Courtship of the Cake (14 page)

One night, no strings, with a hot stranger in a sultry town like New Orleans after celebrating all things romance would've been the icing on the cake, so to speak. Had Mick played fair that night.

•   •   •

“I wanted to see you home safe.”

“But I still haven't told you about all these colors,” I had protested, slowly stripteasing the beads off both of us. Mick felt like everything that was good and safe, and I didn't want him to leave my touch. “Gold was for power, remember?” I whispered, as the last string of beads fell to the floor, and lifted the hair from the back of my neck, turning away from him.

He drew a ragged breath, but hesitated, with his fingertips on the zipper of my dress.

He had all the power. It scared the hell out of me.

“Dani . . .”

“Green,” I said, clutching the fabric to my breasts as he slowly eased the zipper down, knuckles caressing, thumb tracing the curve of my spine. “Green for faith.”

“Trust me,” he breathed. “We should just—”

Just one glance over my shoulder found his eyes locked on me, disarming me with their startling blue and causing me to stumble, falling into him and letting the dress pool to the floor.

“We shouldn't.”

I wanted to drown in him. I wished I could stop the dizzying pace in which my head and my heart were racing. I had been drinking, but it wasn't all from the alcohol. He had me churned up and turned on, and this night . . . this thing . . . us. We had to happen.

I stood there, breathing deep, eyes fluttering closed, as his hands found the strings of my panties. “Purple for justice,” I panted, victorious. His fingers grazed my belly, then the hem, playing down the lacy dampness to my throbbing core. He let out a strangled groan as if he was the only one being tortured. I wanted to climb on his desire and bring us both crashing down. I wanted to misbehave, and redeem us, for days on end.

“Here's your chance to earn another PhD,” I challenged.

“In ‘Pinning her Down'?” he growled, hands circling my wrists and bringing them overhead. We knocked back against the exposed brick on my bedroom wall, bumping, nipping, and grinding against each other.

“You could frame me on the wall, right here . . . Passionate, hot . . .” I teased.

“Pounding,” he countered, “heaving . . .”

“Dripping.” I groaned wickedly, pulling a leg up to wrap around his thighs. He caught it with his hand as I strained to meet him.

“Deep.” His lips buzzed against my ear, and I almost creamed myself.

“So deep,” I agreed, practically shaking under his touch.

“Drunk,” he insisted, gently untangling our hands. His hand gave my thigh one last caress before letting it slide from his grasp.

“Why does it matter?” I was exasperated, and beyond turning back. “We could be so good together—”

“I know,” Mick said firmly. “Which is why we wait. And if you're still feeling the same way tomorrow, let me take you out for beignets in the morning. Say you'll meet me at the Café Du Monde.”

“But you—” He didn't let me finish, pushing a finger to my lips, then thinking better of it and crushing his lips there, too.

“You don't understand,” I said when we came up for a breath. “I haven't asked . . . haven't wanted anyone to stay . . .”
Until now
, my scaredy-cat brain prompted, but “until morning” came out. Even my looser, drunken mouth wasn't bold enough to say it.

He kissed me gentler then, as if he understood. I let him lead me slowly to the bed with his fingers lingering at my elbows, guiding me with his lips. Softly he set me down, and reached for the piece of groom's cake in its box. I began to protest; I needed nothing sweeter than the whole of him. “No, not for you to eat, silly,” he chided me, sliding the box under the mountain of pillows beneath my head. “For you to dream.”

•   •   •

Let me take you out for beignets in the morning.
His voice had been sticky and hot, as sweet as the offer itself.

That I couldn't refuse.

And so I had awoken that next morning, hungry, happy, and hot and bothered. Sheets twisted and body aching. Victorious; as if some sort of test had been passed. Yet scared as hell.

I had tamped down the dreams for so long, lying to myself and to others about it, and the shame flamed my face, thinking about it now. At a child's birthday party, of all places. But Mick's piercing gaze was forcing the thoughts to rise to the surface, raw and real.

“Too late,” I found myself saying. “You had your chance.”

PICK YOUR POISON

It had killed me to walk away from her that night. Now I had to endure not only her walking away, but watching her waltz straight into Nash's arms as he introduced her to my uncle. I was pretty sure I knew how the piñata felt. Every squeeze Nash applied to her skin, every playful glance, every laugh they shared felt like a whack to the gut, the heart, and the head.

“So tell me,” my aunt asked, eyes wide. “How did he propose?”

Nash opened his mouth, but Dani beat him to it. “He popped the question on the top of a mountain,” she supplied. “It was perfect!”

“How romantic,” Sindy sighed. “And was it a total surprise?”

“Nash? Romantic? I'm sure it was a total shock,” I couldn't help but interject.

“Like you would know romance if it bit you in the ass, player,” Nash shot back.

“Are you kidding?” My aunt felt she had to come to my defense. “Food is love, and this sweetheart knows his way around a kitchen.”

Nash turned to Dani. “Yeah. Mick lost his virginity to Mrs.
Butterworth, Aunt Jemima, and Betty Crocker in a hot four-way and never looked back.”

I wished I could smack the gloat right off his face, but there were children present.

“There's my boy.” Walt turned his chair to greet me. “How was the Davis wedding last night?”

Although out of the business, my uncle still kept tabs on all our orders and events in and around town. He was strictly business about it, however, and didn't seem to know or want to know about the, ah . . . pleasurable added benefits that came from being the only local (and available) baker in town.

I did know a thing or two about romance, contrary to what Nash thought. But usually it was far easier to love 'em and leave 'em . . . before they could leave me first.

“Another satisfied customer,” I murmured, ignoring the knuckles Nash held out to bump. He'd probably break my hand with that silver skull ring of his, plus who knew where (or who) those knuckles had been in. I refused to let my brain torture me with images of him with Dani. There had to still be other girls. This was, after all, Nash Drama.

“That's what I like to hear,” Walt said approvingly. “Now, if only you'd cut that hair, boy.” I ran my hand through my thick locks, which could've probably used a trim but were a perfectly acceptable length. It's not like I was sporting a mop like Bear's, or the sleek style Nash was throwing over a shoulder every chance he got.

“Oh, leave him be, Walt. I like the look myself.” Sindy reached up to give me a tousle, and I only tolerated it because I felt Dani's eyes surveying the exchange, amused.

“He's a baker, not a rock star,” Walt grumbled.

“Yeah, Baker Boy. This town ain't big enough for the both of us.” Nash tipped his shades and peered over them at me in an attempt at clever bravado.

“Are you kidding? This tent isn't big enough for the both of us,” I quipped. “Or for me and your ego, anyway.”

“Hey, now. Don't hate the player. Hate the game.”

Sindy clapped her hands, causing the bows in her hair to bounce like a delighted child's. “I love when all my boys are together,” she confided to Dani. “It's like the Three Musketeers.”

“More like a three-ring circus,” Walt corrected.

“Oh, shush, you big wet blanket. Go mingle, won't you?”

My uncle made his escape, probably more intent to run down partygoers with his chair than to mix and mingle in between them.

“You hear that, Mick? The circus is in town. So why don't you go pitch your pup tent over with Bear and I'll hang here under the big top?” Nash smugly slung one arm over Dani's shoulder and one over Sindy's. “With the ladies.”

Oh, it's on. Like a big pot of neck bones
, as Aunt Sindy loved to say. I regretted not having employed that knee to the groin back at the bakery when I had the chance. “Okay, I'll leave you
ladies
to the wedding talk, then.”

I turned on my heel and smiled as Sindy began yammering a mile a minute about every wedding she had had the pleasure of working on, hint, hint, and scoped the crowd for Logan. He was admiring the cupcakes, set out on display next to his box cake creation and the fruit tart I had given to Dani. Instinctively, I reached for the small flip notepad I kept in my back pocket. It had its own small pen, which stored perfectly in its spiral binding.

Your cake turned out great, buddy. Sorry I was late this
A.M
.

I set the pad next to the Spiderman cakes, and watched him smile as he read it. We had been exchanging notes this way for the better part of a year, out of sight of Quinn. It saved on a lot of time, frustration, and confusion. Outside of a bit of finger spelling, I wasn't even up to snuff with what Quinn called pidgin sign.

Logan pressed the pad back into my hand.

That's OK. I just hate when my mom gets sad at you.

I wrinkled my brow. Cupping the tiny book in my hand, I quickly fired off:
You mean “mad,” right?

No. She was SAD at you. I saw her crying earlier.

I glanced over at Quinn, who was instructing good battering technique to the next kid about to take a crack at the piñata. There was patience and humor in her tone and stance. So different from the bashing she had given me earlier. I had totally deserved it.

Looking down at Logan, I saw he was still scrawling.

Good thing you bake like a boss.

His eyes danced, watching me read it, and smiled big as I laughed and nodded.

I promise not to upset her anymore
, I wrote.

“Mick! Logan's up next!” Bear hollered.

I mimicked swinging the bat and rained my fingers down to indicate the candy bounty that awaited him. He eagerly nodded and ran in the direction of the tree, so my poor attempt at homemade pidgin sign evidently worked.

“Nice work, Mick.”

My uncle was at my side, a cupcake shaking between his pudgy thumb and forefinger so he could have a better look at my sugar work.

“What are your numbers?” I asked, knowing his tremors got worse as his blood sugar dropped.

“My numbers are fine,” he insisted, resenting being asked. “But they'd be better if you let me eat one of these.” He gave me a resigned smile, knowing full well the combination of main ingredients—flour and sugar—was just as dangerous a cocktail to a diabetic as a speedball of cocaine and heroin was to the average human. “It's hard to stay away from such sweet poison, Mick.”

“Yeah,” I commiserated, my eyes on Dani. “You got that right.”
She and Sindy were deep in conversation, and Nash was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he ran to the hills at the first drop of the
W
word.

I should be so lucky.

Weddings were my world; I lived and breathed their details every day. I fulfilled dreams. There was an entire back wall of the bakery dedicated to thank-you cards from happy brides and grooms, gushing poetic in their perfect post-honeymoon handwriting. All about going above and beyond, of exceeding their expectations. Of saving the day.

Baking was my business
and
my pleasure. All the other stuff, the women and the antics, fell into my lap. And now I let it all fall away. It was, and it always had been, about making people happy with the best possible cake I could serve.
Mick Spencer's sweet voodoo.

What did Nash do? He plugged an amp cord into a guitar jack and made static and noise. He was chauffeured from town to town, told when to go onstage and who to give lip service to. Promoters, sponsors, record labels. He delivered a one-size-fits-all rock-and-roll dream to fans and was gone by morning, before they even woke up.

And before he did that, he stole. And he lied. And he made promises he didn't keep.

Relieving my uncle of the cupcake, I placed it back with the others and searched Quinn's nearby “party box” for candles. She had thought of everything: Knife in a safety sheath, should it fall into the wrong hands; paper towels to wipe said knife and any sticky fingers. Cake server, plates, forks, napkins. Even hand sanitizer for the little monsters.

Quinn lived by boxes and compartments. And by the motto of always being prepared. Which often made me wonder how Logan happened. Well, maybe not so much the
how
but the
why
. Now that he was here, though, it was hard to remember a time without him. Logan was what Aunt Sindy called “an old soul.”

“Need any help?” Dani asked. Just having her close and hearing that husky voice of hers revved me up.
Jeez, Mick. You lightweight.
It's not like she's hanging from a stripper pole or anything.
Although her hand was resting sort of provocatively on the tent pole between us.

“Well, I'm going to go make like a leaf and mingle,” said my uncle, God bless him. Walt loved to mangle jokes, and he provided such a dry delivery, people usually didn't get it the first time around. But Dani cracked up instantly, causing Walt to practically pop a wheelie with delight on his way out of the tent.

“Your aunt and uncle are adorable.”

“So are you,” I said, grabbing the tent pole just below her hand and winding myself alongside her so my arm was practically around her waist. “Wanna make like a tree and leaf with me?” She groaned at my more accurate but nonetheless cheesy pun. “No? How about just making out with me behind the trees then?”

“Smooth,” Dani said drily. “You should try frosting a cake with those moves.”

“I do. Every day. And I can't wait to frost yours.”

“Not going to happen.” Her cheeks reddened as deep as the Spidey cupcakes. “The ‘cake consult'”—she air-quoted—“was Nash's idea of a joke. He just wanted to bust your balls when he got to town, Mick.”

“Oh, so you two are
not
in need of a wedding cake, then?”

“I didn't say that,” she stammered.

“Then I do need your help.” Reaching into my back pocket, I slid out the pair of photo booth strips I had taken out of my bakery appointment book. Her copies had been keeping mine company since New Orleans. She'd played her hand that night just as well as I'd played mine, and it was now time to return these to their rightful owner.

“I'm looking for this girl I've lost. Have you seen her?” I placed them in her hands.

Dani had been working to keep her shoulders held so defiantly, but at the photographic proof of our chemistry, I watched them drop in surrender.

“Yeah, I know her.” Her voice was whisper soft. “Used to, anyway. Heard she got herself engaged to another guy.”

“Because she plans on loving, honoring, and cherishing him? And vice versa? Until death parts them, and all that jazz?”

Because I didn't believe that for a second.

Dani's eyes widened, and her delicate nostrils flared. But she remained mute, leaving my challenge un-refuted. She moved to give the photos back, but I shoved my hands in my pockets and refused to take them.
Not gonna happen.

And this wedding wasn't going to happen, not if I had anything to say or do about it. And suddenly I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I was going to go above and beyond. I was going to exceed expectations.

I was going to ruin their day.

Nash would not be having his cake and eating it, too. Not this time.

“You deserve a beautiful cake,” I said, gauging her reaction. “I insist. It'll be my wedding gift to you and Nash.”

Dani's lips parted and puffed a surprised sigh at my three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. “Seriously?”

“You heard Nash. I'm a lover, not a fighter. Who am I to stand in the way of . . .” I couldn't bring myself to say it, just gestured with my hand.

“Of what Nash and I have?” she tested. Or perhaps she was having trouble buying into the words, too. Was that too much to wish for? The twist of her smile made me want to kick down the tent pole, pull up the stakes, and trap her under the tarp. Just the two of us . . . and the cupcakes. That's all we'd need.

“Exactly.”

“And I don't want to come in between whatever it is you and he have,” she said softly. “You guys have known each other your whole lives.”

“Nash was the closest thing I ever had to a brother,” I admitted.
“I love him dearly. But sometimes . . . sometimes I'm allowed to hate him fiercely.”

Dani nodded; she had a sister, so I was sure she knew the delicate balance I was referring to. The blink of her long lashes flashed a wicked game of Truth or Dare. “He's probably going to want you to be his best man, you know.”

“I know.”

And may the best man win.

“Where is he, anyway?” I thought to ask.

“He went to help Bear with the piñata.”

“Jeez, one of them just needs to put that thing out of its misery.”

We turned to watch Logan take another swing, full of ecstatic fury, only to sideswipe the thing and send it ricocheting off the tree.