by Emma Hart
“Okay. So, all that is a little over two hundred dollars. Less than we thought since we can bulk-buy a bunch of it.”
I nod. “Right. That’s good. But that doesn’t take into account the things to actually bake the cakes.”
“Let’s do that now. Tell me what you’re going to need and what it usually costs.”
I rattle off approximately how much flour I’m going to need, followed by the other ingredients.
“Huh,” Carly says, writing it all down. “Amazing. You can calculate all that in your head and remember it, yet memorizing your phone number is an impossibility.”
She has a point.
“How much is that going to cost? Am I going to have to find a wholesale place to buy this?” I look at the notebook. “Shit, I am, aren’t I? Otherwise it’s going to not be worth it.”
“Yeah, but there’ll be one nearby. Get Cain to drive you there in his work van and put it all in the back. And for cost…” She types on her laptop. Her eye twitches after a minute. “There’s a wholesale place half hour from Atlanta. It’s gonna be around two hundred, two fifty.”
I lean back on my sofa. “Four hundred and fifty for everything. I’m going to have to charge her at least six hundred. Carly, that’s too much. I can’t do this.”
“Whoa now.” She puts her laptop on the coffee table, eyebrows raised, and looks at me. “You charge her eight hundred.”
“That’s way too much!”
“No, it isn’t! Break it down. You’re going to need two days to create the decorations. It’s going to take two days to bake everything. You’re going to have to take time off work, possibly unpaid. And you’re going to have to get Cain to help you deliver the finished cakes. This is not too much to ask for. It’s a lot of work and on short notice.”
“I…” I can’t argue with that. She’s right. It’s a lot of work. And I’m not sure if I can do it or not. “Car, I can’t do this. I don’t have a place to bake the things, for a start.”
“Ask Billie. Doesn’t she have that fancy kitchen with a double oven?”
“I can’t take over her kitchen like that.”
Carly picks up her phone.
“Do not call my sister!” I shove my laptop to the side and get up.
Carly’s quicker than me. “Hey, Bill!” she says, getting up and darting out of my reach. “Brooke needs your kitchen to bake enough cakes to feed the five hundred.”
“Carly!” I bury my face in my hands.
She peels my fingers away. She’s holding out her phone. “She wants to talk to you.” She finishes off her sentence with a grin.
“I hate you so much.” I take the phone from her and hold it to my ear. “Hey, Bill.”
“Hey,” my sister says. “What’s happening? Why do you need my kitchen? You know you’re only allowed to look and not touch on account of your awful kitchen skills.”
“It’s not cooking. It’s baking. I ran into Penelope Argyle this morning.” I reel off the entire story, including everything about our research and the costs and my panic. “So, yeah,” I say after a good few minutes of constant talking. “That’s the long version of why I apparently need your kitchen.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. In fact, she doesn’t respond at all.
“You know what? Don’t worry. Forget Carly called and I asked. It’s—”
“Brooke, this is amazing,” Billie says quietly, but there’s a hint of excitement in her voice. “She’s really hiring you to do this?”
“She wants to,” I reply awkwardly. “But I’m not sure.”
“Of course you can use my kitchen for that. I’ll even help you if you need it. This could be amazing for you.”
“Really? I can use your kitchen?” A grin spreads across my— “Hold on. Why would it be amazing?”
Billie laughs. “Because Penelope knows everybody in town. If you do a great job and people ask her…Brooke, you could be onto something big here. We don’t really have a sweets bakery here but we have a hell of a lot of demanding teenagers.”
“You think if I do this I could do it for real?” My heart flip-flops its way up to my throat where it gets stuck. “That’s crazy talk.”
“Everybody loved the cakes last night. A few couldn’t believe you were behind them on account of your, well, usual way of presenting yourself.”
“The fact I’m awful at everything but baking.”
“You said that. Not me.” She laughs. “Look, do it. I have the Mom-mobile to deliver the cakes from my house. You can’t do that in Cain’s dusty work van. I can help you decorate them. Marcus’ mom and dad will be happy to have the kids for a night or two.”
“I can’t. Damn it, Bills. I can’t interrupt your life like that.”
“Please do,” she says quickly. “His parents have been asking me for three weeks to have the kids for a weekend. Marcus keeps saying no because his promotion means he’s working tons and he likes to use kid-free time for us. I’m going crazy, Brooke. They’re all fighting all the time and all those stupid after-school activities and I need a break. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“Fine, but if you help me, I’m going to pay you.”
“You’re going to do nothing of the sort,” she shoots back. “You’re my sister, and if this can maybe open some doors for you, you’re going to need every dollar you can get to make it work.” Then, right on cue, screaming and yelling sounds. “I have to go. Call me when you know everything for sure, all right?”
“Uh, okay.”
She clicks off before I can even say bye.
“Well?” Carly grins smugly at me.
I flip her the bird in response. “I guess I have some work to do.”
TWENTY
LIFE TIP #20: The two most awkward things in life are asking for money and first dates. Especially if you get an uninvited guest.
I cringe as I dial the number Penelope gave me in her email. It’s my fault for promising I’d call with a quote instead of simply thanking her and letting her know I’d email her back.
I bite the inside of my cheek as the rings echo down the line.
“Argyle residence. This is Penelope,” she answers.
“Mrs. Argyle, hi. It’s Brooke.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach.
“Brooke, darling! Hello! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
“Carly helped me after I got your email, so it didn’t take as long as I thought it would,” I tell her. “I do have a rough quote for you, but it’s a little high.”
“Fire away.”
“It would be eight hundred dollars including delivery.”
She’s silent for all of two seconds before she replies. “That’s perfect. Will you be at work tomorrow? I’ll write you a check for half as the deposit.”
My mouth goes dry. “I…yes, I will be. I’ll take lunch around twelve-thirty if that’s convenient for you.”
“Absolutely. I’ll be in the cafe opposite waiting for you. Does that work?”
Who am I to say no? “That’s fine. I might be a little late if I’m with a customer.”
“Don’t worry, darling. Thank you so much. Annabelle will be thrilled. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Argyle.”
“Goodbye, darling.” She hangs up.
The dull monotone of the dead line rings in my ear.
My phone falls out of my hand and onto the sofa cushion next to me. Is that for real? Did that just happen? Did she just agree to pay eight hundred dollars for freaking cakes?
Then again, I’m pretty sure my mom did that for Billie’s…
I lean back on the sofa and cover my mouth with my hand.
I have a job.
One I love.
Oh my god.
And I have absolutely no idea how to make a three-tier cake.
“YouTube, if this goes wrong, it’s on you,” I warn my laptop, fiercely glaring at it.
Low and behold, apparently my mom is the proud owner
of the things I need to make a multi-tier cake from several years ago. And, apparently, the moment she heard from Billie that one of her good friends was hiring her youngest daughter to bake for her, she rushed on over here with it all.
I literally had to push her out of my apartment with a promise of lunch on Wednesday. I can’t wait. I’m sure it’ll be full of my favorite things, aka, her endless questions.
So now, here I am, the base cake cooled and sitting on the board. The second cake is also just about cooled, but the third is still baking away in the oven. It smells so good in my kitchen right now, and I’m so hungry, I kinda wanna just make this cake myself.
I insert the wooden cake dowels into the base before turning to the second cake. I have everything else ready to go when there are three knocks at my door.
I pull the baking paper up out of the cake tin, freeing the middle section of my cake. “Who is it?” I yell.
“It’s me.” Cain’s voice rumbles through the door.
Cain.
Shit!
I drop the cake on the side and look at my microwave oven for the time.
Our date.
Double shit!
“Oh, shit!” I say, a little too loudly. “I’m coming!”
Shitty, shitty, shit, shit! How the hell did I forget this? Oh, I know. I have something else to be freaking about other than this.
I wipe my hands on a cloth and head for the door. I can smell pizza even before I open it, and one look at my black t-shirt confirms exactly what I thought—I’m covered in flour. Crap.
“Hey.” I swing the door open with a grin plastered on my face. “I didn’t realize it was six already.”
Cain’s lips pull up to one side, and his green gaze examines my face and upper body. “What the hell are you doing in there? Is that flour?” He wipes his fingertips across my stomach. “Are you baking? You forgot I was coming over, didn’t you?”
“Boy, that’s a lot of questions.” I laugh nervously and step back. “Baking, yes, yes, and I didn’t forget, per say. Just forgot the time.”
Cain steps into my apartment, holding tightly to our pizza boxes. “What are you baking?”
“Oh, you don’t know? I assumed my mom would have put out a public service announcement. This might be the only time in my entire life she’s been so proud of me she couldn’t yell at me.” I go back into my kitchen and turn off the oven. The cake is done, so I slide my hands into my oven mitts, open the oven door, and pull the tin out.
“Why? What did you do? Bake a cake without burning yourself?” He sets the pizza boxes on the opposite kitchen side to where I’m putting the hot cake on the cooling rack.
“No. There’s a Band-Aid on my pinky finger.” What? Are you surprised? I’m not.
“Ah. Of course there is.” He’s still half-smiling at me.
“Penelope Argyle was at your mom’s party yesterday and hired me to bake all the cakes for Annabelle’s birthday party in three weeks including a giant three-tier cake I’ve never done before and I’m practicing and yes I forgot you were coming over and my finger hurts and I really am a mess because look at me.” I take a deep breath from my non-stop stream of words and wave my hands up and down my body. “I have flour everywhere. My hair looks like kangaroos have made out in it, I have a pimple on the crease of my nose that is really bugging me, and I have flour everywhere.”
“All right. I’m going to start this again.” He comes over to me, takes my face in his hands, and bends over. His lips warmly brush over mine. “Hi,” he says with a crooked smile, looking into my eyes.
I smile like a fool. No, seriously. “Hi.”
“Now try that explanation again without suffocating yourself.”
I laugh into my hand when he steps back and repeat everything I just said, this time with less hysteria.
His eyebrows shoot up. “No way? She hired you? That’s awesome. What do you have to make?”
“A three-tier birthday cake and three hundred cupcakes.”
He blinks. “That’s a lot of cake.”
“Uh-huh. So much so that Billie is lifting the Brooke Ban on her kitchen and letting me use it. She’s going to help me deliver it all too.”
“You’ve never made a three-tier cake, have you?”
“I’m making one now if that counts.”
Cain grins. “Come on, flour girl. Come and eat something. Your cake will be there in half an hour.”
“Fine. But let me go clean up first.” I run my hand through my hair. “I literally look like a mess.”
He picks up the pizza and smiles at me. “I really don’t care, B.”
“Have you seen what I look like?”
“I’m looking at you right now.”
“Then you know I need to go clean up.”
He shrugs, walking into the front room. “So go clean up if you really want to. You don’t realize how beautiful you look.”
I pause, staring at him as he sits on the sofa and sets the two pizza boxes side by side on the coffee table. “You…you really think that?”
Cain sighs and slowly turns his face toward me. “B, you’re the scattiest person I know. Honestly, it’s a little alarming how all over the place you are sometimes. Then you get into the kitchen and you bake, and you’re a different person. You’re put together and in control. You’re completely at peace when you’re covered in flour and have butter smudged across your shorts. You’re freakin’ gorgeous anyway, but there’s something else about you when you look like this.”
My lips part ever so slightly, and I take a deep breath in through my nose. “Is that why you kissed me yesterday morning? Really?”
He nods, still with his eyes on mine. “I told you. I just wanted to. And I want to now.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Then why are you over there?”
A smile stretches across his face. Without another invitation, he gets up, crosses the space between us, and scoops me against his body. He’s going to be just as covered in flour as I am by the end of this, but he doesn’t seem to give a shit at all as he lowers his face to mine.
I push up onto my tiptoes and meet his lips. My hands creep around his neck, and I hold onto him so tightly I’m scaring myself.
This kiss is everything.
He tightens his grip on my waist, sliding one of his large, rough hands up my back to cup my head. His tongue flicks out and teases the seam of my lips, and my heart skips a beat when he takes a chance and deepens the kiss.
I press my body harder against his. If I get any closer, we’re going to meld into one person, but right now, not even that seems close enough.
This could work, a little voice at the back of my head whispers. Because he thinks you’re most beautiful when you’re covered head-to-toe in flour.
He wants me most when I look a mess.
The kiss slows, and I savor every last sweep of his tongue against mine and every last brush of our lips. I’m warm everywhere. My stomach is flipping with the warm fuzzies, and all the hairs on my arms are standing on end. I’m sure there are goosebumps too—and, um, an uncomfortable ache in my clit.
I’m not the only one turned on by that kiss.
Now my brain isn’t so fuzzy, I can feel it. His cock is hard and pressing against my lower stomach, and all that does is send a tingle of desire bolting down my spine.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “I know you hate cold pizza.”
“Cold pizza is only acceptable for breakfast.” I drop my arms from around his neck and don’t say a word when he takes my hand and drags me toward the sofa. “And you have flour on your shirt.”
He looks down at his body and shrugs. He drops down on the sofa, tugging me with him, making me squeal at the quickness I hit it with.
I recover quick enough to grab my pizza box and get comfy. The strangest thing about this is that it doesn’t feel like a date—it just feels like any old thing we’ve done hundreds of times before.
“Harry Potter seven. Part two, right?” He gets
back up and goes to the DVD player.
I think we’re technically starting over, but this is my favorite movie, so I’m not going to correct him.
“Does this feel like a normal pizza night to you too?”
“Yep,” he answers without turning around. “Except this time, I have a fucking painful erection.”
For some reason, that makes me burst out laughing. I don’t even know why. Is this the transition from the awkwardness of our new relationship? Or is it because, goddamn it, I have the female equivalent of an erection? I kinda wanna say it’s that…
I lift my pizza box off my lap as Cain sits down with the finesse of an elephant. Yep, this feels exactly like normal. Like nothing’s changed.
Except for the erection thing. That’s definitely changed.
The opening credits of Harry Potter roll out around the room. Cain shifts a few times on the sofa before he finally settles with the pizza box in front of him.
I wrinkle my nose as he kicks off his shoes and puts his sock-covered feet on my coffee table. “Do you have to take your shoes off?”
“Did you shave your legs?” He peers sideways at me.
“Like two days ago.”
“That’s why I’ve kept my socks on.”
I don’t have a response to that. It’s actually a good argument. Damn it. I hate it when he makes a good argument. That means I don’t get to be right and I like to be right.
“Wait. I thought you said you were bringing wine too.”
“Shit,” he mutters. “It’s in the car.”
“I’ll get it.” I slide my box shut and put it onto the table. “Get me your keys.”
He adjusts the box and reaches inside his pocket for his keys. “Stop looking at my cock, Brooke.”
I blink and look away. “Sorry. It’s hard to avoid.”
He laughs and puts his keys in my hand. “I am aware.”
“Oh god,” I groan. I stand up without looking at him and rush, still barefoot, to the door.
I barely remember to slide my feet into my flip-flops before opening it and rushing out to the sound of Cain’s laughter.
I can’t believe I was just staring at his cock. And apparently, I didn’t even realize I was doing that. This is not normal behavior, even for me.
