Always the Baker, Never the Bride (23 page)

14

I
think you two should consider doing something different. Not the traditional sort of fare. Something truly unique.”

“Aunt Sophie,” Emma said as she unfolded the quilt and tucked it under Sophie’s chin, “what are you talking about?”

“Your wedding!” the woman exclaimed, and the quilt slipped right out of Emma’s hands.

“My … what?”

Sophie inched down and tilted her head into the fluffed pillow beneath it, closing her eyes as she smiled. “You make such a lovely couple.”

Emma shifted on the edge of the bed and looked back at Jackson where he stood in the doorway of her guest room. His expression was blank as he returned the stare for a moment, then he turned around. She heard the padded thump of his shoes on the hall rug as he walked away.

“Aunt Sophie,” she whispered. “Jackson and I are not a couple. He’s my boss.”

Emma flicked off the lamp next to the bed, and a stream of warm light illuminated Sophie’s cheek from the hallway.

“Don’t be silly,” Sophie replied. “You have nothing to be afraid of, Emma Rae. You’ll be just the wife Jackson needs. You’ll see.”

Emma’s pulse fluttered within her, and her wide eyes ached.

“Sleep well,” she said, then she placed a gentle kiss on Sophie’s cheek.

Just as she reached the doorway, her aunt whispered to her. “Do you know what I was thinking, Emma?”

“What’s that?” she replied from the doorway.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I caught the bouquet?”

Emma sighed. “That would be funny.”

“Does Jackson have an uncle who can sing?”

“I … don’t know.” Her cheek twitched as she tried to connect the dots.

“If he does, and I catch the bridal bouquet, make sure to tell Jackson to aim the garter at him. I’d like a man who can sing. Nobody in our family can carry a tune even if it’s in a paper sack with a handle.”

That was the truth, but Emma didn’t say it out loud. “Good night, Aunt Sophie.”

“Good night, dear.”

Emma flicked off the hall light as she passed through. The living room was dark, the only light at all coming in through the window from outside and from the dim overhead in the kitchen.

Jackson’s silhouette reminded Emma of her father the way he fit perfectly into the Ercol Bergere easy chair. “Coffee?” she softly asked him.

“No. Thanks.”

She was almost on her tiptoes as she moved to the sofa and sat down on the edge.

“I called your mother,” he told her. “She’s going to call the facility and let them know that Sophie is safe for the night.”

“How—”

“I found her number in your cell phone. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” She chuckled and slid back into the couch, kicked off her shoes, and folded into the padded arm. “You’ve been so amazing, Jackson. I can never repay you for your kindness to my aunt.”

“She makes it very easy to be kind. She’s a wonderful woman.”

“Underneath all the crazy.”

“No. Right on top of it,” he corrected.

Emma dipped her chin down atop her folded arm and smiled at him. “She thinks we’re engaged, you know.”

“That’s very generous of her.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“When she first showed up at the hotel tonight, she thanked me for asking her to marry me. Now it looks like she’s handing me over to you.”

Emma chuckled. “I guess she thinks we’re a better match, then.”

“Astute.”

Her eyes darted up again, and she watched Jackson carefully, although his gaze didn’t return to hers.

“You’re sure you don’t want any coffee?” He nodded. “Do you mind if I make myself some tea?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Emma rose from the couch and padded off toward the kitchen in bare feet, and she filled the stainless-steel kettle with water. When she turned back again to ignite the stove, she thumped into Jackson.

“Oh! Sorry. I didn’t know you were—”

He didn’t let her finish. He just wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into him, angling his face and pressing his lips against hers. She was so surprised that she drew in a long, deep breath through her nose and then just held it there as the warmth of his kiss began to settle on her. Aware of a ticklish tingle to her lips, she pursed them a little more, pressing in.

Suddenly the kettle that had been in her hand clanged to the floor. She jumped slightly at the noise, but neither of them was deterred. After a moment, Emma’s knees felt weak, and she slipped her arms around Jackson’s neck and leaned into him. Wiggling her toes against the bamboo flooring, she realized she could feel a crazy vibration all the way from her lips to her frosted pink toenails. She pushed away the notion of hopping up into his arms to continue the evolution of this very appealing development, instead allowing him to pull away gently. It was a natural ending, but one she wasn’t ready to face.

When their lips had parted, Emma fell back against the green granite counter and held on to it with both hands. Her heart pounding, her breathing shallow, her head beginning to spin the way it did sometimes when her blood sugar dropped.

“I probably shouldn’t have—”

She silenced him mid-word with the wave of her hand. With her eyes closed, she shook her head from side to side. “Can you please not ruin this moment by saying what a mistake you just made? Can we please just enjoy it?”

When she opened her eyes again, Jackson was grinning.

“I was just going to say that I probably shouldn’t have surprised you,” he said, then he nodded toward the stream of water on the floor from the overturned kettle.

“Oh.” She stared at it, feeling as if she’d been glued to the spot by its contents. “Right.”

Jackson reached past her and produced a towel and leaned down to mop up some of the water while Emma grabbed the kettle and set it on the counter behind her. She kept her back to Jackson and clung to the edge of the counter with her eyes clamped shut.

Don’t do it
, she warned herself internally.
Do NOT do it.

But everything inside of her pushed and nudged and poked at her. All she wanted was to spin around, dive back into his arms, and kick that kiss up a notch from where they’d left off.

Emma flew into the kitchen, leaving the door flapping behind her and squealing to a halt.

Fee glanced up from kneading the batch of ivory fondant. “Hey, girl. Where’ve you been?”

“I had to take my aunt back to Sandy Springs,” she replied, contorting her lips into what her mother used to call a “dried apricot imitation.”

“Again? What’s up with—”

“Fiona. Stop talking,” she snapped. “It’s my turn right now.”

Fee looked up again, this time meeting her urgency in the gap between them. “What’s wrong?”

Emma shifted from one foot to the other, then bit the corner of her lip.

“Em. What is it? Something happened?”

“Yes.”

“Something bad?”

“Yes.” Then she reconsidered. “No.”

“Which is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

Fee rinsed her hands, and was drying them as she stalked right up to Emma and stared her down. “Spill.”

Just as Emma started to speak, the kitchen door whooshed open and Norma walked in. Emma made a sort of whoosh of her own as she drew in a breath and snapped her mouth shut.

“Emma, do you have time to meet with someone?”

“I … uh … yes, of course. Who is it?”

“A potential wedding customer and her mother. The bride has a very specific theme in mind, and I think it might help her to have your input on designing her cake. We’re in the salon.”

The salon.

It used to be a simple storage room, converted into a consultation room. Now it was
The Salon.
“Give me five minutes?”

“Thank you.”

Norma left the kitchen, and Emma waited a solid ten seconds before she even flinched. Then she turned toward Fee, invading every inch of her personal space.

“Aunt Sophie came to the hotel last night,” she said softly, but at warp speed. “Jackson brought her to my place. I put her to bed in the guest room, I went into the kitchen to make some tea, I turned around and he was
rightupinmyfacethisclose
, and then he kissed me, Fee. It was fantastic, I couldn’t sleep thinking about it, and now I’m afraid to run into him for fear that I’ll humiliate myself and plaster him against the wall and lay another one on him. I’m going to go do a consult now, thanks for listening.”

Fee didn’t have time to speak a single word before Emma spun around and exited the kitchen, leaving her friend in the dust of her confession. As she turned the corner and set her hand on the knob of the door, she heard Fee hoot with laughter from behind her in the kitchen.

“Emma Rae Travis,” Norma said as she entered the room. “Meet Vivian Rochester, and her daughter Rachelle Rochester. Rachelle is going to be a spring bride.”

“Congratulations,” Emma said, her smile quivering slightly.

They all sat down, gathered around the desk where half a dozen magazine clippings were scattered. Rachelle pointed to them and tapped the desk with a nervous little rhythm.

“It’s going to be a small ceremony,” she offered. “Fifty people or less. And we’d like to have it at sunrise on the roof of the hotel, and then bring them all down to the courtyard for a reception.”

“Sunrise in the spring,” Emma considered.

“Early May.”

“So around … what is that? … seven o’clock in the morning?”

“Something like that,” Norma confirmed. “They’d like a simple brunch afterward, perhaps some quiche, fresh fruit, maybe an omelet station.”

“We’d like a wedding cake,” Rachelle interjected, “but nothing traditional; something a little more lighthearted, and of course appropriate for such an early time.”

“Emma is one of the region’s premiere cake designers,” Norma told them. “She won the Passionate Palette Award just this year for her amazing crème brûlée wedding cake.”

“We read about that in
The Journal
,” Vivian told them.

“I just knew you’d come up with something unique,” Rachelle said with obvious hope brimming in her expressive dark eyes.

“What do you think about not having a cake?” Emma suggested.

“No cake?” Rachelle’s disappointment spilled over.

“What I mean is instead of a cake, we could customize some cupcakes and set them up on a stand to make it take the shape of a wedding cake.”

Rachelle gasped, and she turned to her mother with a smile that cracked with happy inspiration. “A cupcake wedding cake! I’ve seen pictures of those.”

“We could choose several different spring flowers perhaps, and design and place them so that they resemble your bridal bouquet.” Emma glanced from the bride to her mother and back again. “Or we could—”

“I love that idea!” Rachelle cried. “Mother, I love that idea.” Before Vivian could respond, Rachelle snatched one of the clippings from the desk and thrust it toward Emma. “This is what my bouquet will look like. They’re lilacs and hyacinth. Do you think you could do something with these?”