The Icing on the Cake (2 page)

Carrie put a finger to her pretty pink lips. “Sure.”

The bait and tackle store was small and cramped and smelled like dead fish. As Carrie and I stepped inside, I noticed that we were the only ones in the store except for a large man who stood behind the counter. The man looked up at us briefly and then returned to the fishing magazine he was flipping through.

“Look at these,” Carrie said. She gracefully approached the store counter and began inspecting a rack of colorful fishing lures.

I followed a few feet behind her, peering at a huge stuffed fish that hung on the wall. It seemed to be looking at me.

“Hey, you, girl with the brown hair,” the man behind the counter called out to me. “Watch where you step. I think some of my worms got loose over there”

“Excuse me?” I gulped.

The man smiled a crooked smile. “Don’t worry, they won’t hurt ya.”

I tried to put on my best of-course-I-know-they-won’t-hurt-me face as I booked it to the counter, which was apparently out of the danger zone.

The man adjusted his camouflage hat. “Welcome to Bob’s Bait and Tackle. I’m Bob.” He offered me and then Carrie a rough, tan hand to shake. “You looking for a new fishing pole today? Or maybe some bait? I’ve got some fresh night crawlers. And if I can just find those worms . . .” The man looked down at the ground.

“Actually,” I said, shuffling my feet in an attempt to keep the worms away, “we’re looking for a place called Marcia’s bakery. It used to be at this address and—”

“Sir,” Carrie said, interrupting me, “I think I see one.” Carrie calmly pointed to the ground a few feet away from us.

Bob moved to where Carrie was pointing and bent down to pick up not one but two slimy creatures. He placed the wriggling things in a Styrofoam container, which he set on the top shelf of a refrigerator marked “Live Bait.” Then he returned to his position behind the counter.

“You’ve got a good eye,” Bob said to Carrie. “You ever think about taking up fishing?”

Carrie shook her head, her golden hair swishing with the motion. “Not really.”

“Well you should.” Bob removed his camouflage hat and scratched his head. “So you’re looking for a bakery?” he said to me. “I don’t know anything about a bakery. Hey, Isaac, do you know about a bakery that used to be here?”

With this, a guy about my age of twenty-four years stepped out of some sort of storage room, a camera in his hand. And let me tell you, as I looked at him, all I could think was, “If guys like that are into fishing, then sign me up, baby.”

The cute guy who Bob had called Isaac walked over to the counter. “What bakery are you looking for?” he asked, his eyes on me.

And I, who hadn’t had a date in far too long, and had apparently lost all of my social skills in the meantime, just stared at him.

Carrie nudged me.

“Oh, uh, what?” I stammered.

“Which bakery are you looking for?” Cute Guy Isaac repeated.

“Oh, uh, Marcia’s. It’s, a, uh, Portuguese bakery.” I sounded like I barely knew English.

“Marcia’s? Oh yeah—it moved to a shopping center a few blocks from here. Let me get the phone book. The address is in there.”

“Um, thanks, I really . . .” I began. But then I made a very big mistake: I looked into his eyes. They were the nicest hazel color I had ever seen. A little more green than brown and just incredible. “I, uh, oh, uh,” I said, reverting to some sort of cavewoman language. I really have no idea what I was trying to say.

“No problem, weirdo,” Isaac said.

Okay, so he didn’t actually say “weirdo,” but I’m positive he was thinking it.

“So . . .” Carrie said, turning toward Bob. “What is your best pole for catching trout?”

I looked at Carrie and furrowed my brow. Since when did she have an interest in catching trout?

Carrie smiled a secret-girl-code smile that let me know she had noticed me going ridiculously ga-ga over the cute guy I had just met, and was going to give me a little time to chat with him. Then she let Bob lead her over to a wall of fishing poles.

Once Carrie and Bob had gone, Isaac reached behind the counter and retrieved a phone book. He flipped through the book, circled a line of print, and slid the book across the counter toward me. “Here’s the address,” he said. “You just go out to Pacheco Boulevard, turn right, and it’s a few blocks down.”

I nodded and wrote the address on my hand. Then I attempted to slide the phone book over to Isaac in the cool way that he had slid it to me. But I pushed a little too hard and sent the book flying off the counter. It smacked him right in the stomach. He made one of those wind-knocked-out sounds that football players make when they get hit real hard.

“Oh my goodness,” I gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

“No problem,” Isaac said, rubbing his abdomen. He picked the phone book up off the floor and placed it behind the counter. “You know, you’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“Sorry,” I said, biting my lip.

Isaac put his thumbs in his pockets and leaned against the worm refrigerator to his right. It would have grossed me out if he hadn’t looked so good doing it. “I’m Isaac,” he said.

“So I heard,” I replied. It was meant to sound all cute and coy, but it mostly sounded idiotic. “I mean, um, I heard Bob calling you that. I’m . . . I’m Annabelle.”

“Are you from around here, Annabelle?” Isaac asked, and something about the way he said my name sent the tiniest shiver through my body.

“Actually, no,” I replied. “I’m from the Monterey Bay area.”

Isaac looked interested. “Really? My family lives in Monterey. You must be roasting out here. It never gets hot in Monterey like it does in this town.”

Isaac then said something else, something about some house in Monterey, but I wasn’t really listening because I was suddenly completely distracted, wondering why exactly he had made his “roasting” comment. Was my face a shiny ball of oil? Did I have sweat spots under my arms?

“Um, yeah, it’s really hot here,” I said, trying as inconspicuously as possible to check my underarms.

“So did you drive all the way out here just to go to Marcia’s bakery?” Isaac asked.

“Pretty much,” I replied. “I need a Portuguese cake to take to work tomorrow.”

“Well, I hope you find your cake,” Isaac said. Then he moved away from the worm refrigerator and headed back to the storage room. I wasn’t really surprised that he wanted to get away from me and back to his work. I mean, who wants to hang out with a book-throwing cavewoman with sweaty underarms?

“Thanks,” I replied, my voice a little weak. Then I looked over at Carrie, who was still talking with Bob. “Ready to go?” I called out.

“Sure.” Carrie listened as Bob finished his story—complete with gestures and sound effects—about the biggest trout he ever caught, and then she came to my side.

“Thanks for your help,” I said to Bob.

Bob nodded a no-problem nod.

Carrie and I headed toward the exit, watching for worms as we walked. My hand was on the door when Isaac’s voice came to my ears.

“Do you want to be in the
Los Banos Enterprise?”
he asked.

I spun around. “The what?”

Isaac walked toward me. “It’s the local newspaper. I’m shooting photos for an ad Bob wants to put together. Maybe you and your friend could be my models.”

I looked down. “Oh, no, I’m nothing close to a model.”

Isaac looked at me intently. “I’m not too sure about that.”

My cheeks instantly turned pink. I hoped Isaac would assume it was due to the temperature, not his comment.

“I’ll pay you each twenty bucks,” Isaac offered. “You can use it to buy your cake.”

“I don’t know,” I said reluctantly. I turned to Carrie. “What do you think?”

Carrie shrugged her petite shoulders. “It sounds fun.”

Twenty minutes later Carrie and I were decked out in fishing gear, holding onto fishing poles, smiling I’m-so-glad-I-found-Bob’s-Bait-and-Tackle smiles as Isaac shot pictures of us and Bob acted as photo director.

As Isaac took the photos, he talked and joked with me and Carrie, being in every way Mr. Charming. And even though the fishing outfit I was wearing smelled a little funny, I was quite disappointed when the photo shoot was over.

I finished removing my fishing gear before Carrie, and as Isaac and Bob discussed advertisement ideas, I made my way over to a wall filled with pictures of smiling people showing off huge fish. I was looking at a picture of a man holding a fish that for some reason reminded me of Jay Leno, when I heard a voice behind me. “Here you go.”

I turned around to see Isaac holding out a twenty dollar bill.

“Thanks,” I said, reaching for the twenty. “But you really don’t have to pay me. I had fun.”

“I had fun too,” Isaac said. “But take the money; you earned it.”

I took the money from Isaac’s hand, and as I did, I caught a glimpse of his titanium watch. Without thinking, I grabbed onto his arm and moved it toward me so I could see the timepiece better: 4:38.

“I have to go,” I said, my voice panicky. “Carrie! We have to go. I’m pretty sure Marcia’s closes in twenty minutes.”

Carrie quickly removed her fishing vest and followed me to the door. And Isaac—as if he hadn’t already done enough things that made him irresistibly gorgeous—came to open the door for us.

“Good luck finding that cake,” he said. Then he handed me a business card, “Bob’s Bait and Tackle: Where the Catchin’ is Good,” and fixed his hazel eyes on me. “If you have any trouble finding the bakery, just call.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling suddenly disappointed that I have a pretty good sense of direction and would most likely not have trouble finding Marcia’s.

“No problem.” Isaac swung the shop door open, his forearm flexing rather nicely.

And suddenly I had an idea.

I could give Isaac
my
business card and let him know that I was in the magazine business.
Central Coast Living
outsourced photography jobs all the time. I could just tell him that if he ever wanted some work in Monterey, he should call. It really was a good professional move, since it was obvious Isaac had talent.

All right, all right. So I didn’t know at all if he had talent. He could have been the worst photographer ever. But come on, he was a charming, door-opening man with a sense of humor and the most amazing hazel eyes ever. That was definitely the kind of guy
Central Coast Living
needed. Needed to put on an assignment with me.

No, no
, my brain instantly piped up.
Giving strangers your business card, which has your cell phone number on it, is not a good idea.

He gave me one,
I argued with my brain.
So basically, it’s the polite thing to do.

It’s not a good idea,
my brain warned.

Whatever,
I shot at my brain.
Why should I listen to you now? Where were you when I was speaking Cavewoman and throwing phone books? Where were you then, huh?

Ignoring my brain, I reached into my bag—a designer one I got for just twenty bucks at Macy’s because one of the handles was nearly ripped off—to search for my business card.

Carrie and Isaac both looked at me, obviously wondering why I was fiddling with my bag and not going out the door, but I didn’t care.

Quickly, almost frantically, I fished—no pun intended—through my bag, clutching its contents. A pack of sugar-free gum. A nail file. The ridiculously slippery hand lotion I got as a free sample and never used. But not a single business card. I must have given them all out. With a frown, I told myself that my brain was right after all, it probably wasn’t a good idea to give Isaac my card, and zipped my bag shut.

“Thanks again for all of your help,” I said to Isaac as I stepped outside.

“No problem,” he replied, his lips turning up into a smile.

And of course, as my life goes, Cute Guy Isaac, who I would never see again, had a killer smile.

“I love you too, Milesy bear,” Carrie said into her cell. She had been talking to her boyfriend, Miles, for the entire hour and a half ride back to Monterey, using numerous terms of endearment throughout the conversation.

I rolled the car windows down, acting like I didn’t hear the kissing noises Carrie made into the phone as she said good-bye to Miles. The cool, coastal, Monterey Bay air blew against my face, refreshing me. I took a deep breath of the air, savoring the delicious scent of the sea.

“Home,” I said as I peered at the Pacific Ocean in the distance.

I watched, mesmerized, as the turquoise and blue waters rolled into the sand. No matter how many times I saw the sight, it was still incredible.

Carrie put her hand out the window and played with the wind. “Home,” she echoed.

When we reached the city of Monterey, I made a not-too-smooth exit off the highway and then glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure the Portuguese sponge cake was okay. The cake remained unharmed in its pretty pink box on the back seat of my car, the silver 50% off sticker on the box shining in the sun. Marcia had given me 50% off the price of the cake because I bought it at the end of the day—now that was my kind of cake.