Page 31 of Falling for the Billionaire Best Man

“I’m working,” she said. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Uh, like twenty things,” I said. “Is it just you?”

“Yep. Always is.”

“Do you always have this many projects going?”

“Not only is it the beginning of a very long, drawn-out wedding season, but Easter is coming up. I’ve got orders for cakes covered in pastel eggs and Easter bunnies. Cupcakes. Cookies. All the things.”

“Hence the pink frosting on your cheek,” I said with a laugh.

That earned a scowl. “I have two cakes to deliver tomorrow, so this is where I live now,” she said breathlessly. “And I wear icing.”

“I see.”

“So if you needed my help with anything related to Cullen’s and Eliza’s wedding⁠—”

“I was just thinking about you and decided to come by,” I interrupted, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “It has nothing to do with them. From what I understand, they’re still enjoying their almost-honeymoon.”

I wasn’t sure why I said it, but it was the truth, wasn’t it? I had been thinking about her. Constantly. And I couldn’t stay away any longer.

“Oh,” she said. She seemed to drop the anger a bit.

“Is there anything I could do to help?” I asked. “I’m going a little stir crazy. I don’t know shit about baking, but I’m sure there’s something I can do.”

She smiled. “My employee is gone for the day.”

“Put me in, Coach.”

She laughed. “Alright. How about we start with you putting together some cake boxes for me?”

“I can do that,” I said.

She led me to a corner of the bakery where a stack of flat cardboard boxes was resting on a table. “They need to be folded and ready to go,” she said, gesturing to the pile. “Just follow the creases—it’s pretty straightforward.”

I nodded, pulled a box from the top of the stack, and began snapping it into shape. It wasn’t exactly rocket science, but I still felt a little out of my depth in this world of sugar and flour. “So, do you always work this late?” I asked, glancing at her as she returned to piping delicate swirls of frosting onto a cake.

“Not always,” she said, not looking up. “But when there’s a crunch, yeah. This time of year is always insane. Weddings, holidays—people want all the baked goods. I swear, some days I think I should just move in here.”

I chuckled, folding another box. “Seems like you practically have already. You’ve got flour in your hair, by the way.”

She reached up absently to brush at her hair, smudging more flour across her temple in the process. “Great. Add it to the list.”

“Is there an apartment upstairs?” I asked her.

“Yes. It’s rented but trust me I’ve considered asking them to let me have a cot up there.”

I was immediately in awe at how she moved as she flowed from one heavily detailed cake to another. Her cakes were tasteful and stunning, not the gaudy, floral monstrosities I’d imagined when I first learned about her. She was an artist.

These weren’t just cakes. They were masterpieces.

“So, you’re bored?” she asked while she bent over a cake.

“Yes. I went for a run on the beach today.”

“It’s a nice day, huh? Everyone that came in the shop told us. And I’m stuck inside.”

“I bet that’s hard,” I said.