This is Brittany and Adam—the happy couple.”
“Is that what we are?” Adam joked, and Brittany elbowed him in the gut.
“Very funny.” Her glare proved it wasn’t. “And we’re not late. We’re early.”
Adam shrugged. “I told Will we’d be here at five thirty.”
“Our appointment isn’t until six o'clock.” Brittany’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion clouding her face. “Wait a minute. Why did you tell Will to meet us, anyway?”
Adam’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Brittany’s eyes narrowed to slits. Charlotte watched back and forth like an observer at a tennis match. She should be going to grab the cake samples to intervene, but instead she held her breath and waited to see if maybe they’d just cancel the wedding altogether.
“This is our wedding, Adam.” Brittany pressed her manicured finger against his chest and then poked at her own. “Mine and yours. Not Will’s. I know you guys were inseparable in college but believe it or not, you can actually do things without—”
“Actually, Brittany . . .” Will stepped between them, and draped an arm around their shoulders, his voice calm and soothing. The way you would address a wild stallion—or a tantrum-pitching three-year-old. Charlotte remembered those days of parenting all too well. “Adam just needs to give me the tux rental information he’s got in his car. So he thought we’d meet here, since he knew I’d be coming to get Melissa’s cookies this afternoon.”
“Melissa?” Brittany pressed her lips together, one eyebrow quirked. There was so much more the bride obviously wanted to say, Charlotte could practically see the unspoken words dancing in her eyes. Say it, say it. Solve the mystery of Melissa! “You mean to tell me you’re still—”
Adam coughed. Loud and hard.
“Whatever.” Brittany flipped her hair back. “Never mind.”
Disappointment rivaled relief. Oh well. She might never know about Melissa. And maybe that was for the better.
Brittany turned her steely gaze then to Charlotte, and Charlotte fought the urge to take a step backward. “We’re ready now.”
In other words, hurry it up.
Charlotte gritted her teeth and retrieved the samples from the kitchen without a single sarcastic comment. A huge, secret victory.
Brittany shoved a square of frosted cake into her mouth, handed one to Adam as an afterthought, and then picked up another, studying it an inch away from her nose as if she could visually inspect every ingredient. “The vanilla is decent. I guess.”
Standing behind Adam, out of sight, Will suddenly held up three fingers. Charlotte frowned, trying to decode his gesture while not making it obvious she was staring over the couple’s heads as they debated the pros and cons of vanilla cake. What was he trying to say? She turned the tray so Brittany could access the
next flavor in the lineup.
Will pointed intentionally at Brittany, then with an expectant grin, held up three fingers once more.
“I like this one.” Adam mumbled around his smaller mouthful of cake. “It’s not as boring as other vanilla cakes.”
Charlotte beamed.
“Though by now, they kind of all taste the same.”
Charlotte sighed.
Brittany picked up the next piece and shoved it into her mouth. Her eyes widened. “Oh, the strawberry is actually . . . good. Really good!” Like a starving woman, she shoveled in another two samples, this time of white chocolate and lemon. “Adam. This is awful. I can’t decide.”
Over their heads, Will held up two fingers.
Brittany wrung her hands in front of her. “I mean, seriously, Adam.” The wringing turned to flapping her arms at her sides in a gesture of panic. “I have no idea what to pick.” Her voice pitched and cracked.
Adam sidestepped as her flapping connected with his shoulder and nearly knocked his sample out of his hand. “Hey, careful there, babe.”
Brittany's breathing became erratic. Charlotte darted a glance back and forth between the two of them. Should she call 911? Did this woman carry an inhaler? Why wasn’t anyone else concerned?
Her gaze collided with Will’s, who was still grinning and subtly holding up two fingers.
“The strawberry would be amazing with the champagne bar! But that chocolate was so moist!” Tears began slipping down Brittany’s cheeks.
Charlotte stared at Brittany. In all her years of catering to brides, never had her cake brought one of them to tears. Hardly a testimonial she could add to her website.
Behind her, Will turned down another finger so only his pointer remained in the air. Then he mouthed the words. Blast off.
As if on cue, Brittany erupted. “What are we going to do?” She flung herself into Adam’s arms. He stumbled back three steps before he caught his balance. Her fingers curled tight into the front of his T-shirt, gripping the material in both hands. “We can’t have three wedding cakes!”
Adam nodded, patting her back as the dripping tears turned into shaking sobs. “You’re right, babe. That’s not really possible.” He mouthed the next words to Will. Or in the budget.
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