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Steph slapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, oh, wow!”
It was, Laurel thought, definitely a wow. “Five graduated tiers, separated by dowels to give it that open, airy look. And the dowels are covered with sugar paste petals, more petals and blossoms overlaying the top of the tiers and spilling over for abundance. These are hydrangea blossoms,” Laurel went on, “but I can do any kind. Rose petals, cherry blossoms, name it. Any colors or tones. I use royal icing on this, generally, piping it out on each tier to form the crown. But again, I can customize. Using fondant for a sleeker look, doing ribbons or pearls, in the white, or in the color of the flowers.”
“It’s my colors, the blue and that lavendery pink.You knew that. You knew that and showed me the perfect cake.” Steph let out a reverent sigh. “It’s so beautiful.”
“It is,” Chuck agreed. “But you know what else? It’s really charming. Like Steph.”
“Oh. Chuck.”
“I have to agree. If you like this direction, you could go with more than one flavor and filling.”
“I don’t like this direction. I love this cake. This is my cake. Can we still do a topper? The bride and groom topper.”
“Absolutely.”
“Perfect. Because I want us to be on top. Can I have another glass of champagne?”
“You bet.” Laurel rose to pour.
“Can’t you have one, too? Are you not allowed?”
Glancing back, Laurel smiled. “I’m the boss, and I’d love to have one.”
The champagne and the clients left her in an excellent mood. And since she was done for the day, she decided to pour herself a second glass and make herself a little fruit and cheese platter to go with it. Relaxed, she sat at her counter sipping, nibbling, and making a list of supplies for Parker to pick up.
Greek meant butter, butter, butter, and lots of nuts. She’d have to make phyllo sheets—a pain in the ass, but the job was the job. Honey, almonds, pistachios, walnuts, bread flour.
While she was at it, it wouldn’t hurt to list her staple bulk items, then the supplies she’d need to order soon from her wholesaler.
“Now this is the kind of work I want.”
She glanced up to see Del in the doorway. Full lawyer mode, she thought, with the tailored suit—charcoal with subtle pinstripes—the elegant tie in a precise Windsor knot, the serious leather briefcase.
“You can have it after you’ve been on your feet for ten hours.”
“Might be worth it. Is that coffee fresh?”
“Enough.”
He helped himself. “Parker said you should think sexy, weepy, or silly. Whatever that means.”
Movie night, Laurel concluded. “Okay. You want your cake?”
“No rush.” He stepped over, used her knife to spread some Camembert on a rosemary cracker. “Good. What’s for dinner?”
“You’re eating it.”
The faintest of disapproving frowns clouded his eyes. “You have to do better than this, especially after a ten-hour day.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Impervious to the sarcasm, he tried a slice of apple. “I could’ve brought you something since part of the ten’s on me.”
“It’s not a big deal, and if I wanted something, I could make it, or tug on Mrs. G.”
Just one of his girls, she thought as frustration simmered. “Somehow we grown women get through the day without you fussing over our nutritional choices.”
“Champagne ought to put you in a better mood.” He cocked his head to scan her lists. “Why don’t you do that on the computer?”
“Because I’m doing it by hand, because I don’t have a printer down here, and because I didn’t feel like it. What’s it to you?”
Obviously amused, he leaned on the counter, bracing on his forearms. “You need a nap.”
“You need a dog.”
“I need a dog?”
“Yes, so you’d have someone to worry about, fuss over, and order around.”
“I like dogs, but I have you.” He stopped, laughed. “And that really came out wrong. Besides, ‘fuss over’ is what grandmothers do, so it’s an inaccurate term. Worrying about you is my job, not only as your lawyer and a silent partner in your business, but because you’re my girls. As for ordering you around, that only works about half the time, but five hundred’s a damn good batting average.”
“You’re a smug bastard, Delaney.”
“Can be,” he agreed and tried the Gouda. “You’re a moody woman, Laurel, but I don’t hold it against you.”
“You know your problem?”
“No.”
“Exactly.” She jabbed a finger at him as she hopped off the stool. “I’ll get your cake.”
“Why are you mad at me?” he demanded and trailed behind her to the walk-in refrigerator.
“I’m not mad, I’m irritated.” She picked up the cake she’d already boxed for travel. She might have turned and shoved it into his hands, but even irritated she took care with her work.
“Okay, why are you irritated?”
“Because you’re in my way.”
He held up his hands for peace, stepped aside so she could walk by him and set the cake on the counter. She flipped up the lid, flicked her hand toward it.
Cautious, because he was getting fairly irritated himself, he eased over and looked inside. And couldn’t help but smile.
The two round layers—tiers, he corrected—were glossy white, and decorated with colorful symbols of Dara’s current life. Briefcases, baby strollers, law books, rattles, rocking chairs, and laptops. In the center, a clever cartoon depiction of the new mother held a briefcase in one hand and a baby bottle in the other.
“It’s great. It’s perfect. She’s going to love it.”
“Bottom layer is yellow, buttercream filling. Top’s devil’s food with Swiss meringue. Make sure you keep it level.”
“Okay. I really appreciate it.”
When he reached for his wallet, she actually hissed. “You are not paying me. What the hell is
wrong with you?”
“I just wanted to ...What the hell’s wrong with
you?”
“What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you what the hell’s wrong with me.” She planted a hand on his chest to push him back a step. “You’re irritating and overbearing and self-righteous and patronizing.”
“Whoa. All this because I wanted to pay you for a cake I asked you to make? It’s your business, for Christ’s sake. You make cakes, people pay you.”
“One minute you’re fussing—and yes, the word is fussing—because I’m not eating the kind of dinner you approve of, and the next you’re pulling out your wallet like I’m the hired help.”
“That’s not what—Goddamn it, Laurel.”
“How can anybody keep up?” She threw her arms in the air. “Big brother, legal advisor, business associate, motherfucking hen. Why don’t you just
pick one?”
“Because more than one applies.” He didn’t shout as she did, but his tone boiled just as hot. “And I’m nobody’s motherfucking hen.”
“Then stop trying to manage everyone’s lives.”
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining, and helping you manage is part of my job.”
“On the legal end, the business end, not on the personal end. Let me tell you something, and try to get this through that thick skull once and for all. I’m not your pet, I’m not your responsibility, I’m not your sister, I’m not your girl. I’m an adult, and I’m free to do what I want, when I want, without asking your permission or courting your approval.”
“And I’m not your whipping boy,” he shot back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can either tell me or take it out on somebody else.”
“You want to know what’s gotten into me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll show you.”
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was just the mad. Or maybe it was the look of baffled annoyance o
n his face. But she went with the impulse that had been bubbling inside her for years.
