The Baker (11 page)

“I’ll pay extra for the cake.” Cameron looked at the double doors for a second. “I don’t want to get you in trouble with your father for not charging enough.”

“How did you…?” Ian was too embarrassed to continue.

“I suspected he’d give you grief.” Cameron shrugged. “From what you told me, he’s a typical Scotsman, and that goes with a certain image, or should I say stereotype?”

“It
is
a stereotype, and usually I hate those. But in this case, it is totally warranted, I’m afraid.” He rang up the sale, told Cameron the total, and the man paid without question. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Anytime.” Cameron grinned and picked up the boxes. “I’ll let you know how the cake was received.”

Ian nodded and gave a little wave before Cameron turned around and left the store. With those broad shoulders and that tight ass, Ian’s detective looked almost as good from the back as from the front.
His
detective? Ian shook his head. He had better get a grip.

BY THE
end of the week, Cameron had kept up his daily visits, Ian was as exhausted as usual, and he had a crazy-busy Saturday ahead of him before his well-deserved one day off on Sunday. He’d been thinking about possible recipes all week but had lacked the energy to do anything about his ideas. Cameron had encouraged him to keep at it when they spoke on the phone in the evenings, but Ian had no idea how to make this happen. Working pretty much twelve-hour days, six days a week didn’t leave him with much time for a personal life and, apparently, was also going to stop him from fulfilling his professional ambitions.

But, like anyone, he had a living to make and had bills to pay. And baking was his passion, the one thing he both enjoyed and was good at. How could he give that up? Not to mention he was in a family business and proud of being part of something his great-great-grandfather had started. It should have given him more freedom to be creative, but instead, it was proving increasingly difficult to be enthusiastic. Even if he inherited the bakery years from now, he was beginning to wonder if it was worth all the pain to wait for that elusive point in time.

So when his father called him into his office for “a discussion” right after their busy lunchtime, Ian was not in the best frame of mind to deal with whatever nonsense his father had planned for him now. But he put on his game face and went to see the man anyway. What choice did he have?

Ian knocked on the office door and waited for his father’s “Enter” before going inside. He’d “barged in” without waiting for permission only once. It had been right after graduating from culinary school, and he had received a dressing-down of epic proportions. He still didn’t know what the problem was, surely his father had nothing to hide, but he’d remembered to wait until given a signal ever since.

“Have a seat.” His father looked up as he took off his reading glasses and pointed at the one chair facing his paper-strewn desk.

Shit
. That sounded way too official for Ian’s liking. Under normal circumstances, Ian was never asked to have a seat. Only the most serious of situations caused his father to display this level of politeness.

“I have noticed a disturbing trend over the past two weeks.” His father sat ramrod-straight and stared at Ian as if planning to make him confess by the sheer power of
willing
him to do it.

Ian nodded to acknowledge the statement. When his father was in this sort of mood, any extra words uttered before the man told him to speak was a disaster waiting to happen. Not a risk Ian was ready to take at this point. He wanted to understand what the hell his father was referring to before he defended himself. It was clear to him a defense would be required, but speaking up too early would stop his father from giving Ian more information. And with this man, more information meant more power.

“Are you in trouble with the law?” His father punctuated his question with narrowed eyes and a frown.

“What?” Ian shook his head as if that could help reorder the sounds into different words. This was not one of the topics he expected.

“You heard me.” His father kept looking at him like an inquisitor about to torture his victim. “Are. You. In. Trouble. With. The. Law.”

“No! Of course I’m not in trouble with the law.” At least not that he was aware of. Ian shook his head for emphasis, but a sinking feeling in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he might know what his father was referring to. Saints Elizabeth of Hungary and Nicholas help him if his suspicion was correct! Realistically, neither patron saint of the bakers stood a chance against Ian’s father, but hope and prayer was pretty much all Ian had left if his suspicion proved to be correct.

“Then explain to me what all these cops are doing coming into the Scottish Bakehouse at all hours of the day.” His father leaned forward. “It isn’t normal, I don’t like it, and it has to stop. What will people think when they keep seeing patrol cars outside of the shop?”

“From what I know, they come here because they like our donuts.” Ian focused on keeping his breathing slow and deep. “And I don’t think we can stop them, even if we wanted to. They can buy their food anywhere they want, last time I checked.”

“Don’t give me attitude, boy!” His father rose and supported himself on the desk, hands flat on the wooden surface.

Boy?
What the hell? Was Ian back in kindergarten now?

“Those cops are here for a reason, and I can tell you exactly what it is.” Ian’s father lifted a hand and pointed his index finger at Ian, punctuating his infuriated words. “If you’re not in trouble with the law, and I think even you aren’t stupid enough to risk that, they’re here because of that detective.”

Ian widened his eyes. He better not say anything or he’d give himself away.
How the fuck did he find out?

“Don’t give me that look. You know the one I’m talking about. He came in here just before New Year’s Day and has been back daily ever since.” Ian’s father fisted the hand he’d used to point at Ian and hit the desk. “What the fuck is going on between the two of you?”

Ian went cold all over. He was completely frozen, fear making him shake and stopping him from speaking.

“I want an answer!” his father yelled, turning red in the face.

Ian couldn’t think of a thing to say. He didn’t want to lie, so how was he going to defend himself?

“Now!” Ian’s father hit the desk again.

“I guess he likes our donuts, just like his colleagues.” Ian knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute the words were out of his mouth, but he couldn’t rewind time and unsay them.

“You
guess?
” Ian’s father shook his head. “I call bullshit. You don’t let anyone else serve him when you’re around—and somehow you always are, you’ve been talking to him with your heads stuck together like you’re exchanging secrets every damned day, and the looks I’ve seen you give him when you think nobody is looking are plain disgusting. Not that he isn’t looking back at you the same way, and that makes it even more disgusting.”

“Now wait one minute.” Ian wasn’t going to sit here and let his father drag what was growing between him and Cameron into the dirt. His father must have been spying on them somehow. Denial wasn’t an option, so the much-dreaded confrontation he’d tried to avoid for years looked like it was about to happen.

“I am not waiting one minute. Not even one second.” Ian’s father was a little red in the face, but the icy calm that accompanied his most dangerous moods was back in full force. “I will not tolerate whatever dirty relationship you have going on with that man in my bakery. You will stop seeing him and tell him to never come back, and he can take his police buddies with him, for all I care. Got it?”

“No.” Ian shook his head.

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m not done.” His father’s glare would have cowered Ian even a few days ago, but he was done with giving in. “I have picked two suitable young women for you to consider for marriage. You will meet each of them over the weekend and decide which one you’re going to propose to. I want you engaged by the end of next week, married as soon as possible after that. I expect you to provide me with a grandchild by the end of the year, and if it’s not a son, you will keep trying until you get it right. Is that understood?”

“No, Father, that is
not
understood.” Ian rose from his chair, not willing to look up at his father, who was posturing behind his desk, for one more second. “I will not get married to a woman of your choice, and I will not ‘produce’ grandchildren for you. I will marry for love, if I marry at all, and whether or not I have children is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

“Then it’s true.” His father paled and suddenly sank down in his chair as if he’d lost the ability to stand. “You’re a homosexual pervert.”

“That is also none of your business.” Ian was so done.

“Oh, but it is.” His father smirked, recovering from his shock all too quickly. “Since you’re a faggot, you’ll obviously never have children. Therefore you cannot continue the family line, and I have no choice but to pass the bakery to Aileen’s son Jamie when the time comes. I hereby disown you. You are no longer my son.”

Ian didn’t move, numb from the shock of hearing his father actually tell him he was a nonentity. He should have expected it, and he’d stopped respecting the man years ago, but it still hurt.

“Furthermore, you’re fired without notice. I’ll not have a dirty pedophile work in my bakery.” His father sat up and pointed at the door. “I want you off my property in five minutes, and I better not see you back in here ever again.”

For a brief moment, Ian considered responding to his father. He wanted to tell him how wrong he was. How beautiful the budding feelings between him and Cameron were, and how accepted Cameron made him feel. But what was the point? His father was a bigot, always had been. But for him to be able to declare Ian was no longer his son took it to a new level. That sort of stupidity could not be argued with. Ian knew he would never change his father’s views, and he was too exhausted—tired of fighting the man who had helped put him into this world only to abandon him—and disappointed to try.

Without another word Ian turned around and left his father’s office for the last time. Nothing could drag him back ever again. He cleaned out his locker in the break room and left through the back door, his head held high. His heart was bleeding for what could have been, but his father—no, ex-father now—would never know.

CAMERON CHECKED
the clock on his computer for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour. It was almost five on a Friday afternoon, he had a home-dinner date with Ian, and even though it would have to be short because it was Ian’s turn to be in the bakery very early on Saturday, it was a lot better than nothing. Well, not totally nothing. Cameron had managed to see Ian in the bakery every day, and they kept calling each other every night, but it was just not the same as real personal contact. He missed Ian’s kisses and holding him while watching TV and in his bed.
God, I have it bad.

The knock on the door startled him, and he almost wanted to play dead. He wanted nothing to stand in his way of seeing Ian. But there was another knock, and he sighed.

“Come in.” He leaned back in his chair, preparing for the worst. Like his boss wanting some last-minute report.

“Hi, Cameron.” Steve Hatcher looked like the cat that got the cream. His suit was a little rumpled, and his thinning hair in slight disarray, but hey, it was Friday.

“Hi, Steve.”
Must be some new rumor.
That always made the guy smile, but, as curious as he was about Steve’s news, Cameron didn’t have time for a leisurely chat. “Look, I’m sorry to be short, but can it wait until Monday?”

“I just wanted to thank you for the amazing birthday cake you got me this week.” Steve smiled as if Cameron hadn’t said a thing and closed the door behind him.

“You’re welcome.” Cameron smiled back, trying to feel friendly from the inside.

“But that’s not the only reason I’m here.” Steve made a beeline for the visitor’s chair opposite Cameron’s desk and settled as if he belonged there. “I promise it won’t take long, you must be ready to go home.”

Cameron nodded, not sure what to say. His briefcase was clearly displayed on the edge of the desk, already packed and locked.

“As you surely remember, it’s been almost three weeks since Chief Bullock announced his retirement. You saw the ads in the regional press, right?” Steve waited for Cameron’s nod before continuing. “Well, after the deadline last Friday, the city manager and two members from the selection committee waded through the applications and have picked the candidates to be interviewed as his successor.”

“And?” Cameron wasn’t sure how this could possibly concern him. He wasn’t senior enough. Maybe his boss? It would be a shame because they worked really well together, but then again, if Nick jumped a few steps up the career ladder, at least Cameron would know someone in a high place.

“A reliable source tells me that you’re one of the candidates.” Steve’s grin turned triumphant.

“What?” Cameron blinked a few times, trying to figure out if he might be dreaming. “How is that possible?”

“What do you mean how is that possible? You applied, right? Why wouldn’t they pick you?” Steve frowned.

“The thing is, I didn’t apply!” Cameron shook his head. Was this some sort of practical joke? He almost started looking for a hidden camera.

“You didn’t?” Steve’s eyes widened. “But then… how…. Someone must have nominated you.”

“They can do that?” Cameron thought he was aware of all the rules and regulations, but it looked as if he’d missed one.

“Sure, if they’re qualified members of the po—” Steve startled when the phone rang.

Cameron hid his own shock a little better, but it was a close call. He stretched and picked up the receiver.

“Cameron Lewis speaking.”

“Ah. Cameron, so glad I caught you. It’s Nick Peters.” Cameron’s boss cleared his throat. “I’ve got some news for you.”

“Please go ahead.” Cameron pointed at the receiver and mouthed
my boss
to Steve. The man’s eyebrows shot up.