The Sweet Addiction Series Collection: Sweet Addiction, Sweet Possession & Sweet Obsession (115 page)

I open the binder on top of the display case and flip to the special orders paperwork we keep in the back flap.

“I want to see what I’m up against with this cake. I’m going to do it. Dylan suggested I practice it this weekend. I want to be prepared.”

“Wow, really? You’re actually going to make a wedding cake by yourself? You?”

I glance up when I hear the disbelief in his voice, then fake glare at him for obviously playing it up. His spirited smile beams at me.

“I have all the faith in you. Rock it out, girl.”

Taking the money being held out for him, Joey hands the woman behind the counter her purchase while I search for the order form for next weekend. The woman takes her change and exits the shop.

“Here.” I slide out the form after matching up the dates and lay it out flat on the open page of the binder. I drag my finger down the thin paper to the bottom where the description is scrolled in Dylan’s handwriting.

Three-tiered almond cake with a chocolate ganache filling and a mocha buttercream.

Okay. I can do that. Three-tiered is better than five-tiered. See, Brooke? No big deal. You got this.

I continue reading the notes on the design.

Edible flowers. Tons of them . . .

Make them epic?

Oh, God, no. No. No. No. No.

I drop my head into my hands, groaning. “Fuuuck. Why couldn’t she have wanted farm animals or something? I hear country weddings are all the rage. Shit!”

“Don’t believe what you hear. I went to a country themed wedding one time. We all sat on hay bales during the ceremony and drank out of mason jars. Talk about slumming it. I was itchy the entire night.” Joey’s body presses into mine as he leans closer. “Oh . . . gardenias,” he quietly observes. “Dylan’s really good at those.”

I slowly look up at him, my scowl unforgiving.

Flinching, he steps back. “You know, I think I’m going to go get my coffee now.”

“Good idea.”

As Joey hurries out of the bakery, I lean against the case and rub my temple, digging my fingers into my flesh. I stare down at the order form and fight off tears when my eyes begin to sting.

This is it. This is how I’m going to get fired. Taken out by the mother of all baked goods.

Tugging out my phone, I sniffle and type out a message as tears dampen my cheeks.

Me: Hi.

God, I need him to talk me through this. To tell me I’m not going to fail.

His reply comes within seconds.

Mason: Hello, gorgeous. How are you?

Me: Freaking out.

My stomach coils and my hands shake. I wipe at my face and wait for his response, staring at the screen, waiting for those little bubbles to appear.

I wait.

And wait.

They never come.

The bakery door chimes open. I look up, expecting to see a customer, or Joey returning with his coffee and hopefully something alcoholic for me.

I’ve never needed a drink so badly before in my life. Screw unprofessionalism. If I’m getting canned, I might as well spend my last week of employment drunk and oblivious.

To my surprise, Mason steps inside the shop, looking more keyed up than I feel, if that’s even possible.

His fretful gaze slams on me as he clutches his cell in his one hand and rakes through his sweaty hair with the other. The muscles in his arm swelling and glistening. His chest heaving.

“Brooke,” he rasps, some emotion tightening his voice.

I study him. The apprehension in his eyes. His distraught demeanor. It confuses me. I don’t understand it.

Until I glance down at the phone in my hand and read the last message I sent.

MASON

She’s crying.
Fuck.
She’s freaking out, and she’s crying.
Fuck!

What happened? It’s barely been an hour. What the fuck? Did someone say something to her again? Get inside her head and cause Brooke to over think this and the way it makes her feel? The way
I
make her feel. She was fine.

No. Fine is cheapening it. She was much more than fine. So much more.

She was fucking perfect with me this morning. Unreserved. Laughing and completely open. Free with her affection. Then she comes here and reverts back to those old familiar habits. Drawing in on herself and slipping behind that shield of uncertainty.

Baby . . . God, don’t do this.

What do I need to do? Pull each one of her friends and family aside and tell them to back the hell off? Fine, if that’s what it takes. Their opinion of me notwithstanding, this is between me and Brooke.

No one else.

I take a step closer just as she looks up from the phone in her hand.

“Oh, Mason, no,” she says, shaking her head. Her eyes filling with new tears. “No, this . . . I didn’t mean us. I’m not freaking out because of us. God, I’m sorry. That’s what you’re thinking, right?” She sits her phone down and wipes at her face. “I’m not. I promise, I’m not. I’m with you.” Lifting her eyes, she captures me with the steadiest look I think she’s ever showed me.

“I’m with you.”

Relief loosens my tongue and slows my rapid pulse. I move across the shop and around the counter, need filling me.

“Baby.” I grab her face and kiss her full, pink lips, tasting the juice she had with me this morning and the faint hint of tears.

She’s with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I made you think that. I should’ve explained in the text. God, I’m so stupid.”

“Stop.” I lean away and cup her cheek. The corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re upset. Tell me why so I can fix it and get back to my class.”

Her eyes widen. “You left your class?”

“Yeah. They’re taking a water break. It’s fine.”

“Mason.”

She shakes her head at me, fighting hard against a smile, with puffy eyes and tears still beading on her lashes. Her skin flushed red and blotchy.

Damn. I can’t stop looking at her.

How can someone look so sad and so beautiful at the same time? I don’t understand it.

“You’re crazy,” she tells me with a soft voice.

I shrug, straightening and dropping my hand to her waist. “It’s possible. I’m a twenty-nine year old who has a stuffed koala in his bedroom. An animal I bloody hate, I might add. I keep copious amounts of baked goods in my refrigerator that I never plan on consuming. And I abandon my class when my girl needs me. I don’t know. Does that make me barking mad? I’m fine if it does.”

“You love that koala. Don’t lie,” she chuckles, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes. Smiling up at me.

I feel my blood warm. God, I love hearing her laugh. And that timid smile . . .
fuck.

Progress. This is progress.

Brooke seems better. Marginally, at least. She’s no longer crying, and she doesn’t look as troubled as she did when I stepped in here. However, I still need to find out what brought this on. I don’t like seeing her upset about anything, and something definitely upset her.

I run my hand along her spine, bending to get closer. “Really, what’s going on, sweetheart? I do need to get back.”

With a heavy sigh, she turns to face the counter. “It’s nothing you can fix. Though, given how amazing you seem to be at everything, foreign languages included, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a hidden talent for baking. Care to try your hand at it?”

We exchange looks. Mine, puzzled and struggling to follow her meaning.

Baking? She wants me to bake her something?

She waves off my confusion. “Never mind. Dylan’s been put on bedrest for the next two weeks until she delivers, which isn’t a
huge
deal, except for the fact that we have this freaking wedding next weekend and now I’m in charge of making the cake.” She lifts a piece of paper off the counter and holds it between us. “And it’s covered in flowers. Covered, Mason, like all over the damn thing. Look. She doesn’t even want a cake topper. I have to put flowers up there too. Like this.” Setting the paper down, she flips through the binder on the counter and stops on a picture of a cake, jabbing her finger at it. “See? Look at these little fuckers. This is what I have to make.”

I lean over the binder to examine the picture.

Looks pretty standard for a wedding cake. I think my sister had one similar at hers a few years back.

“All right. And this particular design gets you upset?”

“I can’t do it.” Brooke slams the binder closed. Her head lowers. “I can’t make flowers look like that. And there’s so many of them. The bride wants them to be the focus of her cake, and I’m worried I’m going to screw it up and ruin everything.”

She looks away and bites at her lip. Her fingers knot together on the counter.

Hmm. This is new. Brooke’s normally so proud of her work. She practically glows when she’s handing off her treats to me or discussing her day and what all she created. It’s one of the things I love most about her. Her passion. I’m not accustomed to seeing any lack of confidence in this woman. Not with her career or anything else.

She’s really worried she’ll fail at this.

I reach for her, tugging at her hand and pulling her close. I want Brooke in my arms so bad but my shirt is soaked with sweat and she looks so damn pretty right now. I’d hate to ruin her clothes.

“I’m sure you’ll do fantastic, Brooke,” I say, tipping her chin up, our bodies barely touching.

She blinks up at me. Her eyes reddened from her tears. Her cheeks blooming with color again.

“I’m so stressed out about this. Making a cake like that on my own is going to be nerve wracking enough. I told you, I don’t do those. That’s all Dylan.”

“But you
can
do them. You don’t but you can. I believe you can.” I run my finger along her jaw. “Don’t doubt yourself. You might be better at this than Dylan. Who knows?”

“It has to be perfect, Mason. I’ll see the look on the bride’s face when I deliver it, and if she hates it I’ll never forgive myself.”

“So, make it perfect.”

Her shoulders drop. Her brows pull together.

Damn, she’s adorable in her confusion. That cute little wrinkle in her nose kills me.

Smiling, I bend to kiss her forehead. “You can practice on those little fuckers, yeah?” I ask quietly. “The flowers, I mean.”

A laugh bubbles in her throat and bursts from her lips. She flattens her hand to my chest. “Yes. I can practice on them. I’m assembling the whole cake this weekend to see if I can do it. I just wish those little fuckers weren’t on it.”

She seems to relax a bit more, giving me an easy smile, touching the hem of my shirt and exploring my skin underneath with tentative fingers.

“Well, there you go. Work at it until you’re happy. What you deliver next weekend will be exactly what this woman is asking for. You’ll impress her, I bet.”

“You seem so sure.”

“I am sure.”

My confidence in Brooke is unwavering. There’s no doubt in my mind she will create something beyond what she thinks she is capable of. I’ve seen her work. I know how dedicated she is to this job. How driven. She will perfect this cake until she can make it in her sleep, but right now, she’s crippled by her own insecurity. Blinded by it. Always letting that little voice inside her head speak louder than it ever should.