Courtship of the Cake (10 page)

“Come on, Quinn. I'm sorry. I
do
help out, I never mind chilling with Logan, and you know I would
never
hook up with a guest, or bring anyone back here . . .” The latter was one of the most appealing things about living at the Half Acre. If I had an itch to scratch, it was separate from my life here, with my friends. It was just an itch. That was it.

“It's only a matter of time.” Her words cut deep. “And you are taking up a room I could be renting nightly.”

I had been stewing in my wounded pride, letting ego and anger simmer for a while now. But even I had a boiling point.

“Guess what, Quinn? Summer tourist season, if you want to call it that, is over. The phone barely rings. And besides the leaf-peepers who will be here for a week this fall, and the random gay couple escaping Queen Village for some antiquing upstate? Who's coming to book your rooms, huh?” If anything, my monthly rent was helping her keep the damn property in her family. “You're not exactly turning a profit as an innkeeper.”

“All the more reason not to mess with my wedding business.” Her eyes had tempered to hard and unbreakable.

“We're in the same business,” I reminded, my hands outstretched to appease her. “Same mission, Bradley. I'm on your side.”

“Well, Mandy Davis is on the chamber of commerce board. And I like my membership there. So keep your dick in your pants and your head in the game.”

A blistering guitar solo rattled the stained glass windows of the dining room, and Bacon skidded by, ears back and claws scrambling. Bear had united the rock-and-roll trinity of guitar jack, power cord, and amplifier.

“It's no wonder we have no guests here!” Quinn bellowed loud enough for her brother to hear. “It's a madhouse!”

“No, that's next week,” Bear called. “Anthrax tribute.”

She gathered up all the photos with a hefty sigh, and I sincerely hoped she was going to make the incriminating ones disappear. “You'll help Bear with the party tent? And the tables? And the piñata?”

“Yes, yes. All of it. I just have to go down to the shop to get the Spidey cupcakes, and meet with one bride. My aunt set up a Sunday consult. I promise it will be quick. Just a meet and greet.”

“It had better be.”

I gave Quinn my best
trust me, I'm a total professional
look.

She moved to go, but turned back for one last scrutinizing glance.

I thought she was going for the old “what's that on your shirt?” gag we all used to do when we were kids, as she came at me with a pointed finger. Many a nose had been flicked as a result of falling for that bit. But Quinn wasn't in the joking mood. Her curiosity morphed into disgust.

“You've got chocolate syrup in the hollow of your throat.”

WALK THE LINE

“Nash! NASH! I love you!”

“Marry me, Nash!”

“NASH!”

The term “screaming bloody murder” had nothing on the girls gathered who were “screaming bloody matrimony.” One well-placed shriek at close range from the sea of groupies made me wish I had thought to grab my earplugs off the tour bus. I barely gave them a second thought at concerts; they were a necessary evil.

The groupies, that is. Earplugs were a godsend.

But we weren't at one of Go Get Her's concerts; we were trying to get a mere twenty feet from door to curb where the limo was waiting. “So much for sneaking out the side door,” I hollered at Nash's back. The rest of the band had already been whisked off by the bus, along with a hoodie-and-shades-wearing decoy from the road crew roughly the same height and build as their lead singer, twenty minutes prior. The Nash worshippers were apparently smarter than Riggs gave them credit for.

Their arms undulated like stinging anemone: pretty but painful if
they made contact. “Give him room, ladies. Move back!” Riggs barked, his elbow going up to block limbs being thrown in his path as he led us through the melee. With one hand resting on Nash's shoulder and the other at his waist, I brought up the end of our demented little conga line.

A lacquered talon of a nail hooked around one of my curls and yanked. I gasped and reflexively moved my hands to my head, letting go of the back of Nash's shirt. Like predators sensing a weakness in their prey, a few girls pounced at their chance, inserting themselves behind him and shoving me back.

This is crazy
, the thought jostled my brain.
Just walk away.

It would be so easy to slip farther back into the crowd and disappear altogether. But a deal was a deal, and the ring on my finger had been placed there in good faith.

Nash needed someone who wasn't going to blow smoke up his ass.

The girls were mewing and clawing at his backside, jockeying for position behind him. All dead giveaways that Nash had lost me in the shuffle.

I didn't blow smoke up his ass, nor did I kiss said ass, or fondle it.

“Try not to get separated from him, girlie. Not when he's only just proposed to you,” Riggs barked, pushing Nash into the plush sanctuary of the limo and pulling me in behind him.

“Speaking of which . . .” Nash poured vodka from the limo bar. “I'm up by three today. Drink.”

Riggs shook his head as I downed the shot. “Only you two would make a drinking game out of marriage proposals.”

“I'm still winning,” I proclaimed, delicately wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “I'm pretty sure the proposal I got from that certain British singer earned bonus points.”

“Laugh it up now, buttercup. You can bust my chops all you want behind closed doors, all right? But when we get to New Hope, it's all eyes on me, China Doll. I'm your world. Got it?”

“Yes, Mr. Drama.” I made my voice as shimmering and breathy as Marilyn's during her birthday sing-along to President Kennedy. Riggs rolled his eyes, but seemed to relax as the limo provided us a smooth escape from the gawkers and groupies, carrying us down the turnpike toward Newark airport.

“I'm off to L.A. for the week.” Riggs pried the empty shot glass from my hand and replaced it with a lengthy, printed list. “I want to see him back in New York at the label headquarters first thing next Monday, after the award ceremony. Big meeting about the next album and tour.”

All games were now over, apparently.

“What, have I become his pro bono publicist as well?” I asked, perusing the bullet points meant to get Nash through the week with as much good press as possible. They read about as opportunistic and clichéd as a politician's baby-kissing along the campaign trail.

“Aren't ‘better halves' naturally designed to do damage control?” Riggs teased. “Don't throw that out the window,” he warned my fiancé. “I'm e-mailing her a copy anyway.”

He handed Nash a parking garage ticket. “My Porsche is in P4. Enjoy the wilds of Pennsylvania.” To me, he gave a wink. “Don't pick up any hitchhikers.”

CAKE DUMMY

It didn't matter how long I had been gone, or how much our tiny tourist town had changed. The minute I turned off Bridge Street, the aroma of vanilla in the air socked me in a strange place between my gut and my heart.
Wolkoff's Bakery—every batch baked with love!
was the motto of my aunt Sindy and uncle Walt's shop, and as a kid it was my go-to place through every season.

Pennsylvania winters were cold and I was never dressed quite warm enough, but the inside of the bakery was a safe haven of buttery steam, where a cup of hot cocoa was always waiting. Spring was ushered in with samples of Walt's famous wet-bottom shoofly pie, and summer days weren't complete without dipping into one of Sindy's towering icebox cakes. Fall would come and I'd go with my aunt and uncle to Heaven's Half Acre, where the Bradleys would let us pick apples from the orchard to our hearts' content, in exchange for some of the resulting tarts and pies. Their guests gobbled up the apple, the pecan, and the pumpkin delicacies produced from September until it was time to start baking for the Christmas rush. And then the cycle would begin again.

Throughout it all, the wedding cakes in the window were a constant fixation for me. I'd press my nose against the display, just a layer of glass between my tongue and the perfectly iced cake dummies, which I had no idea were fake. The royal icing spread across them like an untouched field of snow. Crispy curled lines along the borders, sugar shells scalloping the corners, star-tipped peaks stiff and glittering—my teeth ached to sample it all. I'd let my eyes drop out of focus, staring at the endless palette of white on white, on top of even more white.

No matter what, those cakes never changed.

They stood the test of time, just like I thought Aunt Sindy and Uncle Walt's bakery would.
Wolkoff's Bakery—every batch baked with love!

Sometimes even love just wasn't enough to sustain you.

“Hi, Mick.”

I turned in the direction of the flirty greeting. A leggy brunette with a yoga bag slung over her shoulder sauntered toward me. It took me a minute to place her.

It always did.

Zuckerman wedding. Naked chocolate cake with raspberry buttercream, twelve layers.

“Hey, how are you?” I flashed a polite but friendly smile. Her strapless lavender silk bridesmaid's gown had been a bitch to get off.
That
I remembered vividly.

“When are you going to start making those white chocolate cheesecakes again? Lizzie brought one to our book club last month and oh my God, I practically had a foodgasm!” She squeezed the strap of her yoga bag and all but moaned at the memory.

“I can let you know when I put them back on the menu.”

She fished through the side pocket in her yoga bag, and pressed her business card into my hand. “Definitely do.”

Flashing a grin, she sashayed away, Lululemons hugging her firm, ripe bottom like nobody's business.
Heaven help me.

I peeked at the card as I unlocked the door to the Night Kitchen.
Sarah-with-an-h.
I remembered her saying that now. Grabbing a pen, I flipped the card over, jotting down
w. choc. cheesecake
on the back of it and tacking it on the corkboard near the register.

I really didn't need to write down, or remember, the other stuff.

The Night Kitchen was at its quietest on Sunday morning. Everything scrubbed down and
mise en place
waiting for me to start my weird brand of culinary black magic.
Mick Spencer's sweet voodoo
, one food critic hailed.

When the keys to Wolkoff's were handed down, I turned the tables on the old bakery standard and created a dessert bar that jumped until midnight most weekends. It was a date-night destination with serving sizes made for sharing, a pickup joint with sweet sultry fare, and the place people stopped off at after work for carefully crafted, decadent desserts to bring home. Sindy was a morning person, and I was a night owl. We made a great team, along with our hipster staff of movers and shakers from the local community college culinary program.

And we did wedding cakes, too.

The planner book displayed
1pm— James wedding cake consult
in my aunt's shaky, old lady scrawl, followed by a New York cell number. Sundays were usually our day of rest—for Sindy, it was church day. And for me, usually recovery from whatever sinning I did on Saturday night. I liked to come in around five or six in the evening and start prepping and baking for the week.

“But this couple's from out of town,” Sindy had informed me after she took the call. “And the bride sounded so sweet. I made an exception. Promise me you'll be there at one o'clock to meet her?”

“Promises, promises,” I muttered, flicking on the lights and making myself an espresso. Logan's Spiderman cupcakes sat undisturbed, right where I had left them upon receiving the frantic cake emergency call from the mother of the bride last night. Pulled sugar was used to create his webbing, and the faces were airbrushed a toxic-looking red. I
sincerely hoped Quinn had checked with all the parents about dye allergies.

Tilting my head to the left and right resulted in a much-needed neck crack. I'd showered away the evidence but I still had a sugar hangover, a whiskey headache, and the lingering scent of Mandy Davis's perfume in my nostrils. But it was all fading by the minute.

Soon she'd just be another memory. A vague recollection: Oh yeah. Davis-Dixon wedding. Vanilla champagne cake with peach buttercream. Periwinkle dress.

Story of my life.

I sat at my empty bar, allowing a sigh to escape before downing the shot of espresso.

Who was I kidding? I was still waiting for my life to start.

•   •   •

“At the risk of sounding horribly cliché, where have you been all my life?” Dani had murmured, her lips catching the spot between my jawbone and earlobe. “Please tell me we are not related.”

Her words had made me chuckle, although their strength forced me to weigh my own words carefully. “We aren't . . . unless you're talking on a cosmic level.” I brought her hand, fingers still laced with mine, up for a lingering kiss. “If so, then yes. Most definitely.”

She wore no rings, and I bore no strings—this night could be anything she wanted. I was all consumed, and I was all hers.

We had danced and talked straight through the cocktail hour, shunning any offer of passed hors d'oeuvres, choosing instead to devour each other with our gaze. Now dinner was being served, and I had no desire to let her go.

“So you must be on Pat's side, then?”

Ah yes, this was a wedding, after all. There were mutual friends, but the blending of families was just beginning. If I wasn't on her side,
I must be on Pat's. Now if only I knew whether Pat was the bride or the groom. Damn androgynous nicknames.

“Yep. I'm the black sheep that doesn't quite fit in.”

There was a bit of truth to that. From New Hope to New Orleans, I had traveled twelve hundred miles and was still trying to figure out where I belonged.

Dani laughed and turned us toward a large table of well-dressed wedding guests. “I know what you mean. Check it out. Every person sitting over there has a PhD, MD, or PsyD after their name.” She reached out and snagged a fizzing champagne flute from a passing tray. “The only PhD I've earned is ‘Parents having Doubts' about me. Otherwise known as the ‘third degree,' which they put me through every time I come home.”

“Funny, my degree is in ‘Pathetic hopeless Dreaming.'” I twirled her away from the tables. “You should come see my diploma sometime; I've got it framed on my wall.”

My clever retort earned a smile from her that heated up all of New Orleans Parish and sent lust sweeping through me. I wanted to shed the ridiculous masks we were both hiding behind, hating any barrier between us as we swayed, hips locked, across the ballroom floor. But then again, they freed us from convention and heightened our senses. I loved the feel of the feathers mingling with her curls as I ran my hands over her hair, and to watch her long lashes flutter against the cat's-eye holes of her glittering mask. The way she bit her bottom lip, glossed like an all-day sucker, as she ran her thumb along the hard edge framing my cheek was damn hot. The mask might have disguised my appearance, but there was no hiding my desire. She was forcing my nether regions to give my long-beaked disguise a run for its money.

“May I cut in?”

The bride stood before us, radiant from her big day. She toyed with her own mask, a white glittering affair that was perched on the
end of a stick. There was a detached serenity about her that, as a wedding vendor, I'd noticed other newly married women develop as their wedding day wore on.

“How can I refuse?” Dani said, as I reluctantly released her and bowed deeply to my new dance partner. It was hard to tear my eyes from the vision in green as she wove through the crowds toward the bar.

“Having a good time?” the bride asked, smiling at me. She was pretty in a sharp-boned way, her hazel eyes made more dramatic by her wedding makeup.

“I've been to a lot of weddings,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “Yours is by far one of the most . . .” Dani shook back her curls and leaned on the bar, and I almost forgot what I was saying. “. . . breathtaking.”

“Thank you.” We danced formally, forced to hold each other at arm's length because of her full gown. I saw her take in the occupational hazard of sheet pan burns neatly parading up my forearms. “Everyone told me the day would go by in a blur, and I'd be so distracted I'd forget to even eat, but you know what? I didn't. Now my sister, on the other hand . . .” She turned her regal neck in the direction of Dani, who had downed her champagne and was now talking to the bartender.

“I normally pay no mind to her love life. It's always been easy come, easy go with Dani and I can barely keep track. Plus she takes care of herself. But you . . . you've distracted her. And before you let that go to your head”—she tightened her grip on my hand, the new wedding band grinding against my knuckle—“know that I'm watching you, Bird Boy. I don't know who you are, or where you came from, but you'd better know exactly what you want, and what it's worth to you, okay? I know my sister better than anyone. And to see her so . . .” She shook her head, as if she needed to shake the words into place. “Just consider yourself lucky.”

I did feel lucky, among many other things. Dani was more than just a pretty face and a smoking-hot body. She wasn't just another easy lay in the Big Easy. I could see the playful calculation behind that blue velvet stare of hers. She was up for the adventure, but following her own road map when it came to the journey. I was up for whatever ride she wanted to take me on. She had matched me, flirt for flirt, line for line, and challenge for challenge that night.

“I do,” I said, realizing the irony of those two specific words being uttered to a bride, on her wedding day. “And thank you.”

For not throwing me out on my ass
, I wanted to add.
For giving me a shot—and possibly your blessing—with your maid of honor.
I was a fox in the henhouse, as my friend Nash always liked to say, being called out by the queen of the coop. And she had made it clear. There would be no blood on the feathers during her watch.

Dani's sister broke contact with me, bringing her mask up to her face as our song ended and another one began. A cluster of women descended, wanting to retro dance with their friend to
the
nineties
Deee-Lite classic pumping from the speakers. Something about those dark eyes flashing from behind all the glittering white conveyed a solemn pact that I couldn't help but enter into.
Don't fuck up.

I turned away; my only goal was getting Dani back in my hands. The bar was layered now three rows deep with people, but there she was, grooving to the music and shimmying back into my arms. She slid a shot glass to my lips and threw back her own. Tequila and adrenaline raced like white lightning to my fingertips as I boldly traced the hint of cleavage through the opening in the neck of her bridesmaid dress.

Grabbing my hand, she pulled us across the reception hall to the deserted lobby. There was a photo booth in one corner to capture both a souvenir shot and a duplicate for the guest book. An old-fashioned typewriter sat on a table, along with heavy cardstock in pastels, waiting for guests to pound out their well wishes and pin
them to a clothesline draping the walkway. Dani strutted to the table, leaned delectably down, and began to hammer out a message. Then she snagged a clothespin and clipped the card to the black velvet drape of the photo booth curtain.

“It's not seventy-two-point font, but it will do.”