The layers for all of today’s cakes had apparently been baked in large batches over the weekend, then frozen until the appropriate day. Now they sat on the counter, fully defrosted and ready tobe... well, frosted. Also decorated with the flowers he’d created and set aside on little squares of wax paper.
The entire flower-piping process had fascinated her. The equipment, with various lovely colors of frosting contained within a dozen conical plastic bags, each punctuated by a differently shaped metal tip. The precision and artistry, as he rotated what he called a piping nail—essentially a long steel spike with a round, flat top maybe two inches in diameter—between his gloved thumb and forefinger, squeezed a frosting bag with his other hand, and produced each fragile, gorgeous petal, one by one, gradually creating a bloom on the square of parchment topping the nail. The easy confidence and speed with which he created those lush roses, bold poppies, and ruffled, blush-pink peonies.
He was so very talented. Also so very dense, on occasion.
“Yes, having her become your assistant would help you. But it might help her as well.” When she echoed his posture, bending over the table to study his work, her own back immediately twinged. “Have you asked her what she wants to do for the rest of her life? Maybe she’d like to be a baker too.”
His answer didn’t include words. Just a discouraging grunt.
Stifling a sigh, she tried again. “How about someone else, then? Wasn’t Johnathan looking for extra hours? Could he come in to help before class?”
Another discontented-sounding grunt.
Fine. She’d let it go.
Excluding Lise, the people of Harlot’s Bay were still basically strangers to her. In a little over two weeks, she was leaving them, without any definite plans to return. Their decisions, however misguided, shouldn’t concern her this much.
Even when it came to Karl.
Hanging out with him had been fun, and she appreciated his ill-fated trust-building efforts. He was a good man, one whose grumpiness didn’t fully hide how deeply he cared about others. But she wouldn’t consider moving across the continent or risking her fragile heart for someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—discuss important issues with her. Issues that, if she and Karl ever tried to make a real relationship work, would become her concerns too.
If they were a real couple, she’d actually want to spend time with him outside the bakery. Especially since her own post-vacation projects wouldn’t allow her to hang out at his workplace all day. With his current schedule, they’d barely see each other except on weekends. And if he wasn’t willing to evenconsidergetting help—help he could apparently afford—so he could change that schedule... well, that told her something, didn’t it?
If he didn’t want to fundamentally change his existence for someone else, fair enough. But seventeen years of shaping her life around someone else’s needs, preferences, and professional obligations had left her exhausted and utterly unwilling to repeat the experience.
Because she worked for herself, Rob had always expected her to accommodate his demanding doctor-to-be schedule. Tiptoe around the house whenever he slept and make herself available whenever he was awake and at home. Scrimp and save and deny herself travel, conference fees, and upgraded recording equipment so they could afford medical school.
More precisely: soshecould affordhismedical school.
She’d gone along with it all, because each individual sacrifice had seemed reasonable. Because they were a team. Because she prided herself on being Unflappable Molly Dearborn, able to sail through the choppiest of seas without undue fuss. Because, ashe kept reminding her, he’d be the one paying their bills soon enough.
Because she loved him. Because he supposedly loved her too.
Then he’d left her high and dry, and she was done twisting herself into knots for someone else’s plans. Any sort of accommodation on her part now would require an enormous amount of trust, and Karl hadn’t earned that trust yet. Couldn’t earn it, unless he chose to share more of himself with her. Which was an outcome that seemed increasingly unlikely, given his heartfelt love of grunts and general avoidance of complete sentences.
“I’m going to grab a latte out front.”And also impose some necessary distance between us, she silently added. “Can I get you anything?”
When she straightened, her spine audibly popped in a disconcerting manner, but a quick stretch didn’t hurt. Reassured, she walked to the interior door and paused, waiting for his answer.
“Hold your goddamn horses, Dearborn.” After he finished placing the remaining roses on top of his cake, he began piping decorative swirls around its base. “I’ll make your latte myself. Give me two minutes.”
Another pastry bag lay beside him on the worktable, its buttercream contents a slightly deeper shade of peach due to judicious application of gel food coloring. He laid down his swirl bag and picked up the darker color. His movements deft but careful, he piped out the first letter of the cake’s message in a lovely, flowing script.
She couldn’t look away, despite her better judgment. Something about the contrast—a gruff, burly man crafting such delicate beauty, his nonchalance matched by his meticulousness—melted her knees and tangled her tongue. Made her lean harder against the doorframe as her cheeks flamed.
Only... wasn’t he starting the lettering too far up? “Happy Birthday” didn’t require that much vertical space, and the cake was a full twelve inches in diameter.
Pushing off the door, she drifted closer again.
Oh. He wasn’t piping out a birthday greeting after all. In fact...
Dildos, Vibrators, and Clamps, Oh My: YOU SUCK, he spelled out in creditable calligraphy, before adding a star-shaped asterisk at the end. Below that, he piped out another asterisk, then a clarifying addendum in smaller, swooping letters:And Not in a Fun Way.
Brow furrowed, he glanced over the order sheet again. Then he nodded a little, grabbed a box Molly had folded and taped into place earlier, and cautiously slid the cake inside, making sure not to damage any of his decorative elements.
She fought herself. Lost.
“I have to ask, Karl. Who exactly buys a twelve-inch cake in a custom flavor combination, asks for that cake to be beautifully decorated”—because she’d also read the order sheet just now, and the delicate colors and roses had been special requests; moreover, whoever placed the order had inspired an underlined note reading,Please make it pretty!—“and then specifies a message like that?”
