Love Takes the Cake (5 page)

The hardest part to figure out, though, was that it wasn't anything like crazy-Brittany-I-need-attention. No, he'd gotten good at reading people during his years in the service, and he'd bet his last dollar that Charlotte was operating out of a painful past.

“Here you go.” She set the tray of cake bites on the counter before him, each one nestled on top of some girlie, lacy looking white paper. “You didn't eat any the other day when Brittany was here, so I figured it'd be best if we just started over.”

Started over . . . with the cakes?

Or with him and her?

Will took a bite of the little yellow square before he attempted to answer his own question and get them both in trouble. “That's really good.” He tried the next one—white chocolate, or something along those lines. It melted in his mouth. “Okay, I'm starting to see Brittany's dilemma.”

“Are you going to cry?” A tiny smirk twisted Charlotte's lips, and he nearly sprayed crumbs with his laughter.

“No tears. I promise.” He swallowed, still chuckling. “I mean, it's not
that
good . . .”

Silent laughter lit her eyes, and she swatted him across the counter with a pink oven mitt. “Give it time. You haven't
tried the marshmallow caramel apple cake.” She turned the tray and he obliged.

Heaven and a campfire and a late summer fruit tree collided on his taste buds. “Wow. That's amazing.”

Charlotte practically glowed under the warmth of his praise. It was a little unsettling how much she enjoyed it—and how much he enjoyed giving it to her.

Then her light dimmed. “It's not traditional, though, for a wedding cake.” A troubled frown pinched Charlotte's brow as she studied the sampler between them. He wanted to smooth the crease with his finger, make her laugh again. Erase her worry.

And figure out exactly what the heck had set her off earlier.

Most of all, he just wanted her light to turn back on. “What if we did the marshmallow caramel apple for one of the prewedding events?”

She tilted her head. “That could work.” The light began to shine, just a little, as her hopes rose. “Let's see. Brittany mentioned an engagement party on . . . what date?” She pulled a daily desk calendar from a stack near the register and began flipping through the pages.

“It's soon. Like, next week.” Will pulled out his phone and read the dates and times for the upcoming parties. “Adam texted me the schedule last night. Yeah, there's the engagement party, next Friday night. And a couple's shower two weeks later, at six p.m. on Saturday.”

One he'd have no date for. Melissa would never let him hear the end of that one.

“And she wanted dessert for the rehearsal dinner too?”

Will adjusted his position on the barstool. “Adam mentioned cupcakes for that one. To mix it up.”

“Okay, perfect. What if we did the caramel apple cake as cupcakes that night? I could use my autumn harvest colors for the frosting.”

The light was back. Mission accomplished.

She was on a roll now. “And for the engagement party, what about cinnamon pecan petit fours? With caramel orange icing?”

His stomach growled in resounding agreement. “And for the couple's shower?”

She tapped her polka-dotted pencil against her chin. “A different batch of cupcakes?”

“What about snickerdoodles?”

Her smile wavered, just slightly, but enough that he noticed. The mention of the cookies had disappointed her. She corrected, but it was too late. “Sure. That'd be . . . good.”

She said
good
the way a person would have naturally said
sewer
. Or
toxic waste
. “It was just an idea.”

He could have kicked himself, but he still had no idea what he'd done wrong. Or why disappointing her was one of the most unsettling things he'd ever experienced in his life.

He pressed his fingers against his temples. This bakery was like some kind of time warp. It did things to him, made him forget the past and wish for a different future and expect things in the present.

So, so dangerous.

“Did I say something wrong?” He had to know. The
longer he sat there, the more trapped he felt, caught in a perfectly wonderful, terrible, addicting kind of parallel universe. He'd never cared what people thought before. He lived his life, did his duty, took care of those he was responsible for, and that was it. If someone didn't like it or how he went about doing it, that was their problem. He knew his role in life and performed it well. He never intentionally hurt anyone, but he'd learned not to waste time on opinions.

And somehow, suddenly, offending Charlotte or hurting her feelings seemed akin to a sin he couldn't bounce back from.

She shook her head, not speaking, which only confirmed that yes, he'd said something horribly wrong.

“Charlotte?”

She averted her eyes, rearranging the remaining samples on the tray between them. A fierce and irrational desire came over him—to knock the cakes out of the way, slide over the counter, cradle that adorable face of hers in both hands, and insist she confess right away. After he kissed her, of course.

The more rational part of him was staying busy just trying to convince the first part not to act.

“You didn't say anything wrong.” She rolled in her lower lip, an innocent action that increased his initial desire tenfold. “I just . . . I just forgot.”

Forgot what?

Unfortunately, judging by the seconds ticking away on the cupcake-shaped clock on the wall, he might never know.

A hushed silence pulsed over the counter. Then came
her voice, small and timid and two octaves hopeful. “I could make a snickerdoodle cookie cake.”

The proposition sounded like a peace offering. But what was she even apologizing for?

“That sounds delicious. And unique.” His voice sounded tired, even to his own ears.

“Will Brittany like it?”

Who cared anymore? But yes, she would. He nodded in affirmation.

She kept shuffling the samples around the tray. “And you . . . you'll like it?”

He met her gaze, suspecting that something immensely important was riding on that question, but for the life of him, he was unable to decipher exactly what. All of the people skills, survival skills, and analytical skills he'd developed over the course of his career were absolutely useless in the undertow of Charlotte's sea-blue eyes. “I'd like it a lot.”

Was that
his
voice, so husky? He sounded like he had strep throat.

He rocked back off the barstool so forcefully that it clattered to the floor. He had to get out of this bakery. Before those cake samples went flying and he did something really stupid and totally wonderful.

Like kiss Charlotte Cantrell and forget all his obligations and promises to his sister.

It'd been a week since Will had flown off The Dough
Knot's barstool so fast that he hadn't even picked a wedding cake flavor. Charlotte wasn't sure if she should call him, wait for him to contact her, or just go ahead and pick a flavor by herself. He hadn't even come in for his customary Tuesday cookie purchase. What had gone so wrong that he propelled himself out of the bakery with little more than “Gotta go, see you later”?

She had replayed their conversation over and over in her head, but couldn't see where she'd offended him. She had embarrassed herself, for sure, by connecting with him . . .
really
connecting . . . only to remember he was taken the moment he said the magic word,
snickerdoodle.

When would she ever learn?

On the one hand, she was glad he'd left so fast, glad something—whatever it was—had broken the spell. That felt a lot safer than all their laughing and joking and bonding.
Safer than the way she'd felt her heart bloom under his praise for her baking. Safer than noticing how his eyes lit with extra fire when he looked at her.

Fire. See? Time to quit playing with it, before she let her heart go up in smoke.

After she'd tortured herself with all the possible reasons for him to leave so quickly, in the end she had done nothing. Nothing but stall in making a decision while checking her watch, playing Candyland with Zoe, and hosting a pretend baking contest for her daughter's plethora of stuffed animals.

And now, in a few minutes, the decision would most likely be made for her.

Charlotte maneuvered the two giant trays of cinnamon pecan petit fours out of the back of her van, grateful Julie was with her this evening for the delivery. Thankfully, the engagement party started after the bakery closed for the day, so one of them didn't have to stay to man the counter. After last week's confusing and emotional interaction with Will, Charlotte was grateful for her friend's company and the distraction she offered.

And thankful for the extra set of arms.

“Anything else, Boss?” Julie teased as Charlotte set the second covered tray of petit fours into Julie's arms and shut the door to the van. She pretended to stagger under the weight. “I could juggle or spin some plates for you real quick.”

“Very funny.” Charlotte took the second tray back, and motioned for Julie to walk first up the walkway to the house—no, on second glance, make that
mansion
—that was hosting the party.

“What a house,” Julie mumbled as they made their way
up the bricked path to the monstrous red door. “They better tip well.”

“Julie!” Charlotte tried to infuse a touch of shock and offense into her tone, but couldn't quite pull it off since she'd just been hoping for the same thing. If she had to see Will and deal with the awkwardness between them, it had better be worth it.

Her stomach twisted into a nervous knot. Maybe when she saw Will, she'd realize her silly crush had been just that, and had passed. Merely a temporary physical attraction to a handsome man who frequented her shop.

Julie shifted her tray to her shoulder and rang the doorbell. Charlotte tried to look at her watch, but couldn't risk tilting her own tray. When they pulled up in the van, the clock had read twenty til time for the engagement party to begin. They had deliberately come early to put the petit fours out before the official start, but apparently, the party was already in full swing. Music, heavy with bass, thumped from inside the house, and loud laughter rang from the backyard.

The door swung open, and a middle-aged woman in a white blouse directed them to the kitchen. Charlotte focused on the end goal as they traipsed through multiple rooms, all decorated with black and white balloons and ornate signs congratulating the happy couple. Hopefully they could just leave the disposable heavy trays in the kitchen and head out before she even saw Will.

“Brittany asked if you ladies would please arrange the desserts on the silver holders.” The woman gestured to several sterling tiered stands on the table.

No such luck.

They set down their trays and began arranging the petit fours, which seemed to multiply by the second, onto the decorative stands. The woman bustled away.

“Was she a servant or someone's mom?” Julie whispered.

Charlotte tucked another petit four into place. “I was wondering the same.”

Julie giggled. “I can't even imagine all this chaos and expense once I get married. If my wedding or prewedding events cost more than my first house, please promise to slap me.”

“I promise.” At this rate, Charlotte didn't have to worry about securing the same guarantee. Always a baker, never a bride. For now, that seemed the safer route, for both her and Zoe.

She glanced at Julie's progress unloading the petit fours. “Try to hurry. I've got to pick up Zoe from her after-school babysitter.” That was
part
of why she was rushing, anyway. Not a total lie. She cast an anxious glance toward the picture window displaying the yard, but couldn't see well enough to know if Will was anywhere in sight.

“Are they here yet?” Brittany's strident voice preceded her entrance into the kitchen by mere seconds. Not nearly long enough to brace for the onslaught.

“Finally. Better late than never, I guess.” Brittany swirled the contents of her champagne glass and raised it in acknowledgment.

Beside her, Julie stiffened at the insult, and Charlotte quickly handed her another petit four to place on the stand before her friend could voice the thoughts rolling through both their heads. “Ignore her. She's tipsy,” she whispered.

“That's still not an excuse to be rude.”

Charlotte snorted. “You should have seen her sober.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Brittany's voice slurred, and she pointed with her glass, nearly spilling the contents on the kitchen floor. “Hey, if those square thingies don't taste good, do I blame you? Or Will?”

Great question. Not that she particularly cared, though Brittany seemed legitimately confused about the potential dilemma. Right now, Charlotte just wanted to finish arranging the stupid things and get back to the van before she saw him. Wanted to pick up Zoe, go home, make popcorn, and watch some mindless show on the Disney Channel while snuggling her little girl and reminding herself of all the reasons why they were better off this way.