Cooking and baking are both physical and emotional therapy.
–Mary Berry
Scarlett
Eggs. He put eggs in my apron and now they’re broken, shells littering the floor and speckled over my legs and shoes.
Startled, I freeze in shock, blinking at the egg carnage and then up at Guy.
He smiles.
“You…you…turd burglar!” I don’t know what else to say. Guy Chapman played a silly prank on me. And now he’s smiling.
Like actual smiling. With his lips and even teeth. They’re nice teeth, straight and white and . . hell’s bells!
He never smiles that big. Ever. The most I’ve ever witnessed is a slight tilt of the lips. And it’s a good thing because he has a dimple in his left cheek and his grin is more divine than tiramisu straight from Rome. Guy always has a certain magnetism, even when he’s just standing there scowling, but an actual real to life smile might actually power the mixer on the counter—no electricity needed.
“Can you not swear?” he asks. “You know you’re a grown adult and no one’s here to reprimand you.” The dimple is gone, disappeared along with most of my brain cells.
I can’t believe he . . .
“Ugh!” I grab a piece of the gelatinous material from my shirt and throw it at him, but it doesn’t go very far. The goop slips beneath my fingers and leaves a sticky trail up my arm.
Which makes him smile again. Damn him. Anger fills me with resolve.
I step in his direction, rubbing my hand in the excess egg on my person and then wiping the wetness right across his smug face.
He stares at me in shock, the eggy mess a smear of shiny substance across his cheek and chin.
In an ineffectual attempt to hide my mirth, I cup my hands over my mouth and snort into them, which just wipes more of the egg on my own face, but there’s no helping it.
His frozen shock doesn’t last long. He steps toward me, coming for me even as I back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
Yelping, I try to escape his retribution, but my truck is smaller than a prison cell. He easily boxes me in against the counter and then, to my everlasting shock, rubs his egg-covered face against mine.
His cheek is scratchy and the egg is wet. The combination has me shrieking and laughing and struggling to get away, but his arms are like warm steel bands caging me in place.
The door slams open and we both freeze, halting mid-entanglement, and turn our heads as one toward the interruption.
Fred stands in the doorway, disposable coffee containers in each hand. It’s going to be a long night and I had sent her off for reinforcements because we were out.
Guy steps away from me, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. I straighten and clear my throat, hastily using a dry spot on my apron to wipe my own face.
“Right. Thank you for the, uh, chat and tips.”
His brows lift. “Tips?”
“The um, cardamom. It’s a terrible suggestion, but you know, you tried.”
I turn and put my apron on the counter and then grab a rag from the rack and start wiping off the countertop again. I’ll ignore him and this whole thing, pretending like none of it happened.
His voice is back to its normal snappish tone. “Right. Enjoy the eggs.”
And without a goodbye, he walks out the door, nodding at Fred who watches him walk away and then turns to face me.
“What the hell was that all about?”
I shake my head in bafflement. “I don’t know. He smiled.”
Her brows lift. “He smiled? At you? Are you sure he wasn’t having a seizure or a stroke or something?” She frowns and moves to the order window, lifting it slightly to watch him.
“He smiled at me and he…he pranked me. The old eggs in the apron trick.”
She turns slowly around from the window with eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief. “Really?”
“I know. It’s been awhile. I haven’t been involved in a kitchen prank since culinary school.” So juvenile. So unexpected. I rub my cheek where his stubble abraded it, disbelief fighting with a strange sense of arousal in my belly. I can’t believe he was so…playful. That in and of itself is attractive; combined with being imprisoned in his strong arms, surrounded by his heat and smell…. Despite the stickiness, I wouldn’t mind if it had lasted longer. I mean, he was attacking me, yes, but there was something inherently familiar in his movements. I didn’t feel threatened. It was…fun.
Dammit, it would be better if he’d just remained an emotionless ass. When he’s playful, he’s as irresistible as a chocolate shake at a burger joint.
“So, what are we gonna do about it?” Fred asks.
I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Um, he pranked you. You have to get him back.”
“I do?” I turn away from her, grab the cloth from where I left it on the counter and wipe it on my face. An idea shimmers to life in my mind. I’m not really scared of Guy Chapman. Not anymore. I mean, I’m scared of the attraction I feel toward him, but I can handle that. Maybe. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s I need to stop avoiding the things—or people—that scare me. Guy isn’t as scary now that I’ve yelled at him, been egged by him, and well, made out with him.
I meet Fred’s eyes. “I mean, I do.” I stand up straight. “And I have an idea. But we might need Carson.” I rub my hands together. “And I know how we’re going to get him to help.”
Her eyes meet mine and I grin.
It. Is. On.
A few days pass before we have a chance to set the scene to perfection. I baked a batch of hummingbird cupcakes and Fred and I are waiting for Carson to walk by. She’s been using a handheld fan to blow the scent out the window.
He hasn’t been by since the whole egg incident, and I don’t know if it has something to do with that, or if I’m overthinking it. Probably overthinking. I do that a lot. It’s like the gift that keeps giving and giving and giving.
Carson stops midstride and pivots in our direction, only stopping once his head is halfway in the order window. He breathes deeply, shutting his eyes then opening them again. “Did you make hummingbird cakes?”
“It’s possible.” She shrugs trying to play it off, but her smile is triumphant. “Want to come in and try them out?”
He’s at the back door like a flash.
She opens the door and ushers him inside, shutting the door behind him.
“What is this?” he asks when he sees the rest of the items we’ve set up on the counter.
“Let me take your coat.” I hold out my hand. “We’re celebrating. Want a drink?”
“What. Is. All that?” His eyes are locked on the tier of cupcakes, right next to a pitcher filled with a bright yellow fluid.
Fred shrugs. “I may have bribed someone at Attaboy’s to come over and make a pitcher of cocktails to go with the cake . . .”
Carson hands me his coat without even glancing in my direction. “Those bartenders make the best drinks,” he breathes.
He beelines for the cupcakes and cocktails, and Fred and I exchange a triumphant smile.
An hour later, we are sitting on the floor of the food truck and more than a little tipsy. Carson is next to me, our backs to the counter, and Fred is across from us leaning back against the opposite side.
“Your cakes are the best, Scarlett.” Carson leans into me, setting his head on my shoulder. “I really love you guys.”
I pat him on the head. “You’re an affectionate drunk.”
His head lifts from my shoulder. “I’m not drunk, you are.”
“Want more?” Fred asks. “I’m done. All the sugar is making my stomach feel funny and I’m tired.” She stifles a yawn.
“Amateur,” Carson teases and holds out his martini glass. “Yes, please.” Once she’s refilled his glass, he puts his head back on my shoulder, spilling some of the drink on my pants. He doesn’t notice. “I’m sorry about the whole Guy trying to make you move thing. But I think he really likes you, it’s just his businesses always come first. He’s not the best at, you know, being a normal human.”
“Really? He pranked me.”
His head lifts again. “What?”
“He put eggs in my apron.”
“No.” He leans further back to focus on my face, his expression a mixture of confusion and shock. “He would never.”
“He did,” Fred confirms. “I saw it. Well, the aftermath. They were rubbing faces.”
He gasps and shoves me in the shoulder. “You rubbed faces with Guy? Why are you just now telling me this?”
“We haven’t seen you since then.” Fred narrows her eyes at him.
“He wanted to lay low for a few days. He specifically told me not to come over here anymore or do any more espionage. I thought it was because he had a plan but . . .” He frowns in thought.
Fred and I meet eyes. She nods and then kicks Carson with her foot. “We wanted to get him back, for the pranking.”
His eyes dart from Fred to me and then back again. “What? You want me to help you?”
“I don’t know,” I say before Fred can jump in with an emphatic affirmative. “Would you be willing to get involved? We don’t want you to get in any kind of trouble.”
He purses his lips in thought, and then he breaks into a grin. “One more martini and one more cupcake, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
Fred pulls a box from the cupboard behind her. “Good, because Scarlett wants into his office.”
“Are you sure you won’t get fired for this?”
Decadence is dark and quiet; everyone has gone home for the night as we pass through the stainless-steel kitchen, gleaming in the emergency lights.
I’m carrying the box of goodies because Fred went home. Jack came and picked her up since the drinks went straight to her head.
“He won’t fire me. He needs me too much. Besides, I think this is good for him,” Carson says. “You’re not doing anything mean or detrimental to his business, so he’ll survive. You should have seen him the past couple of days. He’s been…different.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t yelled at anyone. At all. The staff is so much happier. The face rubbing with you is the only thing that’s changed. It’s the only explanation.”
He flicks on a light in the hall, leading me down a stark white hallway.
“Have you ever seen him smile? Like a big smile?” I ask.
Carson chuckles, turning us into an alcove with a small desk and filing cabinets. There’s a door leading to what must be Guy’s office. Carson stops in front of the door. “Um, that’s cute, honey, but he doesn’t smile.”
“But he does.”
“He does not.”
I adjust my grip on the box of goodies in my arms. “He smiled at me.”
Carson puts a hand on his hip. “I have worked for the man for five years and told him every snarky joke I could come up with, and I’m hilarious. You must be lying.”
“I’m not. He has a dimple.”
He stares at me in shocked silence for so long, I put the box down at my feet. Finally, he nods and purses his lips. “See. I knew it. He needs you.”
I stop him. “Oh no, it’s not like that.”
He rolls his eyes and fumbles with putting his key in the door. “You can’t tell me you made him smile and then expect me to believe it doesn’t mean something.”
“He hates me.”
“Fine, maybe it’s not like true loooove,” he pushes open the door, “but he likes people who stand up to him and won’t let them run all over him.”
“He has you.”
“I am not enough. And you have better hair. And boobs. Really, the only people he lets talk to him like that are me and his sisters.” He waves a hand. “Enough of that, here we go.” He flicks the lights on.
I don’t know what I expected of Guy’s office, but in my deepest imaginings I don’t think I could have come up with something so bland and sterile. It’s like a doctor’s office, except those will occasionally have whimsical posters or something. The walls are white, the desk is grey. There’s literally nothing personal in the space—not even a single picture frame. You could probably perform open heart surgery on his desk with zero risk of infection.
“There’s nothing here. I don’t know if this is going to work,” I tell Carson.
He moves behind Guy’s desk, opening a few of the drawers. “Au contraire, mon frère. He has stuff, it’s just put in it’s proper place.”
Of course.
We spend the next thirty minutes sticking googley eyes and fake mustaches onto everything we can find. All his pens, a few mechanical pencils, a calculator, a stapler, the doorknob, the light socket, anywhere we can make look like a face. Then for the grand finale, Carson helps me affix an airhorn to his chair. As soon as he sits, he’ll get a nice loud surprise.
Carson and I share a grin as he’s locking up. I can’t wait to find out how he reacts.
“Nothing.” Carson leans into the order window further and shoves his hands into his coat pockets.
“Nothing?” Fred and I repeat at the same time, our voices mingling in surprise.
We’ve been waiting for news all morning, but Carson didn’t come over until we watched Guy leave fifteen minutes ago, stalking out the door and getting into some kind of sleek black SUV and driving off.
“It was more terrifying than if he had yelled or reacted in some way. First thing, he sat down, the horn went off - it was loud - and he,” Carson shakes his head in amazement. “He didn’t. Even. Flinch!”
“Impossible.”
“He didn’t even say anything, just got up and examined the chair like it was expected and removed it.”
“No reaction to the googly eyes, either?”
“Barely. When he saw them, there was a whisper of hesitation, and then he went right back to work.”
“It’s like he’s not even human.”
“There was one thing, though.” He taps a finger on his lips.
“What is it?”
“His mouth twitched when he saw his pen with the mustache, and it wasn’t the normal twist of annoyance. I think he’s in love with you.”
“Because his mouth twitched? You are delusional,” I say.
Fred waves an impatient hand. “We need something else. But how can you prank someone who doesn’t play along? We need something good.”
“He didn’t appear to care, but he’s good at being a robot.”
Fred taps the counter in frustration. “He started this whole thing. Do you think he’ll come up with some retribution?”
Carson shrugs. “If he does, I’m afraid I can’t share, ladies.”
“Why not?” Fred asks.
“I don’t take sides, honey.”
They eye each other for a minute, some kind of wordless communication passing between them that makes me feel like I’m missing part of this conversation. “You helped us with our prank, you’re on our side,” she insists.
“I was lured to the dark side with your witchy cakes and cocktails. It doesn’t count.” He points at Fred’s shirt, which has a picture of Darth Vader and reads, “Welcome to the dark side we have cupcakes.”
“You suck, Carson.”
“Love you, too, Fred. I gotta get back but we’ll chat soon.” He blows a kiss and stalks back across the small alleyway to Decadence.
I turn to Fred. “What now?”
She coughs into her elbow a few times before responding. “I don’t know.” She sniffs.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Just allergies or something.”
“Uh, Fred, it’s December.”
“I’m fine.” She waves me off. “What’s more important is anticipating Guy’s next move. We have to stay one step ahead. At least. Maybe ten steps ahead.”
I mull it over. “I’m having dinner with Bethany. I’ll ask her. She’s good at this stuff. You want to come?”
“Not this time. I’m a little tired.”
“Oh, no. Still tired?” I examine her a little more closely. Is her face paler than normal? And the coughing…. “Are you getting sick?”
“Absolutely not.” She rubs her head and winces. “Well, maybe?”
“You should go home and rest. Do you want me to call Jack?”
“No. It’s fine. He wasn’t happy when he had to pick me up the other night. He was in the middle of something at work.”
I press my lips against a snarky comment. I’m not sure how I feel about Jack. Fred’s been with him since they were teenagers, but something about him is bit off. He works a lot, which I can understand, but I worry about Fred, especially since they live together but their place is only in his name. If something happened between them…. It’s really none of my business, though, and I am not the person to give advice about relationships, especially considering my own checkered history. And in the past, when I’ve made comments, Fred immediately makes it clear the topic is off-limits. She’s loyal to a fault, I think.
“I can call you an Uber or something?” I offer.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’ll…go home and order Pho. But maybe I shouldn’t be around the cakes, just in case. Can’t risk it if I am getting sick. It would be your luck for Guy to make good on his health department threat and have them show up while I’m sneezing into the batter.”
“Take tomorrow off, too, just in case. I want you to feel better so you can help me with the Beatles wedding this weekend.”
It was a good gig to land, based on a referral from another wedding a few months ago. It’s a huge order, five hundred guests, and they have a specialized theme which means I would need to bake and decorate over fifteen hundred mini cupcakes. The mother of the bride is an editor at Women’s Weekly magazine. If I do well, maybe it will lead to more catering jobs. Then I can have a bit of a cushion instead of living week to week.
But I’ll also need Fred’s help. I’ll have to bake everything the day before so it’s as fresh as possible. I already ordered stencils with little guitars and Beatle-shaped heads, shaggy hair and all, but making the fondant and cutting each piece by hand will be a lot of detailed work.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine by this weekend,” Fred assures me. “It’s probably nothing. Just stress. Jack has been working a lot at the museum, and so I’ve been doing as much as I can to make everything easy for him at home.”
I have to bite my lip again, but I nod at Fred and then she leaves and I’m alone. It’s not my place to judge, when all I have is my truck and the cakes around me.
It’s enough, I tell myself, but I don’t really believe it.