by Tracey Ward
I park my Nissan GTR at the end of the line, its candy apple red paint gleaming hot as sex in the sun. I’m the last one here. I can tell that from the car count alone, no help needed from the clock on my dash practically screaming the time at me or the text messages blowing up my phone as I slip it in my pocket. I grab the big yellow box that’s been riding shotgun with me and jump out of the car. I tuck it under my arm while I jog toward the front door.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch the glint of sunlight off a mirror. There are a couple of catering vans parked along the side of the house. A gray door with ornate red writing slams shut and a tall gangly dude in standard black and white waiter attire walks from behind it toward the house, a large white box in his arms and a bored expression on his face. He disappears inside a side entrance, probably one leading into the kitchens, because of course this place has a servant’s entrance.
“You’re late.”
Startled, I miss a step, my stride broken.
Andreas, our kicker, is leaning against the wall by the door, a cigarette dangling lazily from his right hand. He’s wearing black slacks, a gray button down shirt with a white tie, and a disapproving frown on his normally urbane, Latin face. He’s shrouded in a cloud of averse air and smoke that reeks of reluctance. It looks more like he’s attending a funeral than a baby shower.
“I got held up,” I tell him.
“I hope you mean that literally, for your sake. There better have been a gun involved or Lexi is going to flip.”
“What does Lexi care when I show up? She doesn’t even know who I am.”
He snorts, his latest intake of smoke bursting out his nostrils like a suave ass dragon. “She knows who you are.”
“Last summer she called me ‘Matt’ through the entire 4th of July party,” I argue. “She thought I was Kurtis Matthews, and she wasn’t even getting his name right.”
“Doesn’t matter. She wants everyone inside before they do the reveal.”
“Has everyone put in their bets?”
“Everyone but you. You’re late, as usual.”
I whip out my phone, bringing up the BumpBet app where the team is running a baby pool. The kid’s gender is only the first round, but it’s a big one; four hundred points. Next is the delivery date, then weight and length, but if you don’t get this first one right your odds of winning the pot all but drop off.
When the app loads I see the pie chart of entries. Thirty-two of the guys have placed their bets. Nineteen of them put their money on it being a boy.
“What’d you bet on?” I ask Andreas.
“A girl. What are you going to pick?”
I wrinkle my nose indecisively as I slide my phone back in my pocket. “I don’t know yet.”
“You better figure it out soon.”
“How are they announcing it? Box of balloons? Piñata?”
“Cake. White on the outside, blue or pink on the inside,” he answers slowly, watching me. “How do you know so much about this stuff?”
“My mom’s been to about a million of these. She told me.”
“Is she the one who told you to bring a present?”
“Yeah. She said better safe than sorry.”
He grins maliciously. “Sorry.”
“Seriously? No gifts?”
“Nope. Said so on the invite. Did you even read it?”
“Vaguely.”
“Yeah, I never even saw it. My w—Macie read it. She always handled this shit.”
He exhales a puff of smoke, his dark eyes watching it spin thin as cotton candy before it dissolves into the sky, into nothing, and I wonder why the hell he came here today. If anyone has a pass to not be here, it’s him.
Babies are nothing to celebrate for Andreas. They were for about six months. Right up until he found out his wife, Macie, had cheated with another guy and it was his baby she was carrying, not Dre’s. All of his excitement over that kid turned sour in a heartbeat leaving him bitter and battling his way through an ugly divorce. The team has rallied around him, trying to help him out, but a blow like that takes a lot out of a guy. As much as I want to tell him that the best way to get over a girl is to get under a new one, I know it’s not true. Not for him, because he’s not getting over her. He’s getting over a kid that never existed. The ghost of a baby he was never going to have.
That’s some fucked up shit for a guy to deal with.
“What’d you get them?” he asks me numbly.
“A Bumbo chair.”
“What the hell is that?”
I shrug helplessly. “No clue. It’s to park the kid in, I guess.”
He nods his head slowly, his eyes tracing the wide, white ribbon wrapped around the package. “You better put it back in your car.”
“Yeah, alright. Meet you inside?”
He leans down to snub his butt out between the brick steps of the patio. “Sure. I’ll tell ‘em you’re here.”
I head back to my car, popping the trunk to put the box inside. Just as I’m closing it another catering van comes rolling up the road. It’s white with a massive cupcake on the side.
This is the baker.
This is the only person at the party who knows the sex of that baby.
I idle by my car, letting the van pass by. When it comes to a stop behind the other vans and the driver’s side door pops open, I stroll casually down the alley toward it. I smile when I see a woman drop down to the pavement.
Women like me more than men. A lot more.
She’s dressed differently than the waiter I saw earlier, wearing a thin, purple sweater that’s the same color as the purple writing on the side of her van. Her white linen pants hug her hips like they’re painted on and her long, brown hair rolls down her back in glossy waves. She’s small, at least compared to me, but her body language makes her seem larger. It speaks volumes in the way she snaps the door shut and strides confidently toward the back of the vehicle.
I hurry around the other side, meeting her at the back just as she pops the doors open, the sugary scent of baked goods exploding around us.
“Nice racks,” I comment.
She jolts, surprised to find me there. Her eyes are a cool blue, fixed in an open stare that devours my face and leaves me hungry.
“What did you say?” she asks, her voice husky and unhurried.
I point to the trays of cupcakes filling the back of the van. “Your racks. They look delicious.”
Her expression grows wary. “Can I help you with something?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Are you— Do you work here? For Lexi?”
“More for Coach Bailey.”
“You’re a football player?”
I offer her my hand. “Colt Avery. Running back.”
“Lilly Hendricks,” she shakes my hand with surprising strength. “Baker.”
I wrap her hand in both of mine, taking a step closer. “Lilly Hendricks, baker, I have a proposition for you.”
“No,” she answers immediately. Definitively.
“I haven’t told you what it is yet.”
“I have an idea of what it might be.”
“You’d be wrong.”
“Man, I hope so. I’d hate to have to mace you.”
I smile indolently. “I believe you’d do it.”
“I would,” she promises seriously. “I will.”
“Don’t worry. I hear you. You’re working. You don’t want to be hit on, so I won’t. I’m not that guy.”
She snorts lightly. “You know the problem with that guy? He doesn’t know he’s that guy. So saying that you’re not that guy is meaningless because if you are in fact that guy, you’re not self-aware enough to realize you’re that guy and you immediately become that guy simply by insisting that you’re not.”
“Okay, that—” I blink twice, frowning slightly, “—it was hard to follow, but I think you’re saying you think I’m an asshole.”
Lilly shakes her head sharply. “I’m not say
ing that.”
“No?”
“No. I would never call a guest at a client’s party an asshole.”
“It’d be unprofessional.”
“Right. No, I’m saying that if you were an asshole, you wouldn’t know it.”
“So, like an ignorance is bliss kind of situation?”
“Blissful for you. Torture for those who have to suffer you.”
“If I were an asshole,” I remind her.
“Yeah, sure. If.”
I smile slowly, loving the cool air around her. The frost in her eyes. The biting edge to this banter. It’s nothing I’m used to, a far cry from the warm reception I get from most women. It’s surprisingly exciting; like sparring.
I’m also loving the feel of her small hand between mine. She still hasn’t pulled it back and I’m not about to let it go.
“You don’t like me,” I point out candidly.
“I don’t know you.”
“But you don’t like me.”
She frowns at me. “What was the first thing you said to me?”
I chuckle, running one of my hands over my head brusquely. “Uh, I forget.”
“Short memory.”
“It’s a curse.”
“’Nice racks’,” she reminds me sternly.
“Thank you.”
She moves to turn away from me, pulling her hand swiftly from mine. “Wow.”
“Come on,” I laugh, touching her elbow lightly to stop her. “It was an opening line. It got you talking to me, right?”
“Right, and if you’re not that guy and you’re not hitting on me, why did you need an opening line?”
“Because I need a favor.”
“Sure, why not? Anything you need.”
I frown at her. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.”
“Now are you being sarcastic?”
She sighs tiredly. “What’s your favor?”
“I’m going to help you unload your van—“
“No,” she interrupts immediately. “I can’t take help from a guest.”
“What if I promise not to tell?”
“I don’t know you. Your word doesn’t mean anything to me.”
I put one hand on my chest. “Colt Avery,” I remind her.
“Running back. Yeah, I remember. I’ll rephrase that; I’ve known you for under a minute. Your word doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“What can I do to change that?”
“Letting me get back to work before I’m fired would be a great start.”
I drop my hand away from her elbow. I hadn’t realized I was still touching her.
She immediately turns to the van, lifting a tray out of the back. “What was the other half of the proposition?”
“You let me inside your box.”
Lilly pauses, the tray half off the rack. “I wasn’t kidding about the mace, dude. I have it. I’ll do it.”
I smile, gesturing to the boxes in the back. “I don’t see the cake on the trays. I’m assuming it’s inside one of those boxes.”
“It’s inside three of them.”
“I only need inside one.”
“I’ll let you inside none. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like the start of a negotiation.”
“Really?” she grunts, sliding the rack out entirely into her arms. “’Cause I meant it to sound more like the end of one.”
“Perspective is everything. From where I’m standing it’s promising.”
She nods to the side of the van. “Check the perspective standing over there. You’re in my way.”
I move aside, letting her pass. I wait until she’s a few paces away before I deftly lift the next tray from the back, hurrying to follow her inside the kitchen.
Not surprisingly, it’s huge. There are twin ovens stacked against the far wall, a massive marble island in the middle, and endless matching white marble countertops stretched along every wall. Dark gray cabinets with shining chrome handles anchor the room to pitch black floors that look glossy as glass. The space is filled with two dark haired waiters in their thirties and a young, blond waitress with her hair pulled back tightly in a sleek bun. They all give us a quick glance before returning to a line of champagne glasses being filled with effervescent gold.
Lilly unknowingly leads me into an adjoining room that looks like the pantry. It’s much smaller than the kitchen, with shelves lining every spare wall. Each shelf is covered in cans, boxes, and bags of food in neat lines that I’m sure are alphabetized or organized according to fiber content. There’s a large cart in the middle of the space covered in a thick white tablecloth. She sets her tray down carefully on one side of it.
When she turns to find me behind her she jolts again, her eyes going wide.
“Jesus mother!” she cries, immediately demanding, “Are you going to do that to me all day?”
“Why are these things so cold?” I ask, shifting the tray in my hands.
“To keep the frosting from melting. Can I have it, please?”
“It’s a friendly tit for tat,” I explain, shifting gears rapidly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re not going near my ‘tit’ and I want nothing to do with your ‘tat’. Now hand over the pastries.”
I give her the tray.
I also follow her back outside when she leaves.
“What’s the obsession with the cake?” she asks, not looking to see if I’m there. She knows I am.
“I want to know what color it is inside.”
“You want to know the sex of the baby. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“Curiosity would have backed off when I threatened mace. The fact that you’re still here says there’s more to it than that.” She hands me the next tray. “So what’s the real reason?”
“I’ve got money riding on it.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“A lot to you or a lot to me.”
“Probably somewhere in the middle. I’ll give you a cut if you help me out.”
She pulls down another tray. “Do you know how much the Baileys paid us to keep their secret?”
“A lot?”
“Not to you, but definitely to me. They trusted us to keep our mouths shut.” She casts me her first smile and it’s all pink lips and wry amusement, such a perfect mixture of sugar and spice that it makes my stomach churn impatiently. “Sorry, but helping a stranger win a bet isn’t worth losing that for me.”
“Which one? The money or the trust?”
She doesn’t answer as she breezes by, heading back inside.
I follow closely on her heels. Inside the pantry she takes the tray from me silently, squeezing past me in the narrow doorway and leading me back out to the van. We work in wordless tandem as we empty the vehicle, even the boxes holding the cake pieces. She puts them in my arms with a sharp look in her eyes that warns me to be good.
I smile devilishly in reply.
CHAPTER FOUR
LILLY
This pantry is too small. Or maybe he’s too big. A big, beautiful fish in my little pond. It’s probably a combination of the two, but I’m blaming him. All of him. I’m blaming his big shoulders, his heavy biceps. His full lips, dark hair. Big blue eyes. Cleft chin and square jaw.
That’s the biggest problem; his face. I try not to look at him because he’s beautiful and dangerous like a cliff’s edge. The view is amazing but the fall will break you in two.
It’s surreal being here with him. I’ve seen him before. Not playing football, I hardly watch it, but in the Dairy Queen commercials he’s in with two other players. They stand half-naked with ice cream cones over their junk and try to sell… actually, I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to sell. Sex and candy? That’s about the sum of it. It must be working because I’ve had Dairy Queen two times in the last month. That’s two times more often than I did before Colt Avery’s abs told me how delicious it was.
Now I keep my eye
s averted, locked on the white chocolate dipped Oreos in my hands, but there’s another problem, one that might be bigger than his face, if that’s possible; I can smell him, and the guy smells good. Like cologne and hot honey.
“So, us, huh?” he comments offhand.
I cast him a quizzical glance. “Us?”
“You asked if I knew how much the Baileys paid ‘us’. You own the bakery?”
“No. Well, half of it. My friend Rona owns the other half.”
“How old are you?”
I sigh internally. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”
I chuckle in surprise. “Thanks, I think?”
He grins and it’s an awful thing. A charming, boyish, damning thing.
“Everyone asks that,” I continue, training my eyes on a straight line of Oreos instead of the curve of his lips. “It’s the first question that comes up when people hear we own a bakery. ‘Really? How old are you?’.”
“Twenty-four is young to own your own business.”
“Not in California it’s not. There are people younger than me with software firms or clothing lines. Twenty-four in L.A. is not the same as twenty-four in Tulsa. Ask any actress.”
“You know what else she’ll tell you about L.A., right?”
“Never get discount Botox?”
“No,” he chuckles.
“It’s not who are, it’s who you know?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay, yeah,” I admit reluctantly. “Rona and I didn’t build it from scratch. It’d been in business for over forty years when we started working there. We were fifteen. The people who owned it were getting ready to retire. When we graduated high school, Rona and I went full time instead of going to college and they taught us how to run the place. And a year and a half ago they sold it to us. We would have been in debt for decades trying to start a place from the ground up.”
“How’s it going?” he asks frankly.
I hesitate before answering him, not sure what to say here.
Great! It’s really thriving and it’s so much fun!
