Designed by Love (3 page)

“Music, first. And none of that elevator stuff you like to hum to.”

“That's Vivaldi, for your information, and what is it with you and music?”

“What is it with you and cakes?”

“Cakes are my job. They pay the bills and then some.”

“Well, music is
my
job.” Dylan eyed the under-the-cabinet radio to the left of the refrigerator and started that way. “I was working on an important project when
you
so rudely interrupted
me
.”

“Trying to blow up Heart's Haven?”

“Hardly. I'm a DJ, FYI.” He turned off the Vivaldi CD and then pressed a button to switch over to the radio. Music coursed through in a cacophony of sounds as he began to search through the station presets. “I mix soundtracks for parties, events, things like that. I have a wedding reception booked for tomorrow. I was working on the final touches for the playlist when you barged in.”

“No one would choose that…that
junk
for their most blessed day. I myself would go with something way more refined.”

“A bit judgmental, aren't you?”

“Just stating my preference.”

“And if your…husband-to-be, shall we say, preferred something else?”

“I hardly think we'd have made it past the first date. Now, if you don't mind lowering the volume to a low roar, I'd like to retain my hearing through a ripe, old age.” Traci reached over his shoulder to adjust the radio's volume dial. “And none of that rap junk you were playing over at your place. I won't disgrace my kitchen with the vile—”

“Get your genres right. What you heard wasn't rap. It was hip-hop, perfect for dancing, which is what my clients plan to do at the reception tomorrow. You don't have a thing against dancing, too, do you?”

“Of course not. I like to dance.”

“Whew…that's a relief.” Dylan swiped a hand across his brow. “I'm sure, being a businessperson yourself, that you can understand it's my job to fulfill the requests of my clients, whether or not I agree with or like their choice of music. I assume you don't turn down cake orders just because you don't happen to prefer the flavor that's requested.”

“OK, good point.” Traci opened the refrigerator door and gathered a carton of eggs and a pint of heavy cream. She handed them to Dylan, who set them on the table. “You win this round.”

“I didn't know we were sparring.”

“Call it whatever you'd like.” She crouched to gather her largest mixing bowl from the cabinet. “And since we're…enjoying this little verbal exchange, for the record, I detest anything coconut. It's a texture thing.” Traci placed the bowl on the table. She measured flour then dumped it in, following with a pinch of salt and a few leveled teaspoons of baking powder before handing Dylan a rubber spatula. “Stir this. And you should consider introducing your clients to Vivaldi.”

“You should try coconut fudge brownies—heavy on the fudge, light on the coconut texture, and all the way amazing. They're one of my mom's specialties. I'm sure I can snag the recipe from her file.” He tossed the ingredients with the spatula a little too hard, and powder flew over the rim to dust the table. Traci frowned. It was going to be a long night.

“Easy there, cowboy. We'll need that for the batter.” She placed a hand over Dylan's to calm the tempest of stirring. “And, as far as your brownies, please, don't go to the trouble.”

“Oh, it's no trouble. I'll whip you up a batch for dinner one night. We'll have them after I toss a few steaks on the grill, because you can't have dessert without a little dinner first.”

“Is that a man law, too?”

“No, I made it up because, well…I just realized I'd like to have dinner with you.”

“You just realized? Is this some round-about way of asking me out?”

“That depends. Would you accept if it was?”

“Maybe…if you promise to play Vivaldi and wear an apron while you're grilling.”

“That's a tough sell…”

“Judging by the way you stir, dinner would be a disaster.”

“Hold up.” Dylan eased the spatula. “I really am the grill master when it comes to steaks, and I'm willing to compromise.”

“In that case, I suppose I can compromise, too. I'll tell you a little secret. I like country music.” Traci added sugar to a second bowl and creamed it with softened butter before going after a carton of eggs. Something deep in the pit of her belly hummed as she considered sharing dinner with Dylan. “Maybe we can settle along some middle ground for the time being, while we recreate what you've single-handedly destroyed.”

“You make this whole situation sound much worse than it is.”

“Oh, you'll see things from my corner once you start mixing the batter. Believe me, it's a workout.”

“Nothing these arms can't handle.” He flexed a bicep, making Traci laugh. He
did
look more than capable.

“Just head back to that radio and select a new station, hotshot.”

“You're a country girl…hmm…I suppose we can compromise with that.” Dylan wiped his hands across the front of the cupcake emblem before crossing back to the radio. He flipped through the presets, found one that sounded pure country. When he turned back, his gaze drank Traci in as he pressed one hip against the counter. “Does this meet with your approval?”

“It does.” Traci ignored the thrum of excitement that coursed through her as she handed him a carton of eggs. Crazy…she barely knew anything about him, and what she
did
know went against the grain. But he couldn't be all that bad. After all, he'd offered to come to her kitchen and help her fix the cake. And he'd agreed to country music
and
offered to grill her dinner. Even if he did, at first glance, seem to be all thumbs when it came to baking, he probably possessed an internal grilling radar that helped him sear steaks to perfection. Add to that the fact that, with his smoky-blue gaze and chocolate hair, not to mention the terrain of muscles that refused to hide beneath the apron, he was easy on the eyes. Traci lifted her chin and drew a breath to clear her head. She struggled for a no-nonsense tone to mask the sudden gnawing in her belly as she lifted the lid on the carton of eggs. “Now, start cracking these eggs into that small plastic bowl. Use the separator because we'll only need the whites for now.”

“The separator?”

“Watch.” In one swift motion, Traci demonstrated as she smacked one of the eggs along the side of the bowl. White slipped through the separator while the yolk remained behind. She dumped that into an even smaller bowl before glancing up at Dylan. “See how it's done?”

“Sure. I'll give it a go.” He took the separator from her. “It doesn't look too hard.”

“The recipe calls for ten egg whites. You think you can handle that?”

“Sure. I've got it.”

But he didn't have it—not by a long-shot. When it came to eggs the guy was all thumbs. And she already knew he tanked in the music department. Traci hoped he had more skill when it came to grilling. Perhaps she should re-think the whole dinner thing. She eased in beside him when a second yolk slipped in to mar the white and reached for his hand. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Pay attention and learn. It's done like this.” She placed a hand over his, guiding him along. His aftershave, a blend of pine and something pure male, tickled her nose. His hands were warm and slightly callused beneath hers. Something inside Traci shifted and the room seemed to tilt for a moment. She really shouldn't have skipped lunch…and dinner. She squeezed her eyes shut as her pulse skittered.

“Are you OK?” Dylan turned “Your pulse is racing.”

“I'm fine.” She opened her eyes to find his face only inches from hers as he studied her. “I skipped lunch.”

“And dinner?”

“That, too.” She drew a breath, two to recover and shook off the feeling, careful to keep her voice steady as she drew his attention back to the eggs. “Now, you try it.”

“Not until you eat something.”

“We don't have time.”

“And we don't have time to scrape you off the floor when you faint from exhaustion, either. How can someone who works with food forget to eat?” He pressed a palm to her cheek. “You're pale, Traci. Sit down. I'm making you something to eat.”

“But we
really
don't have time.” The words sounded far away, even to her, as the room began to spin.

“No argument.” Dylan eased her into a chair. He crossed to the fridge, yanked open the door and riffled through the contents. Drawers slammed as he found a plate, bread, slices of luncheon meat. “Ham or turkey?”

“Turkey.”

“Mayo or mustard?”

“Mayo.”

“Milk or soda?”

“Sweet tea. Lemon.”

“OK.”

The room did a slow spin as he added meat to the bread and slapped on some mayo. Ice clinked into a glass, followed by the splash of tea.

“Here, eat.” He set the plate on the table in from of her. “No more work until you finish all of that and I see some color in your cheeks.”

“Dylan—”

“Hush and eat.”

“I was just going to say, thank you.”

 

 

 

 

3

 

“You have very pretty hands.” Dylan skimmed a finger along Traci's wrist. “Soft.”

With her hunger sated once more and color back in her cheeks, Dylan had given the go-ahead for them to return to work. Now, his touch ignited a burst of sparks along Traci's skin as she continued the lesson on separating eggs. Her cheeks heated, and she bowed her head, masking her shock with an overly-sharp tone. “Focus, Dylan. Are you paying attention?”

“Oh, eggs…right.” He lifted his finger, breaking the touch. “Yeah…the cake.”

His breath warmed the nape of her neck like the soft breeze of an impending summer storm. Traci wiggled from the embrace of his arms and turned to face him, her lips a hair's breadth from his as his electric gaze captured hers and held tight. For the slightest moment she stood paralyzed, unable to speak as Dylan grazed a knuckle along her temple.

“You've got flour…” His voice was the first flash of lightning. “…right here.”

“Thanks.” The word barely came.

“And a smudge of sugar…” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “…here.”

“I'd better…I should…” Traci backed up, right into the table. A stainless steel bowl bobbled and teetered on the table's ledge.

Dylan rescued it. “That was close.” He set it on the table once more and shifted his gaze back to her. “You OK?”

“I'm…yeah.” Traci wiggled from him. “It's just awfully warm in here. The oven's been working overtime all day.”

“I'll open this window.” Dylan lifted the glass over the sink and a breeze rushed in. “Is that better?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Traci busied her hands by turning away and attacking the sugar and butter with a whisk. Her pulse refused to return to a normal cadence as she determined to restore a bit of sanity back to the conversation. She wondered if Dylan sensed the change in her, and had he felt the same internal shift of emotions? She gulped hard, watching him from the corner of her eye.

His gaze held as he studied her with the scrutiny of wolves she'd heard roamed the Angelina Forest.

Her voice trembled as she asked, “You said you have a wedding tomorrow? Where?”

“Hemlock Street, two o'clock.”

Hemlock…it was an omen. “
I
have a wedding reception on Hemlock Street at two tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” Dylan eased back in beside her. He got to work on the eggs as the hint of a grin bowed his lips. “Well, you know what that means, don't you?”

“No. What?”

“We can car pool. I'll pick you up at noon. My SUV is big enough to haul all the equipment I'll need
and
your cake.”

“Excuse me, but you don't haul a cake.” The comment helped set Traci's emotions back on stable ground. She suddenly imagined the creamed batter was Dylan's head as she whipped it into a fluffy froth. He obviously knew nothing about running a cake business. “Cakes aren't like electronic equipment or music stored in a laptop that can be tossed into the back of a vehicle. Cakes should be transported with great care.”

“Yeah, OK. My SUV is roomy enough to
haul
all my equipment and
transport
your cake with the utmost care. Does that work for you?”

“Well, I could use some help delivering a design that's this heavy and we
are
going to the same place.” She blew a wisp of hair from her forehead. “Are you a safe driver?”

“Am I a safe…?” Dylan rolled his eyes as laughter bubbled up. “I guess you'll find out.”

 

****

 

“So, how did you get into the cake business?” Dylan asked as Traci plopped summer-green fondant onto the table.

“I kind of stumbled into it.” She worked a rolling pin over the mound, smoothing it into a thin, rectangular shape. “When one of my friends was pregnant with her first child a few years ago, she wanted to do a reveal party, and I offered to make a cake for her.”

“A reveal party? What's that?”

“It's like a baby shower, except the baby's gender is also disclosed with the help of a cake—pink batter announces the lucky couple is going to have a girl, blue for a boy.”

“Ah, I see.” What crazy custom would they think of next? “And…?”

“Well, I made this cute little design adorned with yellow baby booties and safety pins fashioned from silver-dusted fondant with a to-die-for strawberry sponge filling, and it was such a hit that I got half-a-dozen orders on the spot…a pair of graduations, two weddings, a bridal shower, and a retirement party. That was three years and two kids ago. Those orders garnered more, and the chain just kept lengthening. Word of mouth traveled so quickly I had a hard time keeping up. That's when I cut back hours on my day job as a media specialist at the Angel Falls Public Library and launched a website for online orders. When that exploded, I finally quit my day job altogether before diving head-first into cakes. I design, bake, decorate, and deliver, and I also teach a class on Thursday evenings at Angel Falls Community Church.”