Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  Bed-and-breakfast etiquette had always stymied me; were we really supposed to sit at a communal table and break bread with total strangers? I guess we did a similar thing with each new tour, but . . . that was tour. Crew usually sat with crew, security with security, and the talent held court with their entourage. Taking sustenance before a long, hard day of work was essential, not like exchanging pleasantries over French toast with couples on their weekend getaway without the rug rats.

  I tiptoed down the hallway, counting the closed doors as I passed. Number six had a sign hanging from it that looked as if it had been made with a kids’ wood-burning craft kit. Don’t wake the sleeping Bear, it warned, complete with a growling grizzly face to accompany it. I smiled, running the tip of my finger over the indentations.

  “Oh, hello.” A caramel cat trotted toward me, tail straight up, and headbutted my ankle. “Where’d you come from?” I whispered. He repeatedly rubbed his cheek against the raised panels on the wainscoting lining the hall, with muted thumps.

  I followed the cat down the L-shaped hall to a set of stairs, but I noted it wasn’t the beautiful curved staircase Nash and I had used last night. Down was down, so I took them anyway, and found myself right in the middle of the kitchen.

  Talk about your frying pan, into the fire. I had jumped in, feetfirst.

  Mick was standing at the stove, legs splayed in faded jeans. He was effortlessly flipping the fattest pancakes I had ever seen onto a platter. I watched his handiwork: dusting the tops with powdered sugar, dribbling fresh blueberries from his fingers. Bacon was crackling in another pan, coffee was gurgling from the machine on the counter, and the cook was whistling the White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” as he worked. He was in his element, and I had fallen down the rabbit hole, watching him. Now what, Dani? I had lingered too long to try to sneak back up the stairs and find an alternate way. And to get out the side door, I’d have to walk right past him. Indecision paralyzed me.

  “Women who walk into my kitchen are in danger of being put to work, you know.”

  His back was still to me, but I pictured him biting back a smile from those full lips. I crept in closer, taking in the full Victorian kitchen. Elegant crown molding and antique white cabinetry smartly met with a white subway tile backsplash and updated black granite countertops. I admired the open shelves lining one wall, marveling at what had to be a matched service for fifty people. Everything was neat as a pin and white, with pops of rose color here or there that hinted at its former era. It was stark and romantic at the same time.

  As was the shirtless, aproned guy in front of me, sporting a wicked case of bed-head and hands full of breakfast food.

  “When do you ever sleep?” I stammered.

  He grinned, dragging the plate tantalizingly under my nose as he turned to set it on the huge kitchen island next to me. “I catnap. Hi, Bacon.”

  “Do you always talk to your breakfast meats?” I asked, amused.

  “No, but I talk to the cats here.” He ducked his head to gesture at the furry friend who had escorted me down the stairs, currently weaving between his denim-clad legs and staring up at him expectantly.

  “There’s more than one?”

  “Oh, you won’t see Olive anytime soon. She’s shy.” He pushed an oven mitt onto one hand and waved it. “Hi to you, too.”

  “Good morning. Smells amazing in here,” I murmured. In addition to the steaming-hot pancakes and the bacon he was hustling off the stove, I spied fresh fruit, croissants oozing with rich chocolate, and a loaf of bread, baked to cracked perfection and studded with sunflower seeds.

  I swear the almond extract he used in the bakery must have permeated his skin, as it was ever present and mingled with notes of coffee and cinnamon as he brushed past me.

  “Grab that platter, will you?”

  He carried the plate of baked goods on one palm and the bacon, still sizzling in the cast iron, in his mitted hand. I followed him into the dining room to the large table, which was elegantly set. “That’s all Quinn’s doing,” he said, referring to the cut crystal water glasses and multitude of cutlery. “Normally we all eat, hunkered over the kitchen island, when there are no guests.”

  “How many guests are here today?”

  “Counting you and Nash?” He set his bounty down and stepped back to admire it. “Two.”

  The room suddenly shrunk to doll-sized small, as I realized Nash was upstairs, dead to the world, and all this food and fuss—and all eyes—were focused on me.

  “I . . . I was just going out for a jog.”

  He plucked a fork from the table and pushed its side through a wedge of pillowy pancake on the platter I was still holding.

  “I have to warn you. You’re going to need to run a marathon to work off these bad boys.” He twirled the fork teasingly close.

  “Hey! Are you implying I need to lose weight?”

  “Nope.” He grinned. “I’m saying my lemon ricotta soufflé pancakes are amazing.”

  Rich cheese and ripe citrus exploded across my taste buds as the airy griddlecake melted on my tongue. Mother mercy. My knees practically buckled. Lemon for energy, I reminded myself, hoping I could muster enough to step away from He Who Had the Power of the Pancake in his grasp. “I’ll have you know, I was going to run first. Then eat.”

  “Oh you were, were you?” The second triangle of pancake still lodged on the fork tines disappeared as he slid it into his own mouth.

  I swallowed hard. “Yes. With Nash.”

  Mick laughed. “Nash doesn’t run unless the cops are chasing him.”

  “I meant eat. With Nash.”

  “Ah. I see.” He took the only thing keeping space between us from my hands and set it on the table. My eyes trailed after the plate, avoiding his gaze. “More for me then,” he said, sitting at the head of the table and reaching for the bacon tongs.

  I burst onto the porch, screen door slamming behind me. Cool morning air hit my throat, its dew the perfect quencher. The French were spot-on with their culinary term amuse-bouche, as that bite with Mick had certainly been a mouth amuser. A torturous, delicious way to keep my mouth, and my imagination, amused.

  Run. Cold shower. Repeat if necessary.

  Curse that man and his inflated flapjacks. And his sexy apron. Cooking shirtless and barefoot in the kitchen had to violate some kind of innkeeper’s health code, didn’t it? Let alone allowing cats in the kitchen?

  Then again, there were no other guests at the B and B. Did old friends and their fiancées even count?

  The Half Acre was more like a “big house with benefits” than a lodging establishment. What had Nash and I gotten ourselves into?

  Mick

  TABLE MANNERS

  “Are you sure he’s my kid?” Nash regarded Logan suspiciously from across the large dining table. “I love brunch. How can he not like one single breakfast item?”

  Logan was happily munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while his father and his uncle polished off the second wave of my lemon ricotta pancakes and about a pound of applewood-smoked bacon.

  “Well, when they invent a pancake paternity test, you’ll know for sure. Until then, why don’t you just trust good old DNA?” I delivered my suggestion and freshly toasted sunflower bread to the table.

  “Yo, dude. You know I like it buttered in the back.” Nash gave a wave of his hand, silver rings and mala-bead bracelets jangling.

  “Sorry, Your Majesty. I thought maybe you had learned to take care of your own toast during the ten years you were gone.”

  “Tastes better when you do it,” I heard him call. Yeah, yeah. I contemplated letting Bacon give his toast a lick, but realized that would just punish Dani the next time she kissed him.

  Thinking about Dani kissing Nash was enough to make the lemon and ricotta curdle in my full belly.

  Quinn blew in the side door, br
inging with her that familiar, vinegary smell of the stop bath. I had a feeling that in situations like this, the darkroom was her place to process, literally. Not just her photographs, but her thoughts as well.

  To my knowledge, though . . . we had never had a situation quite like this.

  “Get some good shots yesterday?”

  “Tons. They’re drying.” She leaned to kiss the top of her son’s head before washing her hands and pulling up a chair. “Where’s your bride?”

  She didn’t look at Nash when she uttered the words, and they left her mouth stiff and stilted, as if she were learning a new language.

  “Shower,” Nash managed through a mouthful. “She told me not to wait for her. Damn, Spencer. We need someone like you to cook all this shit on tour.”

  “Can we refrain from the potty talk at the breakfast table, please?”

  “Jeez, Quinn. It’s not like he—”

  Quinn gripped a serrated grapefruit spoon and glared at Nash like she wanted to scoop out his vocal cords. “No, he cannot hear them, but four-letter words are a highly desirable addition to any ten-year-old’s vocabulary, no matter the format.”

  I set down a third platter. Some people stress-eat. Me, I can arousal-eat like nobody’s business. After that banter with Dani and watching her stretch out on the lawn before her run, I’d plowed through more than my fair share of pancakes and bacon.

  I should’ve waited for her.

  If I were Nash, I would’ve waited for her.

  “Someone’s here.” Bear peered out the window. “It’s a hotel shuttle.”

  “Oh, yeah. I arranged with the concierge to have some stuff that was delivered to the Four Seasons brought here.”

  “Some stuff?” Quinn stood as the driver wheeled a luggage cart loaded with hanging items and suitcases down the ramp of his van. “Did she buy out the King of Prussia Mall?”

  Nash chuckled. “It’s not all Dani’s. I needed something to wear to this shindig this weekend. Didn’t think my stage attire would quite cut it.”

  “Yeah, ass-less leather chaps and studded collars are so last season,” I laughed.

  Bear guffawed heartily, then gave pause. “Wait. Aren’t all chaps ass-less?”

  Quinn screwed up her face, like she’d been squirted in the eye by her grapefruit.

  Logan left his crusts in a neat square on his plate and got up to grab a suitcase. It was one of his favorite jobs to help with at the Half Acre, and his rewards were golf-ball-sized biceps that bulged from his lanky arms.

  “Thanks, man.” Nash palmed a crisp bill into the driver’s hand, in exchange for a thin, white box. “You went above and beyond.”

  Dani appeared in the entryway. Her shapely arms were tan in contrast to her pale yellow sundress, and her ringlets damp from the shower. “Oh, goodness! Thank you,” she said, as Bear hauled an armload of clothes past her with a grin. To Logan, she pressed her fingers to her chin and then moved them out. Desire rose and flipped in my gut like one of those soufflé pancakes as she directed a smile toward him with those candy-pink lips.

  “You flirting with my kid?” Nash wisecracked. “He’s a bit young for you.”

  “No. I was thanking him,” Dani said. “It’s a little like blowing a kiss, without the pucker. There’s a difference.” She demonstrated pointedly in my direction. “And thank you, Mick. For the amazing breakfast.”

  There was a difference, all right. And indifference shone in her eyes, so unlike the night she launched a kiss at me from the center of the dance floor.

  “Yeah. Without Mick, this place would just be . . . bed,” Bear joked, back to grab the last suitcase. “Or bed-and-make-your-own-damn-toast.”

  “Just earning my keep,” I said modestly, sliding the last pancake, hot off the griddle, onto Dani’s plate. “Right, Quinn?”

  Quinn tore off tiny pieces of her croissant and changed the subject. “Dani, you are officially invited to my Boo-hoo Breakfast tomorrow. I hold it every year,” she added proudly.

  “Thanks, Quinn.” Dani’s smile was a cautious one. “But . . . what’s a Boo-hoo Breakfast?”

  “It’s for the moms in the area, on the first day of school.”

  Nash’s brows went up. “The kid is going back to school already?”

  “Yes, Nash. Convenient you showed up to get to know him . . . on Labor Day weekend.” Quinn rolled her eyes. “Sort of like how you pulled up in your two-seater sports car. All for show?”

  “Hey, I can’t help when I’m on tour,” Nash protested, before adding glumly, “or when I’m off it. Plus Bear’s gonna fix her van.” He jerked his head in Dani’s direction.

  “True, Quinn. Does Logan stay at one school all day? There’s plenty of room in my van if you need help carpooling this week, once it’s fixed. The lap belts in the back were converted to shoulder belts a while back.”

  If Nash had a knack for putting his foot in his mouth, Dani appeared to have the prescription for removing it. Quinn’s shoulders gave an inch, and I recognized approval in her eyes. Safety was high on her priorities, so the fact Dani mentioned the seat belts scored big brownie points in the Book of Quinn.

  “He’s mainstreamed, yes. But he does get pulled out for therapy, and for the itinerant program offered by our county. He’s kept busy, as are we.” Quinn pulled a list out of her pocket and smoothed it down in front of Nash. “You can make up for your lost dad time starting here.”

  “You’re sending me to the office supply store?”

  “I haven’t had time to get him all his school supplies yet, let alone the luxury of taking him to the zoo this summer. Parenting isn’t all glitz and glamour, you know.” She turned to Dani.

  “I’m sure all the Boo-hoo ladies will want to hear about the wedding. When is it, by the way?” Nash and Dani shared a look, prompting Quinn to add, “Oh, come on. Half the town criers were at the birthday party yesterday. Including Mick’s aunt. I’m sure your news has spread.”

  “Winter,” Dani started, right as Nash mumbled something about next summer. “I mean, ah . . . I’d love a winter wedding, but Nash thinks they’re tacky. So next summer, it is!”

  Nash having an opinion on anything wedding related surprised me. “Are you thinking big or small?” I asked. Number of servings was always at the top of a baker’s mind.

  Nash cupped his hands and bobbed them in front of him, either indicating a woman with very large breasts, or a huge affair. Everything about Nash Drama was over the top. “Hundreds,” he bragged.

  “Pretty intimate, I’d imagine,” Dani said simultaneously, in contrast. Her baby blues widened about as big as the Wedgwood saucer in front of her, and I swear I saw Nash wince in pain. Had she kicked him under the table?

  Quinn looked amused. “Tell us more. Rustic? Modern?”

  “We haven’t . . . decided one hundred percent.” Dani gave a sweet smile toward Nash. “But half the fun is planning, right?”

  “If you say so, babe.” Nash reached down to rub his shin. “I’m sure those chicks at your sexist breakfast will give you all sorts of ideas.”

  “So what’s in the box?” Dani asked him. The haste in her voice led me to think she was eager to change the subject.

  “Oh, yeah. That.” He placed the sleek iPad box next to Logan’s abandoned crusts. “I decided this was a better gift than a guitar.”

  Quinn’s croissant hit the plate. “You decided? Without discussing it with me first? Eighteen hours under the same roof and you think you know what’s best for him?”

  Time for the hired help to hightail it to the kitchen. I tried to catch Dani’s eye, but she stubbornly stayed put. Was she really into this whole “for better or for worse thing” with Nash? Because I had the feeling shit was about the hit the fan and get a whole lot worse. I began clearing dishes in order to make my escape.

  “Hey. You’ve been making parental d
ecisions for the past ten years. I should be able to make some, too!” Nash countered. “Besides, how different is texting from that little notebook he and Mick pass back and forth?”

  Quinn flatlined me with her gaze as I stacked dirty plates. Great. He’s home eighteen hours and I’m getting dragged into their reindeer games. Quinn and Nash had been butting heads since junior high.

  “Lots of kids his age have phones and iPads,” Nash continued. “This is a texting generation.”

  “I won’t have him turn into some . . . some mush-for-brains zombie just so he can be like other kids. He’s not like other kids!”

  “If you gave him the chance, he could be,” Nash grumbled.

  “Take. That. Back,” Quinn warned. Whether she meant the expensive gift or the low blow Nash had just dealt, it was unclear.

  Dani laid her hand on his arm. “She’s right, Nash. Big-ticket electronic items should be discussed.”

  “Okay, then.” Nash made a production of pulling out his own fancy handheld device and swiping at the screen. “Let’s discuss . . . the cochlear implant. ‘A cochlear implant is a surgically implanted electronic device that provides a sense of sound to a person who is profoundly deaf or severely hard of hearing . . .’”

  “Nash!” Dani looked horrified.

  Quinn plucked her napkin from her lap and threw it on her plate. The glassware rattled as her chair crashed to the floor in her hasty departure, and she pushed past me.

  “It’s been ten years,” Nash called after her. “Nothing’s going to bring her back, Quinn.”

  A door slammed.

  Dani

  DOOR EXPLORATION

  “Fuck this noise,” Nash announced, pacing the floor of our room. “This is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  I could tell he wanted to break stuff; he wanted to trash things, rock star–style. But we weren’t in some generic hotel. Quinn’s family heirlooms surrounded us.