Page 6 of Unmanageable

“Because he’s a liability and I want him deafened by bass drops before he can start a political debate with the florist,” I say.

“Fair enough,” Dean nods. Then he looks at Cash, his expression bored. “O’Connell, stop poking the Shark. You’re going to get bitten, and I’m not driving you to the ER during a cake tasting.”

Jenna, perched on the edge of the table in a silk dress that looks like it cost more than my car, snorts into her champagne. “Oh, let him poke. It’s the only action she’s had all season.”

“Jenna!” I snap, feeling the heat bloom across my neck.

“Shush,” she chirps, fixing her blonde hair in the reflection of a display case. “Anyway, Cash, did you convince her yet? Or are you going on that road trip alone like a tragic country song?”

The table goes quiet. The only sound is the hum of the bakery’s refrigerator.

Cash shifts next to me. “I’m working on it.”

“I’m not going,” I say, shaking my head. “I have a business to run. I have other clients. I do not ‘road trip’ in a van for two months.”

“It’s a reset, Scottie,” Cash says.

His voice is serious now, devoid of the teasing lilt, and God, I hate serious Cash. It makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerously like weakness.

“The season was a grind. My body is a wreck, and my head is worse. I need to get right. You’re the only person who tells me the truth.”

“I can tell you the truth over Zoom, Finnian. I can call you an idiot from my office, here, in Boston.”

“Not the same,” he says.

Ivy looks between us, her expression softening into something pitying. “He has a point, Scottie. You’ve been working yourself into the ground. A couple of months away might keep you from having a stress-induced stroke. Plus, who else is going to keep him from making stupid decisions in the middle of nowhere?”

“Don’t even start,” I mutter, but I can feel my resolve chipping away, bit by bit.

***

We spend the next hour going through the remaining samples.

“Look at the texture on this one,” Ivy says, pointing a fork at the cake book. “The almond is dense, but the lemon layer might bleed if the room gets too warm.”

“It won’t bleed if they keep the thermostat at sixty-two like I told them,” Callahan says, leaning his elbows on the table. “I talked to the manager. Nobody performs well when they’re sweating.”

“Cal, it’s a reception, not the playoffs,” Jenna laughs. “People want to dance without seeing their own breath. Scottie, tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

“He’s right about the temperature, actually,” I say, moving a yellow sticky note on the chart. “If the room is hot, the champagne goes flat and people get cranky. Keep it cool.”

Dean pulls a small plate over, cutting a square with his fork. He tastes it and makes a face at Callahan. “Too rich. People are going to be asleep by nine o’clock. You need something lighter.”

“See? This is why Dean is here,” Callahan says. “What about the passion fruit vanilla?”

“Passion fruit is too sharp,” Cash says, leaning across me to grab the water pitcher. His arm brushes my shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You want a cake that finishes smooth. Like a clean shot.”

“Everything is a hockey metaphor with you,” I mutter, taking the water from him before he can spill it. “Give me that.”

The baker arrives with a final silver platter holding the salted caramel and vanilla bean variations.

“Salted caramel or vanilla bean?” Callahan asks, looking at me.

For a man who was once the most intimidating NHL captain in the league, he looks genuinely stressed about the choice.

“Salted caramel,” Cash and I say at the exact same time.

We freeze, looking at each other.