The jackhammer drilling just outside the bakery had my teeth rattling in my head. It was just past six in the morning, and I’d already had two cups of coffee and my first tray of miniature fruit tarts were cooling.
It had been several days since my night with Slash. My sheets had been changed, the whisker burns on my neck and cheeks were gone, and the soreness between my legs had disappeared.
It was as though he had never been.
I was already in a shit mood, and my fuse was short. The noise of the jackhammer sounded like it was coming from inside the building it was so loud.
“Good morning,” Jazz chirped as she came in through the back door.
Her bright smile diminished when I glared at her.
“Rough night?” She was on the verge of yelling.
“Rough morning,” I nearly shouted back.
“Jeez, when did that start?” she asked.
“About five this morning. Take a tart. It has fruit,” I said before she could argue about the sugar coma it would induce.
“Enabler,” she muttered, but she grabbed a tart and took a bite. “Holy hell in a hand basket this is good.”
An hour later, the bakery was open, and the jackhammer was silent. I wiped my hands on a dishrag and went outside to see what the construction crew had done. I stared in horror as I realized the sidewalk and part of the street in front of my store had been torn apart and blocked off with orange cones and yellow tape on both sides that said caution in big, bold, black lettering. Any pedestrian that saw the cones would immediately cross the street, bypassing my bakery entirely. The construction crew had created a literal pedestrian detour away from my store.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. I grabbed tape from a section just in front of the door and ripped it down, making an opening.
I was just about to head back inside when I saw a man in a three-piece gray suit across the street. He lifted his hand and waved and then he approached me. It was the same customer who’d come into the bakery a few days prior and mentioned the lull in business. The bakery wasn’t in a bad part of town, but it was definitively industrial. This man, in his sleek suit, wearing an expensive watch and with his slicked-back hair clearly didn’t belong here.
“Good morning,” he greeted, his gaze traveling up and down my body. I was wearing an old pair of black jeans that were dusted with flour and a white T-shirt. It was warm in the bakery near the oven, but I’d gone outside without throwing on a jacket and the cool temperature made my nipples pucker.
I crossed my arms over my chest to shield myself from his gaze.
“I was coming by for another cafe au lait,” he said. He looked at the door to the bakery. “Are you even open?”
I couldn’t stop the glare. “Yes. We’re open.”
He waved his hand to the door, signaling for me to go first. I didn’t like how close he stood to me when he followed me inside.
“Jazz,” I called out. “This gentleman would like a cafe au lait to go, please.”
There was a definite bite to my voice, and Jazz raised her brows. “Sure thing.”
“What a lovely name,” the man purred at Jazz.
She snapped her spine straight. “I’ll get you that cafe au lait.”
“How about a few of those tarts? They look fresh.”
“All the baked goods are fresh,” I stated.
“Fresh baked goods, fresh new business. The neighborhood is changing fast, isn’t it?”
I bagged the tarts and set them down in front of him. Jazz handed him his coffee.
He gave me a folded bill. “Keep the change.”
Jazz and I tracked his exit, and when the door shut, Jazz said, “That guy gives me the creeps.”
“Same.” I unfolded the twenty-dollar bill he had left, and a business card dropped onto the counter.
Jazz picked it up. “Kurt Antol.” She flipped it over. “Phone number and address, but no business or anything.”
“Nothing good,” I said immediately.
“You think?”
I nodded slowly. “Aside from the overwhelming creep factor, he just has this way about him. Like he knows something I don’t.”
“I don’t like it,” she said protectively.
“Not to mention this is the second time he’s come in here and overpaid, and the second time he’s talked about the business.”
“Now if only we could get a hundred more customers a day like him, we might have a shot at keeping your bakery open.”
I whirled to look at her.
She shrugged. “The initial buzz has died down. It’s obvious we’re struggling.”
“You’re not struggling. I’m struggling. You don’t have to go down with this ship, Jazz. This is my ship and I’m the one that drove it straight into a fucking iceberg.”
“You jump, I jump, Jack,” she quoted. “We haven’t tried everything.”
I sighed. “The opening was so promising. And now with the city tearing up the sidewalk and part of the street, we’re not going to get any foot traffic. Everything is just going to go to waste, and this dream I’ve built—”
“Hey, stop.” She squeezed my hand. “You’re talented. You’ve got the drive. We’ll turn this around.”
My lip wobbled. “Thanks, Jazz. That means a lot. Sometimes it feels like…”
“Like you’re in this shit storm alone? Yeah, I get that. I so get that.”
The next day, I was jumpy and on edge from Kurt Antol’s impromptu visit. I hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning, wondering if he was going to come into the bakery again.
Who had a business card that didn’t tell the world what he did for a living? That was the entire point of a business card—to do business.
“You are going to love me,” Jazz said, jarring me out of my thoughts as she came onto the floor from the back entrance. She tied a green apron around her waist and adjusted the collar of her red buttoned-up shirt.
I pushed a wayward strand of hair that had escaped my braid behind my ear. “Am I?”
She nodded, a grin beaming across her face. “I saw my best friend last night, and she mentioned her parents were throwing a thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party.”
“Okay?”
“The caterer they hired to do the cake got food poisoning! Isn’t that great?”
“Not for the caterer,” I said.
She looked horrified. “No, not for her, obviously. But they’re kind of desperate. I mentioned you to Brielle.”
“You mentioned me what? I don’t make wedding cakes. I don’t even cater.”
“Wow, you’re really good at selling yourself. You didn’t even ask me how much they’re willing to pay. Come on, be open minded.”
“How do you know how much they’re willing to pay? Did your friend tell you?”
“No. I called her parents directly and spoke to them. I already agreed on your behalf that you’d take the job. Hope that’s okay!”
“You what?” I yelled, startling the young professional sitting in the corner on his laptop. He looked up and glanced around but quickly went back to typing.
She grabbed my wrist and pulled me off the floor into the back kitchen.
“Look, are you really in a position to turn down work?” Her brown eyes were earnest. “I negotiated a higher rate, knowing this isn’t something you normally do and that it’s last minute.”
“Did they balk?”
“They were hesitant, sure. And then I told them about your credentials. Culinary Institute of America graduate. Pastry sous chef for two years at The Rex Hotel in Manhattan under a two-star pastry chef—all of it.”
“I hate the wedding industry.”
“I know.”
“I hate wedding cake and all it stands for.”
“So, you hate everything that has to do with the single event that signifies two people joining their lives in a ceremony of love and commitment?” she quipped.
“No, I hate the price markups on flour and sugar just because you slap the word wedding on it.”
She looked amused, and her lips twitched like she wanted to laugh. “Don’t have that attitude when you meet Horace and Angie, which will be in”—she glanced at the watch around her wrist—“an hour.”
“Um, what? I’m meeting them?”
“Yup. I told them to come by and sit and talk with you. So you can get an idea of the type of cake they want.”
I gritted my teeth.
“This is the part where you thank me,” she said.
“Jesus, you’re arrogant.”
“Not all heroes wear capes.”
I rubbed my forehead, wishing I wasn’t in such a shit mood.
“They’re going to pay you a grand for the cake. A thousand dollars, Brooklyn. For a fucking wedding cake. For flour and sugar. And you know how you save your bakery? Word of mouth from catering events.”
I groaned. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
I’d never wanted to be in the catering business. I didn’t want the headache that came with it. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and refusing the job would be to my own detriment.
“These are your best friend’s parents?” I asked.
“Yeah, Brielle and I went to high school together. We go way back.”
“Way back,” I repeated, trying not to smile but failing. Jazz was twenty-four. There wasn’t that much way back to go to. I went into the tiny room that I used as an office and opened the desk drawer to pull out a pad of paper.
About an hour later, an older couple that looked like aging rockers entered the bakery.
“Hi ya, Jazz,” the man with a thick silver handlebar mustache greeted.
“Hi, Horace,” Jazz said as she came out from around the counter. She gave the burly man a hug and then turned to his wife and embraced her with just as much warmth and familiarity as one would treat family.
A thick lump swelled in my throat.
Jazz tugged on the woman’s arm. “Come meet Brooklyn. She’s a diabolical genius.”
“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?” Horace teased. “We’ve already hired her.”
I chuckled and held out my hand from behind the counter. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Horace grasped my palm and shook it with verve and strength. “This is my wife, Angie.”
“Hello,” she greeted.
“Why don’t you guys sit at the corner table, and I’ll bring coffees and a plate of baked stuff,” Jazz said.
I grabbed my pad of paper and followed Horace and Angie to the corner table. They sat down, and immediately Horace pulled his wife’s chair closer to him.
“So, thirty-five years,” I remarked with a smile.
“Yep.” Angie beamed. “And we still feel like newlyweds.”
“That’s sweet,” I said, meaning it, despite the bud of jealousy blooming in my chest.
“It’s why we’re having an anniversary party,” she explained. “When we got married we didn’t have a lot of money and we couldn’t afford the kind of party we wanted.”
“You,” Horace interrupted with a smile. “The kind of party you wanted.”
She patted his arm. “Fine. I’ll admit it. I wanted a big party, but we couldn’t afford it. But now we can, and I want to celebrate.”
“What kind of cake did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Something decadent, but also something unique,” Angie said.
“Chocolate,” Horace added.
I jotted some notes down. “What kind of party is this going to be?”
“What do you mean?” Angie asked.
“Like, are we doing black tie? Casual? What kind of food? Motif, colors, that kind of thing.”
“Oh.” Angie nibbled her bright red lip. “It’s formal, I guess. But not uptight formal, if that makes sense. We’re doing it outside under a big white tent, with heat lamps to keep everyone warm, but there’s no sit-down dinner. Passed trays of finger foods, but we wanted to go heavy on the dessert and have an awesome cake. And we want it to be different.”
“Different,” I repeated.
She nodded. “We’re not exactly traditional.”
“So, you don’t want a four-tiered wedding cake with thick white icing and pink icing roses?” I asked, unable to stop my smile.
“God, that sounds horrible,” Horace stated.
“Well, I concur,” I admitted. “What colors did you have in mind?”
“Black and gold,” Angie said. “Told you. Not traditional.”
“Look, Jazz vouched for you,” Horace said. “I trust her judgment; therefore I trust you. Give Angie whatever she wants. I’m along for the ride.”
I smiled. “You’re a good man, Horace.”
“Nah, I’m just the husband, and I want to get out of this alive.”