Love Takes the Cake

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Look me in the eyes, Zoe.” Charlotte looked up from her piping bag long enough to lock gazes with her daughter across the room. Used to the drill, Zoe stared back, wide-eyed, open, honest. Sincere.

  Eyes didn’t lie.

  “Okay, you may have just one.”

  “Chocolate chip?”

  Charlotte smiled. “What else? It’s your favorite.”

  Zoe scrambled out of her seat and hurried to claim her prize. Charlotte snagged a chocolate-chip cookie from the top rack and handed it over the counter to her.

  “Julie! This cake’s ready for the van.” Charlotte tucked the corners of the lid inside the turquoise folds of the box, trying not to think about her to-do list. Normally, she loved lists. She was almost addicted to the rush that came with productivity and accomplishment, the thrill that came with checking off a completed item. She’d even taught Zoe the principle, and was constantly finding pink sticky notes that read Potty and Play with dolls stuck around their apartment.

  But next on her list was meeting with one Will Martin, and—well, that was going to complicate her afternoon, not streamline it.

  “Mommy?” Zoe said, more persistent this time as her heels kicked against the chair legs. “I’m bored.”

  Of course she was. Charlotte wrestled the last corner fold into the box. “Your books are in the kitchen, sweetie.”

  “Which ones?” Zoe twisted a blonde braid around one finger and narrowed her eyes.

  Charlotte wracked her brain to remember which ones she had grabbed on the way out the door, but she couldn’t concentrate. Could barely remember her own name, much less story titles. “Um. If You Give a Moose a Muffin, I think.”

  Zoe made a face. “I’ve read that one three times.”

  “The two dozen cupcakes for the Lopez birthday party are out of the oven and cooling.” Julie came from the kitchen, cupcake batter smeared across the front of her apron, and tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. “These cakes go to the Sinclair wedding, right?”

  “Yes, and those too. It’s a three layer.” Charlotte pointed to the other two boxes awaiting delivery on the counter behind them. “Keys should be on the ring by the back door.”

  “Mommy? What other books are there?”

  Charlotte closed her eyes. “Zoe. I don’t know, honey. Goodnight Moon?”

  “That’s a baby book.”

  “Two steps ahead of you, Boss.” Julie jingled the keys in her hand. “Why aren’t you taking these, by the way? Normally you like to be the Cake Naz—I mean, you like to set up layered cakes yourself.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose at her friend. “I’ve told you not to call me Boss.” Julie was teasing, of course, about the Cake Nazi. She just liked things to be under control. Simple—no messes. And she couldn’t guarantee perfection if she wasn’t there to oversee it for herself.

  But today . . .

  “Remember? I have a three o’clock consultation.” She tried to keep her voice even, but despite the effort, her voice rose half an octave. Why was she so nervous? Will Martin didn’t have the potential to be anything more than a temporary client. She’d met his pretty-boy type before, plenty of times, and had no intention of going down that road again. What she needed was stability. Commitment. A man of honor and loyalty, who kept his promises.

  Unfortunately, most of those men didn’t come in Will-size packages—at least not in Charlotte’s experience. She needed a small, contained bonfire. Smoldering sparks in a fire pit. Will was more like a Colorado wildfire—and she’d been burned enough.

  This time, she refused to let Zoe get caught in the smoke.

  Julie frowned in confusion. “Wait. Is this the consultation for that Bridezilla who is making her best man choose the cake?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte cleared her throat.

  Julie put her hands on her hips, keys jangling. “Then why don’t you let me go through the initial run-through with him, while you take the cakes?”

  “Because.” Flustered, Charlotte tried in vain to think of an excuse that would sound like anything other than what it was. “Just . . . because. Please?”

  “You got it, Boss.” Julie tossed the keys in the air with one hand and caught them deftly in the other. “But when I get back, I expect a better explanation than that.”

  “I want to go!” Zoe slid down from her chair and danced first on one foot, then the other. “Can I help make the delivery?”

  Julie shrugged. “Sure, kiddo. If it’s okay with your mom.”

  “That’s fine. Her car seat is already in the back.” Charlotte breathed a little easier as Zoe grabbed her for a good-bye hug. Now Zoe would have something to do and wouldn’t interrupt the consultation.

  On second thought, maybe having Zoe nearby wouldn’t have hurt.

  Julie took the cake layers out to the van, then returned and motioned to Zoe. “Let’s go, kiddo—”

  The bakery door swung open, interrupting her sentence. Will strolled inside, a handful of dry burgundy leaves skittering onto the tiled floor in his wake.

  “Sorry about that.” He caught the door with one hand and tried to kick them back out, looking up with a bright, apologetic smile that could have sold toothpaste to millions.

  “Ah, never mind. No better explanation necessary.” Julie winked at Charlotte. “We’ll just be on our way . . . Boss.”

  Then they were gone, leaving Charlotte alone with Will and the kaleidoscope of leaves on the floor.

  For some reason, that particular mess didn’t bother her one bit.

  She braced her arms against the counter between them, briefly wondering if his girlfriend Melissa was typically the mess-intolerant type too. Maybe she and Melissa had things in common. Maybe she’d meet her during one of the wedding events for Adam and Brittany, and they could be friends.

  Surely then she could put a stop to this uncomfortable and unnecessary magnetism toward Will.

  Charlotte took a deep breath and wished for the thousandth time that she had known six years ago what she knew now.

  Well, five years plus nine months, anyway.

  Will leaned against the counter opposite her, bracing on his forearms, and gestured to the swinging door in Julie’s wake. “Is she always that perky?”

  Charlotte started to answer, then met his eyes and hesitated. From this closer vantage point, she could see weary wrinkles lining his eyes, attesting to a false front. He’d apparently had a rough day, or something heavy weighed on his mind.

  She knew the feeling. She rarely got a break from her own burdens. In fact, if it wasn’t for the light Zoe brought to her life and the fact that she got to bake for a living, she’d buckle right underneath them. God had been good to her, despite her mistakes, and had blessed her in spite of herself.

  Her defensive guard slipped a little under this wave of compassion toward Will, and she fought to rebuild the retaining wall, avoiding eye contact as she brushed at some imaginary crumbs on the counter. “Sometimes. Julie’s a redhead, so you never know what you’re going to get.”

  “She can’t be as bad as Brittany.”

  Charlotte snorted. “No one’s as bad as—” She winced. This was a client she was railing to—and the best man, no less. Not exactly professional. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe.” Will winked, and the stress lines around his eyes edged away as a real smile replaced the forced. “I mean, the truth hurts, right?”

  “It definitely can.” A huge understatement. Painful or not, knowing the bad was infinitely better than being deceived. She shrugged away the memories. “I guess some people don’t realize how they come across.”

  Will’s fingers drummed a rhythm on the countertop. “Just between us, I think Brittany knows how she is, and just chooses to be that way anyway. Mostly because everyone lets her.”

  “You don’t think there’s a chance she’s misunderstood?” Charlotte knew not to jump to conclusions, not after she’d naively dated an engaged man for months. Everyone on the
school campus had assumed she knew exactly what she was doing, and she hadn’t had a clue. She’d let herself be swept away, let herself be sweet-talked against everything she’d ever stood for.

  No one believed her, especially after she turned up pregnant. And she wore the Scarlet Letter all the way to graduation day. Zoe’s father refused to be a part of any of it. Never showed a moment’s interest, never paid a dime in child support.

  It was just as well. Charlotte wanted nothing to do with him, ever. At least she’d been able to move back to her hometown, start The Dough Knot, and make a decent life for her and Zoe.

  “There’s always a chance, I suppose.” Will shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter.

  Charlotte’s breath tightened in her chest. His flippancy over such a deep topic annoyed her more than it should.

  “I just don’t believe people change—not easily, anyway, or completely.” Will’s eyes flickered with some undefined emotion. “My mom used to always tell us that if someone tries to show you who they really are, then let them.”

  Charlotte felt her neck flush with indignation as she pushed away from the counter. Away from Will’s judgment. “But what about those people who are really good at appearances?”

  She fell headlong into the flashback, feeling exactly the way she had in college, defending herself all over again. No one believed she was innocent—especially not her ex’s fiancée, who had accused her of being a home wrecker in front of a stadium full of students.

  Charlotte crossed her arms over her apron and ignored the rose petal icing that smeared across her elbow. “What about those people who make you believe they’re one way or one thing, when they’re really not?”

  Will frowned, confusion replacing the tired creases in his forehead. “What about them?”

  Reality sank in, and as her anger diffused, Charlotte let her arms slowly unfold. What had she just done?

  “Never mind.” Embarrassed, exhausted tears pricked at her eyelids, and she brushed at the front of her apron until she regained a semblance of control. “Um . . . maybe we should just discuss the cake order.”

  Or maybe he should just leave. Maybe she should forget baking for this entire wedding. But no—she needed this. For Zoe. For their security. Who knew when the next big order would come in?

  Will stared at her until she had no choice but to make eye contact. “Charlotte.”

  She raised her eyebrows, still not trusting her voice, and blinked a few times to clear her eyes.

  He leaned forward over the counter, something soft and inviting sparking in his hazel eyes. “Were we having the same conversation just now?”

  No. She opened her mouth, then shut it, debating how much to divulge. She’d clearly been fighting some battle with her past and projecting it onto this man—this taken, unavailable man. Her palms grew damp. What was she thinking? She couldn’t confide in him or get emotionally involved. Was she so scared of history repeating itself that she was destined to self-fulfill the prophecy?

  There was only one thing to say.

  “Are you leaning toward the lemon, white chocolate, or strawberry cake?”

  Will knew after the first bite that the secret ingredient in Charlotte’s amazing snickerdoodles was cream cheese. He knew that if an egg was spoiled, it would float in water instead of sink. And he knew rolling limes with the palm of your hand made them easier to juice.

  Will knew food.

  But Charlotte Cantrell was one recipe he couldn’t analyze.

  From his position at the counter barstool, he watched her through the kitchen doorway as she quickly fixed another tray of cake samples. She had switched from passionately debating some inscrutable point, to nearly crying over the same topic, then changed subjects so swiftly he half wondered if he’d made the whole thing up.

  The hardest part to figure out, though, was that it wasn’t anything like crazy-Brittany-I-need-attention. No, he’d gotten good at reading people during his years in the service, and he’d bet his last dollar that Charlotte was operating out of a painful past.

  “Here you go.” She set the tray of cake bites on the counter before him, each one nestled on top of some girlie, lacy looking white paper. “You didn’t eat any the other day when Brittany was here, so I figured it’d be best if we just started over.”

  Started over . . . with the cakes?

  Or with him and her?

  Will took a bite of the little yellow square before he attempted to answer his own question and get them both in trouble. “That’s really good.” He tried the next one—white chocolate, or something along those lines. It melted in his mouth. “Okay, I’m starting to see Brittany’s dilemma.”

  “Are you going to cry?” A tiny smirk twisted Charlotte’s lips, and he nearly sprayed crumbs with his laughter.

  “No tears. I promise.” He swallowed, still chuckling. “I mean, it’s not that good . . .”

  Silent laughter lit her eyes, and she swatted him across the counter with a pink oven mitt. “Give it time. You haven’t tried the marshmallow caramel apple cake.” She turned the tray and he obliged.

  Heaven and a campfire and a late summer fruit tree collided on his taste buds. “Wow. That’s amazing.”

  Charlotte practically glowed under the warmth of his praise. It was a little unsettling how much she enjoyed it—and how much he enjoyed giving it to her.

  Then her light dimmed. “It’s not traditional, though, for a wedding cake.” A troubled frown pinched Charlotte’s brow as she studied the sampler between them. He wanted to smooth the crease with his finger, make her laugh again. Erase her worry.

  And figure out exactly what the heck had set her off earlier.

  Most of all, he just wanted her light to turn back on. “What if we did the marshmallow caramel apple for one of the prewedding events?”

  She tilted her head. “That could work.” The light began to shine, just a little, as her hopes rose. “Let’s see. Brittany mentioned an engagement party on . . . what date?” She pulled a daily desk calendar from a stack near the register and began flipping through the pages.

  “It’s soon. Like, next week.” Will pulled out his phone and read the dates and times for the upcoming parties. “Adam texted me the schedule last night. Yeah, there’s the engagement party, next Friday night. And a couple’s shower two weeks later, at six p.m. on Saturday.”

  One he’d have no date for. Melissa would never let him hear the end of that one.

  “And she wanted dessert for the rehearsal dinner too?”

  Will adjusted his position on the barstool. “Adam mentioned cupcakes for that one. To mix it up.”

  “Okay, perfect. What if we did the caramel apple cake as cupcakes that night? I could use my autumn harvest colors for the frosting.”

  The light was back. Mission accomplished.

  She was on a roll now. “And for the engagement party, what about cinnamon pecan petit fours? With caramel orange icing?”

  His stomach growled in resounding agreement. “And for the couple’s shower?”

  She tapped her polka-dotted pencil against her chin. “A different batch of cupcakes?”

  “What about snickerdoodles?”

  Her smile wavered, just slightly, but enough that he noticed. The mention of the cookies had disappointed her. She corrected, but it was too late. “Sure. That’d be . . . good.”

  She said good the way a person would have naturally said sewer. Or toxic waste. “It was just an idea.”

  He could have kicked himself, but he still had no idea what he’d done wrong. Or why disappointing her was one of the most unsettling things he’d ever experienced in his life.

  He pressed his fingers against his temples. This bakery was like some kind of time warp. It did things to him, made him forget the past and wish for a different future and expect things in the present.

  So, so dangerous.

  “Did I say something wrong?” He had to know. The longer he sat there, the more trapped he felt, caught in a perfe
ctly wonderful, terrible, addicting kind of parallel universe. He’d never cared what people thought before. He lived his life, did his duty, took care of those he was responsible for, and that was it. If someone didn’t like it or how he went about doing it, that was their problem. He knew his role in life and performed it well. He never intentionally hurt anyone, but he’d learned not to waste time on opinions.

  And somehow, suddenly, offending Charlotte or hurting her feelings seemed akin to a sin he couldn’t bounce back from.

  She shook her head, not speaking, which only confirmed that yes, he’d said something horribly wrong.

  “Charlotte?”

  She averted her eyes, rearranging the remaining samples on the tray between them. A fierce and irrational desire came over him—to knock the cakes out of the way, slide over the counter, cradle that adorable face of hers in both hands, and insist she confess right away. After he kissed her, of course.

  The more rational part of him was staying busy just trying to convince the first part not to act.

  “You didn’t say anything wrong.” She rolled in her lower lip, an innocent action that increased his initial desire tenfold. “I just . . . I just forgot.”

  Forgot what?

  Unfortunately, judging by the seconds ticking away on the cupcake-shaped clock on the wall, he might never know.

  A hushed silence pulsed over the counter. Then came her voice, small and timid and two octaves hopeful. “I could make a snickerdoodle cookie cake.”

  The proposition sounded like a peace offering. But what was she even apologizing for?

  “That sounds delicious. And unique.” His voice sounded tired, even to his own ears.

  “Will Brittany like it?”

  Who cared anymore? But yes, she would. He nodded in affirmation.

  She kept shuffling the samples around the tray. “And you . . . you’ll like it?”

  He met her gaze, suspecting that something immensely important was riding on that question, but for the life of him, he was unable to decipher exactly what. All of the people skills, survival skills, and analytical skills he’d developed over the course of his career were absolutely useless in the undertow of Charlotte’s sea-blue eyes. “I’d like it a lot.”