Chapter 8

“How do I look, Trix?” I ask, coming down the back stairs into the bakery.

“Dayum, girl, you look good enough to eat!” she says, biting at the air. “You sure you don’t want me to make myself scarce today? I think you and Lance could handle everything just fine without me.”

Today’s technically my day off, or at least the one day Cake Culture is closed. With just me and Trixie working here, we need Wednesdays to bake all day and prep for the weekend’s special orders. Today, we’re making a huge multi-tiered cake for the Fredricks wedding, a monstrosity that could take more than a day to finish.

At least we don’t have any custom birthday cakes on the schedule for the day too. I try not to worry about that because the wedding order is big enough to float my custom cakes budget for the month.

I shake my head, feeling my bouncy ponytail brush my shoulders. Reaching up, I adjust the white scarf tied around the elastic, which I maybe chose because I know it pops against my red hair, something I consider my best feature. “No, please. You have to stay. That’s like a direct order. If you leave me here alone with him, nothing will get done but me.”

I hate to say that, but it’s the God’s honest truth.

Lance has spent the last the three days coming in like clockwork. I swear, yesterday, Trix yelled out ‘Lance’ like he was Norm coming into his favorite bar. He works at the table in the corner, staring sexily at the computer screen and eating my muffins. Sadly, an actual muffin, not the one I’m getting desperate for him to dive into.

But when we get extra-busy, he’ll pitch in and help. And he’s got the back cleaned and set up for me every day. But before I can do much more than say thanks, he leaves, and it’s driving me nuts.

I’m so horny I actually proposed a new cupcake called ‘Nutz for Nutz’ to Trixie, totally oblivious or maybe wanting the double-entendre of the almond cupcake with butter cream frosting covered in almond slivers. Thankfully, she’d advised that maybe I wait and see if I still think that’s a good idea after I get laid.

Unfortunately, no laying has happened here. He kisses me when we’re in the kitchen, hidden behind the big double doors, and I damn sure kiss him back, but that’s as far as things have gone and I’m about ready to make a move myself. And today is going to be hard to hold myself back because he said he’d come and help me all day.

Seriously, there is nothing sexier than a man cooking, except maybe a man who cooks because he’s doing it for you.

I turn around, looking at myself in the convex security mirror over the register. I check my lip gloss, and Trixie sighs.

“Not sure I understand why that’s a bad thing. Girl, get you some while the getting’s good.”

“I know, but I’ve done the dreaming of Mr. Right and settling for Mr. Right Now. I feel like I need to be focusing on the bakery now, not out gallivanting around with some guy.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “I don’t know if you’ve caught on to this, but that boy is plum crazy for you. Hey, wait . . . write that down for a fall flavor. Plum Crazy. I’m thinking muffins, maybe streusel-topped or sugared? No, with ginger.”

She taps her head, like she’s a slightly demented genius or something. “What was I saying again? Oh, yeah. Lance is gone for you. He’s just slow rolling because you’re scared and he’s respecting that. I don’t know if that makes him your Prince Charming or some shit, but it’d definitely make for some good times away from the stress of the bakery. All work and no play makes Charlotte run out of batteries faster than an industrial mixer.”

I laugh. She’s gone too far with that one. “The mixer is plugged into the wall. Actually, so’s my favorite friend.”

Trixie’s jaw drops so far she gets a double chin that she doesn’t actually have. “Your vibe plugs into the wall? Hell, how much horsepower that thing get? Giddy fucking up and yeehaw!”

Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything else because there’s a knock at the back door. “Who is it?” I say, pointing a warning finger at Trixie, who blinks at me with a look of pure innocence on her face that’s about as authentic as a Hostess cupcake.

“Lance Jacobs, reporting for duty, ma’am.” I hear him report, military-style, through the thick metal door.

I won’t say that his official, powerful-sounding voice has no effect on me because that’d be a bald-faced lie.

I open the door and Lance steps inside. He’s got on a T-shirt and jeans, both of which hug his muscles deliciously. I’m not usually a biceps girl, but something about the way the sleeves are straining over his tan, toned bulges makes me want to bite them. And then he turns, setting a bag down on the table, and I change my mind. Mmm, dat ass. I want to bite the apple of his ass.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, and then he looks at me, totally catching me eyeing him. His eyes light up, one brow raised like he’s saying busted without a word. But when I bite my lip, his eyes darken.

Trixie clears her throat, not ashamed at all. “Uhm, not to interrupt the eye sex you two are in the middle of, but that bag has a bow. Is it a present? I love presents, but it’s probably for Charlotte, right? That’s okay. I like to watch other people get presents too. Open it!”

His grin blooms like the sun popping out from behind a cloud on a summer day. “It is a present. One for everyone, actually.”

Trixie jumps up and down like a little kid, clapping, and I remember what she told me about her childhood and I’m guessing she probably didn’t get many presents.

“Go ahead, Trixie. You can open it,” I tell her, and she doesn’t have to be told twice, grabbing the bag from the table and tossing the tissue paper into the air.

She pulls out an apron, then another, then a third. Each one has the Cake Culture logo on the front, each in a slightly different shade of pink.

She spreads them out and then hands me the darkest one, and I see it says, Sweet Scarlet on it below my name. She holds hers up to her chest, and I see the pink embroidery emblazoned says, Not for Kids. The joke is good, and very apt. Trix aren’t for kids, and neither is Trixie.

The last one, she holds up and then laughs hard. It has Lance’s name and below reads, Commander Cookie, making Trixie laugh. I look from her to Lance, missing something.

Trixie explains, “When he stepped up to help, I called him Commander Cookie and told him not to mess anything up.”

He laughs too, taking the apron from Trixie but pointing out, “Actually, she said that if you killed me, she would be your alibi. It was appropriately, threateningly protective.”

I slip the apron over my head, tying the strings around my waist. “This is very sweet. Thank you.” I press a friendly kiss to his cheek, but my face flames anyway. “Okay, we’ve got work to do, troops. We’d better get to it, or this wedding cake might be my first and last.”

There’s no argument, just a feeling of unity as Trixie and Lance tie their aprons on and we get to work, using the forty-quart industrial mixer to draw the batter together. The only hard part is that since the bride wants a white-white cake, we can’t use any yolks at all, and just to be extra-sure, I’m using a very special type of butter as well that is almost white too.

I’ve tried using other methods, including one recipe that had me using coconut oil, or one that used lard, of all things, and while they did make a whiter cake... frankly, lard cake is something that nobody should eat.

“Okay, so the plan’s for two hundred servings,” I relay, “and the couple wants a really big bottom layer, so we’re going to do two twelve-inch rounds on the bottom, then a ten, eight, and six. They’ve got their own porcelain topper, so we just need to have a smooth surface with ruffled edges up there to prep the top.”

“Two hundred servings?” Trixie asks. “There’s no way they’ve got two hundred guests coming to their wedding, right? I mean, that seems like a lot. I don’t even know two hundred people!”

I spray down another one of our cake rounds. “I don’t care if they have ten people show up. If they order a huge cake, they get a huge cake.”

Lance looks into the mixer, watching the dry ingredients blend. “Biggest wedding I’ve been to was five hundred guests, give or take.”

Trixie and I look at each other, whispering simultaneously, “Holy shit.”

“Can you imagine how big that cake was?” I ask Trixie, who shakes her head. Hell, the payment on that would probably float me for months. Raising my voice, I look up at Lance. “Who was it?”

“Navy wedding. They met on board the Reagan, so they invited a ton of the crew. It was nothing like this cake though. Just a normal wedding cake and a ton of sheet cake.”

The timer dings, and I go over to the mixer, shutting it off. I fill the cake pans with the white liquid, praying my hardest that Trixie doesn’t make any cum jokes right now. But when I glance over, she’s looking back and forth from Lance to me, missing the opportunity.

She fills two of the smaller rounds while I get the big twelve-incher, and then we get the spring forms into the preheated and waiting oven.

“Next, let me show you how to make buttercream because we do it in small batches,” I explain to Lance once the timer’s set. I take two pounds of butter and hand him the big chef’s knife. “First, cut this into chunks about an inch wide. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect.”

Across the room, Trixie hums tunelessly, a bit of an upgrade from her usual 90s hits redux, and then says, “Tell us about you, Lance.”

It sounds like she’s interviewing him for something, but I’m interested to hear his answer. He told me the basics already, but I’m hungry for more.

He keeps cutting butter but answers, “I was born in California. That’s where my family’s company used to be headquartered. It was Jacobs Pharmaceutical then. Went to Florida, graduated, went military, much to their absolute not-delight, worked my ass off and got my MBA degree while I served, and became a SEAL. Along the way, I got to travel, see the world, in both good and bad ways, and basically grew up. Now, I’m home, seeing if my next step in life is with Bio-Tech.”

“Why’d they change names?” I ask, taking the butter cubes and putting them into the smaller mixer.

“When my dad realized that pharmaceuticals is a crapshoot and bio-tech is the wave of the future,” Lance says like he’s heard the phrase from someone else, maybe his dad. His accompanying shrug tells me there’s more the story, or to his feelings about the change. He doesn’t say anything, though, as he finishes the last of the butter, handing me the cubed-up pieces on the cutting board. “Okay, now what?”

I drop them in slowly, watching it swirl for a moment. “Add three droppersful of this vanilla extract,” I say, watching him do as I instruct. “Then we’ll slowly add powdered sugar. For each batch, we’re going to use about four cups, but it’s more art than science so we go by texture. We’re looking for fluffy peaks. Think Bob Ross, happy little clouds.”

Lance watches, his eyes intensely taking in what I’m doing, and minutes later, I add my secret ingredient, organic cream for the richest, smoothest texture possible. A pinch of salt for balance and the first batch is done. “Okay, now we scrape all this into a big container for storage and repeat for the next batch, and the next, until we’ve got all we need. Got it?”

He nods and opens the refrigerator, grabbing more butter. I like that he’s a fast learner, confident but willing to be taught.

“How about you two? What led to baked goods heaven?” he asks as he starts cutting again.

Trixie goes first as she pulls the first batch of smaller cakes out of the ovens for testing. “My high school was tiny, very few options for classes, especially back then. I could take keyboarding, which I already knew how to do, or home ec, where you got to eat what you made. It was pretty much a no-brainer, especially since cooking days usually meant I got more to eat in one meal than I usually got to eat in a day.”

She pauses, checking off our progress on the job board on the wall, thankfully not seeing Lance and me lock eyes, the sad realization of just how fortunate our privileged upbringing was. I certainly never went hungry and I sincerely doubt Lance did either.

“Turned out I was pretty good at it, so when I was out here and my business internship ended, an assistant manager gig sounded pretty sweet. The business of baking, if you will.” She looks back and smiles at me, and I feel warmth flow through my heart. I’m so glad we found each other.

“Your turn,” she says, like she wants the focus off her.

“My grandmother,” I tell Lance, then explain. “She’s how I found baking. When my mom died, my Dad was lost a bit. I don’t remember much. I was little. But I was excited when he married Priscilla. I didn’t know her well, but I thought having a sister would be like a sleepover every night. But . . . well, you’ve met them.”

Trixie and Lance both scowl, nodding. Lance gets the butter whipping, and I stand back, watching him work as I talk.

“So Dad would send me off to my grandmother’s at least one or two weekends a month and quite a bit of time each summer. I always thought it was because he knew how awful they were to me, but looking back, I think he was just keeping my connection with my mom’s family strong. And Grandma Winnie took full advantage of our time together. She taught me everything she knew, from gardening and canning to baking and sewing. Though the sewing didn’t stick. I always bled all over everything because I couldn’t get the hang of the needle.” It wasn’t that I couldn’t push the needle, but I was the kind of person who always, somehow, would push it through into a waiting finger on the other side, no matter what I did.

I smile, remembering her patiently helping me, her wrinkly hands over my small ones so I could cut things safely in her kitchen that always smelled of pine cleaner and baking bread.

“I went to college here in Roseboro, worked at Blackwell for a while, but it was basically hell, so when Thomas offered to help me get started on my dream, I jumped at the chance. And here we are.”

Highly edited, but I’m not sure if Lance is ready for the deeper story. Hell, even Trixie doesn’t know much more than the surface. Meanwhile, Lance has his butter just right.

“Okay, ready for the powdered sugar,” I say, looking into the mixing bowl of the second batch. “Nice fluffy peaks.”

Trixie goes into the supply closet and then comes out with a look of horror, rambling fast. “Oh, no, sorry, Boss. We’re out somehow. I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll run over to the mega warehouse store over by the highway and get a big bag or two, and grab the rest of the things on the shopping list. I’ll be back before you know it.” She pauses. “Or in about an hour.”

She emphasizes the time and then is gone in a flash.

Lance and I look at each other, and then we both laugh. He wipes his eyes, turning off the mixer after he’s done. “That was some awful acting on her part. She could’ve just said, ‘Hey, I’ll leave you two alone,’ and then bounced.”

I shake my head, knowing exactly what she pulled. “No, she couldn’t, because I full-on Boss ordered her to stay today so she had to come up with an excuse. And I know it’s an excuse because we order out supplies from a delivery service, and we just got restocked yesterday. Even the warehouses don’t carry fifty-pound industrial bags of sugar.” I point to the bottom shelf of the rack where we prepped all the things we’d need for today’s work. “See?”

Lance sobers, his face looking a little guarded for once. “You didn’t want to be alone with me? I can leave if you want.” He wipes his hands on his apron, stepping away from me.

I blurt out unceremoniously, going by gut instinct, “I didn’t want to be alone with you because I’m about to drag you upstairs and fuck you six ways ‘till Sunday. And I’m doing everything I can to not do that. I purposefully didn’t shave my legs, I have on my worst granny panties, and I was hoping for a chaperone. Because I have to finish this cake today. It’s a big deal. A really big one. So I need you to man up here and not fuck me, okay?”

I slap my hands over my mouth, stopping the word confetti. I can feel the heat on my face, and I mostly want to sink into a big puddle on the floor.

Lance’s guarded look turns cocky and then serious again. “You really know how to take a guy on a roller coaster, don’t you? I literally just went from ‘mayday, mayday’ to ‘fuck, yeah’ to ‘Responsibility Rick’ in one monologue. I’m going to do my absolute best to focus on the last part of that and not the image of you in high-waisted cotton briefs because right now, that sounds damn near as sexy as a thong. Fuck, do you wear thongs?”

His eyes trace down my body, focusing tightly at the apex of my thighs, and he shakes his head. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Do not answer that right now.” He adjusts himself and takes a big breath, like he’s shielding himself for battle. Against both our urges. “Tell me what’s next. With the baking, with the cakes. Please, talk about cakes.”

I remember how much he liked when I talked about the muffins, but I don’t think either of us could stand the tease right now, so I keep it professional. Well, as professional as I can when I can feel my nipples pebbled up beneath the apron he gave me and my panties getting wetter with every step.

The first round of cakes is cooled, the frosting is ready, and oh, this is going to be bad. “The next step is dirty frosting,” I say, the colloquial term sounding more sexual than it ever has before.

He groans, looking to the ceiling. “Are you shitting me, Char? Dirty frosting? Are you trying to drive me insane?”

His voice is a rumble that I can feel even from five feet away. Shrugging apologetically, I shake my head. “That’s really what it’s called. Let me show you.”

He moves closer, coming to stand next to me, but I can hear him muttering, “Yeah, show me your dirty frosting. Why the hell not?”

I can’t help but grin a bit. “I swear, I’m not trying to poorly seduce you. I really do need to finish the cake. Dirty icing is a sort of glue that holds the cake layers together, and to get the right shape for the decorative work that I’ll do later. We’ve got to get the bottom layers down, like the foundation of a building, and then the other layers will sit safely on top.” The drier explanation helps tamp things down a half-notch, thankfully, and we get to work.

But even though a twelve-inch round is a giant piece of cake, it’s not a lot of space to work, and Lance and I are forced tight together. Time after time, his arm brushes up against mine as we undo the latches on the springform pans and take the cakes out.

“Okay, now lift carefully. We don’t want to crack the layers.”

I feel a slight pressure against my left breast and realize that Lance’s muscled forearm is touching it as he carefully rotates the ring of the pan like I showed him. It’s side boob, but my nipple doesn’t seem to mind because it perks right up, sending a thrill through me. His eyes are focused on the cake, but my attention is totally on what he’s doing to my body.

“How’s that?” Lance asks, his eyes cutting to me, and he realizes where his arm is. “I... I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” I murmur, taking a shaky step back. “Okay, what we need to do next is get the bottom layer. It’s going to be our base.”

I get the flat cake knife, and we transfer the cake to the frosting turntable, aware of every moment of Lance’s eyes on me. Still, we work together well, and I have to grin as I grab the bowl of buttercream. “Okay, now the part that’ll get you all hot and bothered . . .” I say, not sultry because we’re already too close to the fire, but playful and teasing. “Playing with my cream—I mean, the buttercream.”

He rolls his eyes, but I can see the dirty thoughts behind his baby blues that are darkening fast even as he tries to keep focused. “So, what’s first?”

“First, let’s get a big dollop in the middle, and we’ll use this cake knife to spread it out. Don’t manhandle it, but don’t be too gentle, either.”

“A little roughness is okay. Got it,” he deadpans, but I swear it just got hotter in here.

My voice is a bit shaky, but I power on, flipping one cake as I attach the two layers. “Always try to keep a flat surface up, other than your bottom layer,” I hint. “It makes decorating and frosting easier. The light domes in the cakes will be filled with the dirty frosting like a wall spackle.”

I show Lance what to do, and after a quarter of the cake, he takes over, carefully using the turntable to get the sides smoothed out. “Well?”

“Not bad,” I admit, stepping in and checking carefully. “I might just feel better about this afternoon now.”

“What’s this afternoon?” Lance asks. “More of this?”

“I wish. No, I’m gonna leave most of this in Trix’s hands to get the first pass done. She’ll get the fondant on the bottom layer as well. But I’ve got a meeting today... with my father. My presence has been requested.”

Lance clucks his tongue, humming. “You don’t sound happy about that.”

“I’m not,” I admit. “I’ve been basically summoned. I’m sure it’s about the charity ball. I figure I’ll get my ass chewed out for the way I behaved with you. I’d bet the entire fee for this cake that Sabrina whined to Priscilla, who then whined to Dad, and now it’s up to him to reinforce the threats.”

“Threats?” Lance asks, instantly on guard, and I can see the warrior in him stiffen at the word. I half-wish I could take him with me tonight and let Dad try to bully me into leaving Lance to Sabrina with him standing right there.

I tell him about Sabrina stopping by the bakery, and he laughs. “So I’m just a slab of beef with a wallet, that about right?”

“And social standing, don’t forget that,” I add, knowing that climbing the social ladder is just as important a factor for my stepmother and stepsister.

“I get it,” he says quietly, his hands reaching out and pulling me close. “Your stepmother is playing matchmaker and my mom is playing matchmaker. They think they’ve got it all figured out. But they forgot one important detail. The biggest one, actually. I make my own choices, and I’m already interested in a woman.”

“And who might that be?” I ask coyly, the beatdown little girl inside me wanting to hear him say that he’s picking me over Sabrina. It’s stupid and a bit broken, but when it was between the two of us, there was never a question. Sabrina got everything, and I dealt with whatever scraps were tossed my way.

But Lance is not scraps, not by a mile.

He draws me in, his hand cupping my cheek and his lips so close to mine I can feel our bodies pressing together again. “Here’s a hint... if I were going to choose Sabrina, I’d be wearing a suit and tie and be in an office at Jacobs Bio-Tech, not in the back of a bakery looking at the most charming streak of frosting on the tip of your nose and wondering what it would taste like to lick it off your skin.”

Our lips are barely an inch apart, and I want him so badly, it’s me who starts to close the distance when suddenly, I hear the sharp sound of a tailgate being dropped open and a second later, Trixie comes in the back door. “Whoo... sorry, should I come back later?”

“Crap!” I growl, slapping Lance’s chest to hide my embarrassment, “You weren’t supposed to frost my nose, you clumsy oaf!” My acting skills are even worse than Trixie’s, though, and no one is fooled, least of all Trixie.

“Hmph, frosting her face already?” Trixie teases, her eyes twinkling, and I blush even deeper. “Kinky.”

“A gentleman never tells,” he quips, wiping my nose with a paper towel.

“Well, does a gentleman help a lady unload heavy bags of sugar we don’t even need after she gave you a solid hour and a half of alone time?”

I knew she was making shit up to bail on me and leave us alone, but a glance at the clock sends a jolt through my system. She’s right. It has been a while and I’m behind schedule now.

I can’t let this cake get away from me or I’ll be up all night decorating it. Lance presses a soft kiss to my cheek, but I’m already head-down in work mode.