Have Your Cake

by Roi, D. S.

  © Copy right 2015

  ISBN: 978-0-9908720-1-6

  Special Thanks To:

  My wonder family

  My fabulous critique group

  Lorna Eames Author of Witchy Woman

  Deb Dorchak Co-author of the Bonds of Blood & Spirit Saga

  Description: Have Your Cake is a D Storm Novels S.P.I.C.E Romance.

  Cyana has spent years focused on family. When her sister, Iona Huffing the Executive Chef of Huffing Kitchen, asks her to present a wedding cake at a high-profile event, she’s tempted to place her responsibility as a single mother on hold. Having pursued her passion for two decades and planned her new business venture, she jumps at the chance to flaunt her natural talents as a Pâtisserie Chef. By her luck, she’s dropped in the path of the handsome Project Manager, Asher, who proves a challenge to her emotional state, even though he’s dipped in white chocolate.

  Asher is a hands-on businessman with his fortune tied into making happily ever after moments for all his clients. His projects run more smoothly than his love life. When Cyana Huffing stumbles into his path, he seizes the opportunity to take all she has to offer. The budding relationship is strained by family and business obligations; made fragile by haunting histories. Faced with calling things off or exploring their relationship, he must choose if his happily ever after is a sweet piece of cake, or an empty plate.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Epilogue

  1

  “I’ll make it in time,” Cyana whispered to herself. She tightened her fingers around the steering wheel cover, enjoying the heat radiating into her palms. She glanced at her watch. Traffic had inched half a mile in five minutes. Disappointment with the time tightened her shoulders. The Gremlin rattled its protest with the circumstances. Cyana sighed through her anxiety and caressed the worn wheel. “Just get me home, baby. A few more months and I’ll give you a decent burial.”

  She squirmed in her seat, making efforts to see beyond the van in front of her. The road construction from her downtown crap job was in full swing. Men in safety jackets and face masks languidly perused the side of the street behind the orange barrels.

  “Why can’t this city schedule its road work at a better time? The middle of the night is much more convenient,” she muttered.

  She sat straighter and spied the flashing arrow making the two-lane road into one. She glanced at her watch again. The game had already started. “Ugh, I’m gonna miss something important.” She groaned, dropping her hands into her lap to rub them against her pants. “I can feel it.” If I can just get past this, I’ll be fine.

  The R&B melody of the hottest jam erupted from under the passenger seat, making the distant shriek of horns fade. Shoving an unruly curl from her view, Cyana reached into the passenger floorboard for the cloth pouch she used as a handbag. The small car seemed to have sucked her belongings under the seat. Locating the strap, she tugged. It resisted. She yanked a bit harder. A ripping sound joined the ring tone. The floorboard cluttered with a shower of her personal effects.

  “Crap,” she uttered, “now I’ve destroyed another hand bag.” She stretched as far as she could, reaching the cell. A loud horn startled her upright. Traffic had moved. She checked her rearview mirror to notice it full of American made truck grill. The driver of the monster truck behind her wasn’t going to let her get away with not keeping up.

  “Oh, yeah sure, let me rush a whole three feet forward for you, pal.” She grumbled while glancing at her manager’s name next to the missed call number. “Again?” She shook her head before selecting the dial key to call back. “Hello, Mr. Lancaster.”

  “Hello, See-anna.”

  She stifled a cringe. It’s pronounced Sigh- Anna, you dope. After eighteen months you should know that. She clinched her jaw shut to keep from speaking. The regular pinched tension and irritated snap in Lancaster’s voice was missing. He didn’t sound mad.

  Crap. Her fingers tensed on the phone. He wants something. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lancaster. How may I help you?”

  She took a long breath, preparing herself to agree with whatever he had to say. “Kendra’s out tomorrow. With the press running high this time of year I can’t afford to be a man down.” The dread already seeped into her shoulders. “I know you’ve been doing a lot of overtime since you started, but I wanted to give you the opportunity to catch a few more hours. How does working six to six the rest of the week sound to you?”

  Six to six on a Sunday? Are you out of your mind? I’ve worked that crazy schedule since Monday. I’m tired and sore. I have a life, you know.

  She put as much cheer in her voice as she could muster. “Sure thing, Mr. Lancaster. We wouldn’t want to get behind. It’s election year.” She touted the same words he spoke every morning to the crew responsible for running the print machines at the paper.

  Mr. Lancaster chuckled. “Exactly my point. Thanks for stepping up. You’re a real team player.”

  You’re a real jerk.

  “No problem. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Have a nice day.” She ended the call. Her head fell back against the headrest. That man is a piece of work. Always treatin’ everybody like his personal servant. She sighed. “No, Ce Ce. You need the overtime to pay for Eric’s books next semester. So, squash the attitude and suck it up,” she self-coached.

  Another blare of the horn from her friendly neighborhood tailgater shot her upright in the seat. “Oh, screw you,” she yelled at her rearview, comfortable the driver couldn’t see her outburst and then drove the car three more feet.

  Cyana flicked the light switch immediately after opening her entry door and tossed her makeshift handbag to the worn couch. She sucked in a breath from her short jog up the stairs to her apartment, twirled and set the barrel, single-cylinder and knob locks on her door.

  The traffic stole ten minutes of game time from her. Pushing off towards the TV remote on the arm of the sofa, she mashed the power button. The mention of the name Huffing through the audio ripped elation through her chest. The player on the field crashed through the strong line of men, the football in his hands.

  She clenched the remote to her chest, squealed and jumped several times. “Go. Go, Baby. Go.” The player with Huffing on his jersey twisted his way past the opposing colored sport shirt. She squealed again, running in place as if her legs could help carry him. He broke away from the crowd, crossing the thirty yard line. The twenty. She held her breath.

  “Touch-Down,” she finally squealed. She raised her arms high over her head with a scream.

  Thumping sounded from the ceiling as her neighbors protested her elation. She covered her mouth a moment while she watched Huffing dance his celebration. “Touchdown,” she whispered and mirrored his victory dance on the way to her kitchen. “I didn’t miss it.”

  Cyana peered at the clock. “Four AM,” she groaned. The squeak of the boards in the ceiling and muffled thumping woke her. “So much for getting a good night’s sleep.” She shifted her stiff body from the single mattress and sat on its edge. Taking a long breath, she rolled her neck to get a good stretch down her spine. The continual thud of jumping jacks from above brought her to her feet. She trudged to the kitchenette to make a pot of coffee.

  She leaned
against the counter and struggled to make out what music was sounding off upstairs to keep her neighbor fit and trim. She half smiled at the tune of Beyoncé singing, “I’m a survivor. I’m not gon’ give up,” before retrieving the sugar and powdered creamer from the cabinet. The pot sputtered its last bit of dark goodness into the reservoir. She spooned out three sugars and two creams before raising the mug to her lips and took a deep inhale.

  She sipped at the mug. “Mm. Touchdown.”

  Another glance around the kitchenette made her slightly claustrophobic. A fridge sat to the right, two feet of counter, a stove in front, another two feet of counter, and a single sink at the opening to the living room with more counter to finish it out. There was barely enough space to stand in the center of the room. If it wasn’t for the opening over the sink, she’d probably have a panic attack trying to make anything resembling a meal. She grabbed two of the cookies she’d made from under the glass dome of her cake stand. With a sigh, she placed them on a plate and headed out into the dining area before she fretted on the space. She normally loved the kitchen, but couldn’t say she’d ever want to cook in one so small for the rest of her life.

  Cyana settled into one of the two chairs at her breakfast table and scanned the neat stack of papers dominating the surface. Huffin Muffin streamed across the title page in bold hot pink and royal purple lettering. She ran her finger over the logo.

  “Over time well spent,” she said and took a sip from her mug. Rich vanilla flavor mingled with the bold coffee and danced a symphony of goodness over her tongue before comforting her throat with warmth. “One more thing to make this perfect.”

  She yanked a peppermint candy stick from the cup on the table to place in her mug, opened the three-ring binder and started assembling the portfolio with pictures of cookies, cakes and cupcakes. She smiled at the pages with photos of her in the bakery and newspaper articles declaring her baking award winning. The tingle of excitement spread over her shoulders as she gave the table of contents a once over and double checked the order of each page against the reference.

  Satisfied her physical copy matched her digital one; she finished off the mug of coffee and went for another cup. Halfway through the beverage, her alarm bell sounded from the bedroom. It too was a miniature sized room big enough for her single bed, a side table and a small chair. The closet was laughable. She’d given up attempts to fit all her clothes into it, figuring it was better to give most of them to charity than to live in a mess. She hit the silence on the alarm, picked a plain dress from the rack and headed for the washroom.

  The corner shower was inviting with hot water and her favorite peppermint soap. The scent wrapped around her consciousness and shook her awake enough to deal with another long day. She covered her skin in cocoa butter, slathered a generous amount of conditioner in her hair and tied it up high on top of her head before slipping on the dress. She took a forlorn glance at her makeup kit on the counter and sighed.

  “You’ll just sweat it off, Cyana,” she muttered before scrapping the idea of making herself more presentable. It wasn’t like she’d meet anyone worth impressing working these hours. She snatched a to-go mug from the counter, filled it with the remaining coffee then gathered her keys and replacement sling bag before leaving.

  “Six o’clock sucks,” Cyana mumbled her new revelation as she rolled her window up. “Doesn’t matter if it’s morning or night.” She slumped into the bucket seat and closed her eyes. Exhaustion seeped into her aching shoulders. The horn of the vehicle behind her sounded. She checked the rearview before allowing the Gremlin to inch up two feet. Another truck. “Crap. Déjà vu,” she sighed. It was probably a good thing. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about falling asleep at the wheel.

  The jingle from her phone clamored from under the passenger seat. She giggled to herself. “Yep, Déjà vu.”

  She stretched over and fumbled around the floorboard to get the sling bag. Her fingers curled around the strap. She heaved it onto the seat before fishing out her phone and checking the caller ID.

  She smiled. “Hey girl,” Cyana answered.

  “Hi, Ce Ce. Are you having fun with traffic?” Iona asked.

  “Now, how did you know I was stuck in traffic?”

  Iona giggled. Hearing from her baby sister lifted Cyana’s spirits. “I have a smart phone, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, and you can search for all the important stuff. You techno kids are into everything.”

  “One day, I’ll bring you over to the dark side,” Iona said before letting out a big sigh.

  Cyana chuckled. “How’s everyone doing?”

  “We’re all fine. Everyone is straight driving me crazy. I wish I could say this was a pleasure call, because I’d love to catch up on how things are going for you. But, I have to get to the point since I’m really busy.”

  “Catering has picked up, I take it?” Cyana asked the question knowing it would keep Iona on the line a little longer and talking with her was distracting enough to suffer the traffic.

  “Oh Cyana, I wished you hadn’t moved up to the iceberg. I really need you.”

  “Chicago is not an Iceberg.” Cyana laughed. “What could possibly be going on in Georgia anyway?”

  “Wedding fest,” Iona said.

  “Wedding fest?” Cyana repeated.

  “And barbeques, family reunions, county fairs. You name it. We got it.”

  “Mama’s keeping your schedule tight. That’s good, more money for you.”

  “You have no idea.” Iona spoke with a tone Cyana knew meant she was getting tired fast. “She’s got me booked up to my ears for the next six weeks. Plus I have Josiah’s day care, check-ups, speech therapy—”

  “Ooo, you’re giving me a headache.” Cyana laughed out the last words.

  “You’ve only heard the half of it. Business is good though. The food is going out of the kitchen faster than I can order stock. Mama and I are thinking about setting up a restaurant to operate out of instead of doing everything in the port-a-kitchen next year. At least we could have some inventory space.”

  “You’ve always been a gifted cook.”

  “Oh, I know,” Iona boasted. “Girl can burn somethin’ fierce in the kitchen. But it seems like all of Georgia has figured it out. I had a Senator drop by to eat from the port-a-kitchen just because he heard it was so good.”

  “A Senator?” Cyana questioned.

  “Yeah, but he was from Texas. Word is spreading.”

  “I always knew you would be a success, Iona. It’s in your drive.”

  “Well, if I don’t hire another hand for this big job Mama just landed, my reputation might deflate before it’s given a chance to really float.” Iona sighed.

  Cyana hated when her optimistic daydreaming sister sounded forlorn. She passed it off as Iona being a dramatic Virgo. She grimaced at the blare from the horn behind her and scooted the car up another two feet in traffic.

  “What on Earth could you be talking about?” she asked.

  “Oh, the reason I called,” Iona said. “I have booked—” Cyana could hear her mother’s alto voice carry over the phone. She interrupted Iona’s sentence with a correction. “Okay, Mama has booked the largest event we’ve ever attempted.”

  “How exciting,” Cyana chimed, grateful at least someone in the family was having success with their dreams.

  “Oh, it’s so good. There’s this baseball player, right? He bought the old mansion home in Milway Creek. You remember that house?”

  Cyana smiled recalling the day’s Mama would drive by it. As little girls, they would unbuckle their seatbelts and press against the glass on the passenger side of the car, each of them jockeying for a piece of the window to gawk at the impressive mansion home. It was the one and only time Mama ever allowed them out of their seatbelts while the car was in motion.

  They would chat all the way home about owning the house one day while giggling among themselves.

  “I remember the house,” Cyana said.
<
br />   “He’s getting married there. It’s a big deal. Over three hundred hungry guests and they want real food. Not snob food.”

  “For real? Weddings can get that big?”

  “Apparently. Well anyway, we’ve won the catering bid, but we’re working the bid for the wedding cake too.”

  “Wedding cake? Since when did Huffing Kitchen offer wedding cakes?”

  “Since I have a completely reliable and totally fabulous older sister who happens to make the most awesome cakes on the planet,” Iona chimed.

  “Oh, Iona.” Cyana pressed back into the seat. “I can’t afford to drop everything and make it out to Georgia on a whim to help you out. Sweetie, you know this. I finally found a job out here.”

  “That you hate,” Iona reminded.

  “I’m nearly on my feet with all the overtime,” Cyana said. “A few more weeks and I’ll be able to tell my boss no with confidence.”

  “Ce Ce, you know you don’t like to be in the basement of the Daily Journal building around those hot machines. Your heat is in the kitchen. Look, you’ve always enjoyed cake making, ever since mama would let us ruin all the flour and eggs in the kitchen. There are folks who quit shopping at the grocer’s bakery because you don’t work there anymore. I know how badly you want to start your own baking business. This could be great publicity for you. Plus, I don’t know the first thing about cake batter and fondant. Could you imagine me in the kitchen trying to get the damned thing to rise? I’d have to whip out a voodoo stick, and you know we in the Bible belt.”

  Cyana roared with laughter. The honking from the big truck didn’t faze her nearly as much. She inched forward again.

  Iona continued, “Three hundred people, Ce Ce, eating your cake; demanding your card. Can you imagine?”

  “If I had a card. I just bought a logo. I barely have a car right now. I’m saving every spare dime for the startup capital.”

  “Please drop your bum job and come help me,” Iona pleaded. “I need you.”

  Cyana ticked her teeth with her tongue and thought it over. “I don’t want to give up my job, Iona. I have to pay for Eric’s books and food somehow. His scholarship doesn’t cover everything.”