Recipe for Love (2 page)

Caitlin let out an excited squeal, and Rachel laughed. Mike the Magnificent was good
with the kids and a good magician. How did he do it? She stared at the box and the
black hat and couldn’t tell how he’d been able to make the switch. Dodging a couple
of the strings that hung down from the balloons bobbing against the ceiling, she moved
closer.

“Just the person I was looking for,” Mike said, catching her eye. “Rachel, could you
come up here for a moment?”

“Certainly.” Rachel gave him a wide smile and moved to his side. “What would you like
me to do?”

“Get in the box.”

Rachel glanced at the large horizontal black box resting upon two sawhorses in the
middle of the room. It looked eerily like a coffin.

“And take off your shoes,” he added under his breath.

Rachel stepped out of her pink pumps, and when Mike moved aside the black curtain
covering the box, she slid inside.

“How about a pillow?” Mike asked.

“A pillow would be nice,” she said.

His large, warm hand cupped the back of her head as he placed the white cushion beneath
her, and his gaze locked with hers. “Are you married?”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “No.”

“Have a steady boyfriend?”

Rachel shook her head.

“Good,” Mike said and grinned at the audience. “I won’t have to worry about anyone
coming after me if something goes wrong.”

“What do you mean,
‘if something goes wrong’
?” she demanded.

He held up a carpenter’s saw with a very large, jagged blade, and the kids in the
audience giggled with delight.

“He’s going to saw her in half!” Mia exclaimed. “I don’t think my mommy will like
that. How will Rachel help my mom bake cupcakes?”

“Saw me in half?” Rachel gasped and stared up at Mike. How did this trick work? He
wasn’t really going to come near her with that saw, was he? “I . . . uh . . . have
a slight fear of blades. If I get hurt, do you have a girlfriend or wife I can complain
to?”

Mike grinned. “No wife. But if you survive, maybe I’ll marry you.”

The young audience edged forward in anticipation, probably wondering if they’d see
blood or hear her scream.

Rachel had done some pretty crazy things in the past to get a date, but this ridiculous
stunt had to top them all. “I really am afraid of blades,” she said, her voice raised
to a high-pitched squeak.

“Don’t worry; I’ve only killed two people in the past,” Mike reassured her, then leaned
down to whisper in her ear, “Roll to your side and curl up in a ball.”

Rachel did as she was told and faced the audience. There was more room in the box
than she’d first supposed. Mike made a few quick adjustments, and an inside board
slid up against her feet. Then he raised the shark-toothed blade above her and began
to saw the outside of the box in two. The box rattled, and the fresh sawdust made
her sneeze, making the kids laugh.

“Does it hurt?” Caitlin asked.

“Not yet,” Rachel admitted.

“Here we go,” Mike announced.

Rachel closed her eyes, and memories of her uncle filled her mind. Distracted, he’d
slipped while working a circular saw and cut off three of his fingers. Blood spurt
in every direction. She’d been seven and stood by his side when it happened.

Everyone in the room shouted as Mike pulled the black boxes apart. Rachel frowned.
She didn’t feel any different.

“Rachel, are you alive?” Mia called out.

“Yes, I’m still here.”

Jake’s daughter, Taylor, pointed. “Her feet are sticking out of the other half of
the box.”

“How do you know those feet are mine?” Rachel challenged, knowing her bare toes were
curled beneath her.

Caitlin laughed. “They are wearing your pink shoes.”

Rachel craned her head around to see the other half of the black box several feet
away. The two flesh-colored, lifelike feet sticking out of the end wore her pink pumps.

“How ’bout we put Rachel back together?” Mike suggested.

The kids clapped and cheered.

Moving the two boxes back together, Mike motioned for her to slide out of the first
wooden compartment. Then he removed the set of fake feet out of the second compartment
and gave her back her pink pumps. When she’d slipped them on, he took her hand and
led her in front of the audience.

“She’s back together again!” Mia exclaimed.

“Take a bow,” Mike told her. “You’ve earned it”

“I survived.” Rachel tilted her head and gave him a questioning look to remind him
of his earlier words. But he didn’t ask her to marry him.

He didn’t even ask her for a date.

Disappointed, Rachel left the party and headed back to the kitchen, where Andi and
Kim waited for a progress report.

“Does he like you?” Andi asked.

“Oh, yes,” Rachel said and swallowed the knot in the back of her throat. “He called
me a ‘good sport.’”

Chapter Two

It’s not that chocolates are a substitute for love. Love is a substitute for chocolate.
Chocolate is, let’s face it, far more reliable than a man.

—Miranda Ingram

R
ACHEL PUT THE
pink bandana back over her hair and tried not to think about Mike the Magnificent
any longer. If he wasn’t interested in her, then so be it. She didn’t need him.

“Who knows?” Andi said, her voice filled with compassion. “The next guy through the
door could be the man of your dreams. Maybe he’ll be dressed as Superman.”

Rachel managed a short laugh. “That’s comforting.”

“Or it could be the stooped, gray-haired building owner,” Kim warned. “He said he’d
be by this evening.”

“Eat a chocolate cupcake, and you’ll feel better,” Andi instructed. “Then help tally
receipts and count out money for rent.”

Rachel nodded to the Cupcake Diary Andi held in her hands, the three-ring binder containing
all their notes pertaining to the cupcake business. “How are we doing?”

“When Jake balanced the financial books, he said Creative Cupcakes is doing okay,
but we need to do better,” Andi informed her. “There’s still no money for extras.”

Kim set her paintbrush on the plate of food gels and turned in her seat at the front
table where she’d been decorating the smooth fondant tops of a dozen vanilla truffle
cupcakes. “Maybe we shouldn’t have accepted the building owner’s offer to use the
extra space in the back for a party room.”

Rachel frowned. “I love the party room.”

“I have several groups interested in booking the space for different nights of the
week,” Andi said, tapping the list in the Cupcake Diary with her pencil. “And once
the shop starts making more money, I’d love to go on vacation. Someplace warm—with
Jake.”

“After working so hard to open Creative Cupcakes, we could all use a vacation,” Kim
agreed. “But before I can afford to travel, I need to rent a gallery space in Portland
to display my artwork.”

Rachel thought of her sick grandfather who had drained her mother’s bank account with
medical bills. “We need more customers.”

All three of them lifted their gaze to the golden cupcake cutter, the size of a short
sword, which hung on the pink pin-striped wall above their heads. The shiny victory
blade had been a symbol of success after their struggle to open the shop. Now it sat,
unused, between Kim’s unsold watercolor paintings as a stark reminder that starting
a business was only part of the battle. Now they needed to
stay
in business.

Evening fog drifted in ghost-like wisps through the streets outside Creative Cupcakes’
window. The inside of the shop resembled a ghost town, too. The tables and chairs
in the dining area and the stools in front of the marble counter sat empty. The sweet,
delicious multiflavored cupcakes in the glass display case remained untouched.

Andi straightened her shoulders and pointed toward the large storefront window. “Here
comes a customer now.”

The bells on the front door jingled as it opened, and in walked a tall blond man with
an impressive build. Except for his black beret, he was dressed all in white from
the collar of his dress shirt straight down to his leather wingtip shoes.

Kim nudged Rachel and whispered, “Maybe he’s an angel sent to answer our prayers.”

Rachel pursed her lips. “He looks more like Chef Ramsey on
Hell’s Kitchen
.”

“Can we help you?” Andi asked.

“I’ll taste one of your bite-size tiramisu cakes,” he said, his accent distinctively
French.

“Great choice,” Rachel told him. She opened the display case while Andi took his money,
and the strong scent of the coffee-and-mascarpone whipped frosting wafted into the
air. “Dusted with cocoa, these moist, creamy cupcakes are guaranteed to melt in your
mouth and keep you coming back for more.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the Frenchman replied. Lifting the miniature cupcake
to his mouth, he took a bite, paused a few seconds to chew, then walked over to the
nearest garbage can and spit it out. “How long have you been in business?”

Rachel glanced at the can and frowned. “Six weeks.”

“From where did you gather your recipes?”

“Most of them were my mother’s,” Andi said, her voice filled with pride. “And some
I’ve created on my own.”

“And your credentials?”

Andi smiled. “My mother taught me to bake.”

“Not one of you attended a school for culinary arts?”

Andi hesitated, then gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Kim remained
stock-still and silent. Rachel narrowed her gaze and tried to decipher exactly what
the guy was up to.

“I assumed as much,” he said, sweeping his gaze around the room. “I am Gaston Pierre
Hollande. Undoubtedly you have heard of me.”

Rachel looked at Andi and Kim and shrugged.

“Gaston Pierre Hollande, crowned the Prince of Pastry and awarded the grand champion
trophy on the reality TV show
Extreme Bake-off?”
he prompted.

“Sorry,” Rachel said, “I must have missed that one.”

“It appears that you missed them all if you consider this a bake shop.” He sniffed
and stepped forward to study the other cupcakes in the display case. “You only serve
cupcakes? No other bakery items?”

“We are Creative
Cupcakes
,” Andi emphasized, lifting her chin. “Cupcakes are our specialty.”

“Not for long,” he informed them brusquely. “I have come here tonight to evaluate
my competition, but I can see this is no competition at all. If anyone needs help,
it is you. For while my bakery, the prominent Hollande’s French Pastry Parlor, draws
crowds of customers through its doors with its wide menu of fine delicacies, your
shop sits here empty.”

“We are about to close for the night,” Kim told him.

“You will soon close forever,” Gaston boasted. “As will every other bakery in town.”
He eyed them with contempt. “I did not see your name on the list of vendors for Astoria’s
Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival. Are you not going?”

Rachel shot another glance toward her friends and bit her lower lip. She didn’t even
think of promoting their cupcakes at the festival. They’d set up a booth at the Relay
for Life fundraiser and held a grand opening party, and she’d used her computer skills
to create a website, Facebook page, and Twitter account. But most of their energy
was directed toward the day-to-day details of baking and selling at the shop.

“My bakery has a premier location within the festival building, and when the weekend
is over, everyone in Astoria, Oregon, and the whole Northwest will know Hollande’s
French Pastry Parlor is number one.”

“Yeah,” Andi said, her sudden smile giving way to a smirk. “Good luck with that.”

“My success is not a result of luck, but talent,” he insisted.

“Maybe we’ll sign up,” Rachel said, standing on her tiptoes to look him straight in
the eye.

“
Au contraire!
The vendor slots for the festival were sold out long ago,” Gaston told them, his
face smug. “You are too late.”

Rachel shrugged, careful to keep her expression indifferent. “I doubt cupcakes belong
at the Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival anyway.”

“Not as creative as your name suggests, no?” he taunted.

Mike came out of the back party room, and Gaston’s forehead creased fourfold as he
took in the magician’s costume. Directing his attention back to the three women, he
asked, “You’re working with clowns?”

Rachel scowled. “He’s not a clown; he’s a magician.”

“I meant clown as in ‘buffoon,’” he retorted, jutting out his cleft chin.

Mike drew close to Rachel’s side. “Who’s this?”

“The Prince of Pastry.”

Gaston handed Mike a business card from his back pocket. “If you need to recommend
a real bakery, here is my number.”

Mike waved his hands, and the business card shot into the air and circled round and
round his body until it finally swung inside the plastic-lined barrel beside him.

“You fool! What are you doing?” Gaston demanded, his hat falling off in his aggravated
attempt to reclaim the card.

Andi’s daughter, Mia, ran from the doorway of the party room to the barrel and peered
in. “He made it float into the garbage can!”

Andi nodded. “Where it should be.”

Mike stooped down to pick up Gaston’s hat from the floor.

“Have you no respect?” Gaston barked, his fair face turning red as he narrowed his
beady gaze on the magician. “Give me back my beret!”

Mike complied, and Gaston slapped his hat back on his head. A moment later, his eyes
widened, and taking the hat off again, he looked inside.

Mia gasped, her mouth transformed into a perfect
O
.

Rachel sneaked a quick glance at Mike and let out a laugh. Andi, Kim, and many of
the others coming from the party room laughed, too. The only one not laughing was
Gaston—maybe because his head was covered in the remains of a smashed chocolate cupcake
with coconut cream filling.

“Who’s the buffoon now?” Mike challenged.