Sweet Stuff (21 page)

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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Sweet Stuff
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“So, you’re fighting City Hall, as it were.”
“I’m fighting Brodie Banneker and his ridiculous group of cronies. Why, I taught them all Sunday school when they were barely out of diapers. Taught their children, too. Seems un-Christian-like if you ask me. Keeping a Sunday school teacher from having a little party.”
Quinn struggled to keep a straight face. “How many invitations have been issued?”
“Twenty-eight. Up from sixteen last fall.”
He couldn’t have said what provoked him to open his mouth. “Perhaps I can contribute more than a few signed books.”
Alva suddenly lost all interest in the councilmen. Her hands were still clutching her gloves when she looked back at Quinn, but there was nothing innocent in those gleaming eyes. “Why, Mr. Brannigan. What do you have in mind?”
Chapter 14
“
H
e did what?” Riley paused in the middle of scooping chocolate-pumpkin cupcake batter into rows of cute yellow and purple floral paper liners to look over at Alva.
“Who did what?” Dre asked from her perch on a stool across the room. She was preoccupied with her latest project: sugarcrafting.
“Alva just told us Quinn Brannigan is going to have the invitational poker tournament at the bungalow,” Riley said.
“Cool,” Dre offered, not looking up from the delicate sugar creations she was painstakingly building. Riley didn’t know what they were, exactly, but they looked like exotic blown glass made entirely out of sugar.
Riley steered well clear, knowing better than to get anywhere close to that kind of fragile work. “Cool, yes,” she echoed with feigned enthusiasm. “Awesome.”
Alva kept a speculative expression on her face as she looked at Riley, so Riley went right back to scooping batter. She’d accepted Alva’s invitation to the poker tournament back when Alva had first planned it, and there was no way to gracefully back out now. But the idea of the event being at the bungalow, spending time in Quinn’s space ... well, she didn’t know how that made her feel.
Actually, she knew exactly how it made her feel. Confused, regretful, and annoyed at herself for feeling either when she very much wished she simply felt nothing. She
knew
she’d made the right call in not contacting him. She’d done what he’d asked. She’d figured out what she wanted, and, more important, what she could handle. And she couldn’t handle Quinn. She just wasn’t ready to take the kind of risk he was offering.
Maybe the way to look at the poker tournament at the bungalow was to treat it like a test, an assessment of her decision to continue on with the life she already had, to not take on anything more. If she passed, that meant she’d done the right thing. That the status quo was where it was best for her to stay. She’d spent the better part of last year going through the big giant test of living through the anniversary of every special date and holiday she’d shared with Jeremy. After seven years together, there had been many. This year, she’d been concentrating on making new memories and new special days. But shouldn’t she have a few more under her belt before any of those new memories included someone who might put her through another “test year”?
She sighed. Maybe she could just get food poisoning or something and not be able to go. That sounded like more fun.
“I’ve abandoned the potluck idea after Beryl brought that torte dessert to the Independence Day picnic. Remember, the one with the exotic fruit that turned out to be poisonous?”
“We remember,” Dre and Riley said in unison.
“I’m still trying to forget,” Dre added.
“Aren’t we all, dear. Especially Beryl. So I didn’t want her to be embarrassed in any way. Charlotte and Carlo are officially on board for the catering. Isn’t that fun?” Alva was clearly excited about the plans as she filled her pastry bag with whipped cream-marshmallow fluff filling. “And Franco has agreed to be our server for the evening.”
Riley smiled at that. “That will get the party started.”
“The ladies all adore him,” Alva agreed. “It’s the Gallic accent. Gets them every time.” She turned one of her cooled cocoa cupcakes over and punched a hole in the bottom of the paper liner with the tip of her pastry bag, then squeezed a shot of cream-fluff filling into the chocolate cake. “And,” she went on, picking up the next cupcake, poking another hole, “since we’re holding it on private property, the town council and Brodie Banneker can bite my fanny.”
“And a very nice fanny it is, Miss Alva.” Baxter’s handsome face creased in a wide smile as he entered the kitchen through the back door. He leaned down to buss her flour-coated and pink cheek. “Can I steal one of these?” He plucked the cake she’d just filled from her tiny hand, peeled the wrapper back and took a bite. He immediately closed his eyes. “The town council doesn’t know what they’re missing.”
“My point exactly.” Alva brushed at her apron and patted her net-covered hair ... all while beaming up at him like a schoolgirl with her first crush.
In addition to the fact that Baxter Dunne was one of the industry’s top pastry chefs, with a successful New York City patisserie, a best-selling cookbook, and a hit television show under his belt, he was also exceedingly tall and rangy, with a thick thatch of blond hair and sizzling hot electric green eyes. And he packed a lot of charm into that sexy British accent. They all had a little crush on him. Even Dre had stopped spinning sugar to gaze fondly at her idol. It was pretty much the only time Riley ever saw her soften up.
“Has anyone seen my lovely wife?” Baxter asked, strolling around the room and checking what everyone was working on. “Who is the lucky recipient of this week’s labor?”
“Charlotte is taking all the cupcakes this week and distributing them to one of the children’s wards at a hospital in Savannah,” Riley told him. “The doctors and nurses will be happy campers, too, I think.”
“Indeed. Lots of happy faces. That’s good.” He peeked over Riley’s shoulder. “What are you teaching yourself this week?”
“Nothing yet, just baking the last of the cupcakes. Pumpkin-chocolate.”
“Great flavor profile.” Baxter nodded to the rack of cakes cooling to her right, and the bowl of chilled frosting. “What’s the topping?”
“Cream cheese and mascarpone. I’ve never worked with Italian cream cheese, so I wanted to try.” She shot him a dry smile. “This is my second batch.”
“Let me guess. Overmixed it the first time ’round and the mascarpone curdled.”
Riley nodded, raising a guilty-as-charged hand.
“Hey, that’s what experimenting is all about.” He took a small, unused spatula and scooped a dollop of the frosting on it, then scooped off some of that with a finger, which he tasted. “Creamy, well blended, no lumps. Quite good. You should let Lani sample this.”
Riley laughed. “It’s her recipe.”
“Ah,” Baxter said, with a chuckle. “Of course.” His eyes warmed, as they always did at the mention of her.
The fact that he was utterly besotted with his wife made him all the more ridiculously hot, Riley thought with a little sigh. “She and Charlotte are upstairs going over details on a joint catering event they’re doing in Savannah next week.”
“Right, right. The charity thing. I’d forgotten about that. Delightful as always to see you ladies. Keep up the good baking.” He sketched a quick bow, then ducked his head so he could go through the narrow door leading up the back stairs to the small apartment space on the second floor over the shop. It was partly used for storage, partly as an office, but still had furnishings from when it had been a living space. Dre, Franco, and Charlotte had all crashed there from time to time when their Cupcake Club sessions ran into the wee hours and they hadn’t wanted to make the drive back over the causeway to the mainland.
Riley had just finished scooping out her last cup of batter when the sound of cheers from the apartment overhead echoed down to the kitchen below.
“Oh, fudge,” Alva said, dismayed. Startled by the sudden sound, she’d squirted filling clear through her cupcake and shot it out the other side, where it had landed in a haphazard heap all over the rest of the cupcakes on the rack.
Riley, who had looked up at the sudden sound, glanced over at Alva’s table. “Both a filling and a topping, all in one,” she teased.
Alva, with a disgusted look at the pastry bag as if it were to blame, set the overfilled cupcake down to inspect the mess on the other cakes. “That will scrape off well enough, I suppose.” She sighed, clearly not enthusiastic about the chore.
“I say spread out the squirted stuff over the top of each cake as a secret filling layer under the frosting. You can call them Alva’s Surprise Cakes.” This from Dre, who never broke her fierce focus on the crystallized ... whatever it was she was constructing.
Alva paused in mid scrape to ponder that. “Alva’s Surprise Cakes,” she repeated. “It does have a certain ring.” She didn’t say anything more, but Riley glanced over to spy the sly senior carefully shift her spatula so it smoothed rather than scraped.
Riley smiled privately as she carried her trays over to the oven. The only question was which new angle Alva would use to convince Lani to include the Alva’s Surprise Cakes on the bake shop menu. Everyone knew Lani’s cakes were Lani’s cakes. She shared her expertise willingly, and even some of her standard recipes, but only her own recipes were used to keep the trays in the shop full. No guest chefs, not even her famous husband.
But that didn’t stop Alva from trying.
Riley shot Dre a droll smile, knowing she’d intentionally put the suggestion out there for the pure entertainment value of watching Alva plot and plan. “Nicely done,” Riley murmured as she turned back from closing the oven, her voice low so only Dre could hear.
Dre merely lifted her hands, palm to the ceiling, and pumped up twice, then went right back to work.
“Shoulders tight?” Alva asked her, catching the motion.
Riley swallowed a snort of laughter and purposefully did not look at Dre, who she knew would remain utterly expressionless. Another skill set Riley did not possess.
“You shouldn’t stay hunched on that stool like that,” Alva advised Dre. “Young people today simply aren’t taught the life benefits of proper posture. Get to be my age, and you’re thankful you can stand upright at all.”
Riley scooped up her empty batter bowl, dumped the other utensils she’d used in it, and carried it all over to the utility sink. “Wonder what the cheer was all about?” she commented as she washed and rinsed.
Before anyone could respond, the door to the upper floor opened and Charlotte, Lani, and Baxter poured into the kitchen like a batch of happy, excited children.
“Awesome announcement!” Lani called out, even though it was only the three of them in the kitchen that evening.
Alva clasped her hands. “How exciting!”
Dre actually looked up at that. Of course, Baxter was back in the room.
Riley dried her hands on the towel tucked over the apron strings wrapped around her waist, and turned to face them. “What’s up?”
“Great news, and Riley, we’re hoping it’s good news for you, too.”
Riley’s eyebrows climbed. “Me? Why?”
“Well, you know I’m finishing up the second cookbook, and a third was proposed, but we’ve never moved forward on it. With the latest season of
Hot Cakes
in the can, I’ve finally wrapped up the second book.”
“That’s wonderful,” Riley said, “Great job!”
“That’s not the news,” Baxter said, “though thank you. It’s a great relief because just today, my agent received an offer to officially contract for a third book.”
Lani linked her arm through her husband’s. “
We’ve
been offered the contract,” she amended.
“I was getting to that part, luv.” Baxter leaned down and bussed her on the top of the head, then beamed at the group. “This time around, they’d like me to collaborate with my brilliant wife, and put together a book that charts our culinary odyssey from working our first kitchen together in New York, through putting Gateau on the map, to coming to Georgia and starting a whole new chapter in our lives.” He looked down at Lani, who beamed right back up at him.
Riley’s heart stuttered ... and her thoughts went straight to Quinn. And the way he’d looked at her. And the way she felt when she looked at him. Nowhere did Jeremy, or any part of her past life, enter into the equation. She wanted what Lani and Baxter had. There was no hopscotching over the scary parts to get to that, and no guarantee if she started the journey, she’d reach that desired destination. Riley had been convinced, standing on that beach, feeling overwhelmed by Quinn and all that he was so certain of, that she needed more time by herself. Needed to be more sure of herself.
As she watched Lani and Baxter, she wondered just how badly she was letting her fears of repeating the past ruin her chances of ever having love again in her future.
“Congratulations,” Dre said, which, for her, was the equivalent of giving them a standing O.
Riley jerked her thoughts away from that path and focused on the good news, the celebration at hand.
Yes, tuck it away, ignore it, and it will just go away.
Alva’s eyes twinkled and she raised her clasped hands until they were propped under her chin. “Now then, that’s just wonderful news, isn’t it? And well deserved. Your love story does deserve to be told.”
“We’ll only be exploring the culinary part, but—”
“Nonsense,” Alva said, “your culinary journey is your love affair. It’s your passion for food and each other that has made you who you are.”
There were more googly eyes shared between husband and wife, followed by a surprisingly hot, hard kiss on the mouth.
“Still in public,” Charlotte reminded them, always the arbiter of decorum.
“My, my,” Alva added, though she didn’t look particularly disturbed by the display. Possibly quite the opposite.
Riley’s thoughts precariously teetered once again, which prompted her to say, “Let me add my congratulations to the pile. I think it’s great! And very well-deserved. If you don’t mind my asking, though, what does it have to do with me?”

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