Icing on the Cake

CHAPTER 1

6 MONTHS LATER

***

Eisley

The reception hall erupts into a spontaneous clatter of applause as Grace and Tom, the bride and groom, take to the dance floor. A hush sweeps over the crowd as the intro to “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran begins to play. Guests surround the parquet tiles, cocooning the lovebirds in a cloak of love and friendship as they take their first steps as husband and wife. I’m heartened that the newlyweds opted for a traditional first dance instead of a showy, choreographed number. That kind of dance is fine, but it lacks spontaneity.

I allow my gaze to linger on the bride and groom longer than necessary, but dang, they give me all the feel-good vibes. They sway to the music, staring into each other’s eyes with their foreheads pressed together. Tom mouths Ed Sheeran’s words to his new bride between sweet kisses. There’s no mistaking the love the two share. I don’t know how their love story began or when their romance bloomed, but witnessing their affection gives me hope. Someday, when there’s time, maybe I’ll find love, too.

A twinge of nostalgia catches in my throat, threatening my good mood. My job doesn’t afford me many opportunities to meet eligible bachelors. Most of my bakery business is carried out online. When I meet with prospective clients in person, it’s usually a bride-to-be, hopeful parents planning a gender reveal party, or a dutiful husband planning his wife’s second or third surprise thirtieth birthday party.

I’m beginning to think I’ll always be the baker and never a bride, wife, or mother.

My lousy luck in the dating department isn’t due to a lack of effort to put myself out there. I took time away from work for the small business holiday mixer at Christmastime. The brief memory of that night warms my cheeks. Meeting Beau under the mistletoe was a feat of sheer luck. Who knew hiding in the shadows near an exit would lead to the hottest, toe-tingling kiss of my life? It was pure magic, but not meant to be.

We exchanged little more than first names and a scorching kiss I’ll never forget. But like always, I got tongue-tied, flush-faced, and unable to speak up for what I wanted–a lot more than one damn kiss. Beau chatted with every man and woman in the room, leaving me reeling from our fiery encounter.

My cheeks heat with the memory. There was something different, something special about that kiss and the way we held each other’s gaze. My body tingled like Cinderella’s fairy godmother waved her magic wand overhead as Tinkerbell sprinkled me with pixie dust. I’ve never felt so alive and vulnerable to a man’s charm. It was magical. Beau’s kiss was better than a slice of double chocolate fudge cake piled high with buttercream frosting. Apparently, that blistering moment didn’t render Beau as shell-shocked and over the moon as it did me.

I’ve dated a few times since then, but the polished facade of first dates wears off pretty quickly. Men get sloppy as soon as they think they’re a shoo-in for the horizontal hustle. I don’t expect perfection, but I don’t like being treated like a doormat either. Just because a man pays for dinner doesn’t mean I’ll put out. And booty calls in the wee hours of the night are not warranted just because I’ve given a man my phone number. A woman needs a little mystery and romance. I’m lonely, but I refuse to settle.

The broken hearts, bad breakups, and missed connections leave me feeling like a failure. I’m loveable, aren’t I? Sure, I have my quirks, but I’m a good person, a hopeful romantic at heart. Love...true love...has the power to conquer anything, right?

So why haven’t I found it yet?

I continue stealing glances at the happy couple while putting the finishing touches on the wedding cake. Ideally, I’d be finished decorating it by now, but the florist forgot to deliver the flowers I needed. The bride chose a pink champagne cake with strawberry filling for the centerpiece. It’s an understated, elegant, multi-tiered cake with cascading white and pale pink fresh-cut flowers. Its simplicity is deceiving to a layman’s eye. I spent a week getting the fruit filling absolutely perfect. Not to mention emptying my fridge and freezer to accommodate all the cake layers for the groom’s cake, too. But it’s all worth it. This order will also pay my bills for a week.

I’m doing well enough to earn a meager living but not enough to invest in a brick-and-mortar shop yet. It’s been tough lately, especially since there’s a growing public outcry petitioning City Hall to shut down businesses like mine. So far, cottage industries are protected by law, but I’m not sure how long that will last. Like many mom-and-pop businesses that set up shops at farmer’s markets and roadside food stands, I’m more afraid of the so-called baking police than City Hall. One bad review or unfounded rumor from a busybody can spread like wildfire and take away my livelihood overnight.

The music shifts to something livelier as the bride and groom’s parents and the wedding party segue through the procession of dances tradition calls for. I tune out the music, laughter, and idle chatter, busying myself with tucking flowers and greenery into the frosting’s nooks and crannies. I scrutinize the cake from every angle, ensuring it’s perfect before stepping aside so the photography assistant can take the necessary photos to immortalize it forever.

The happy couple steps away from the dance floor as the wedding planner wrangles them for the next item on the to-do list. The bride, groom, and entourage disappear into the crowd as guests flood the dance floor, ready to get their groove on.

One of the groomsmen pauses momentarily, assisting a bridesmaid with the heel stuck in the hem of her dress. He bends to his knee, disappearing below the crowd. I’m intrigued beyond reason, but something about him sparks a familiar feeling in the pit of my tummy. I tip on my toes and crane my neck for a better look, but I can only make out the gentleman’s dark head of hair.

A few seconds later, he rises from his knee and offers the bridesmaid his arm. When he looks at her and flashes a dimpled grin, I recognize him, and the fluttery tingles rising along my spine. How could I not remember him, even if only by his profile? I’ve memorized his lips and the unforgettable night he stole a kiss and part of my heart with it.

My loss is the lucky woman’s gain. Beau’s obviously smitten with the pretty woman on his arm.

***

Beau

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle beneath my collar. I fidget with my bowtie, loosening it where I can. Everything about Tom and Grace’s big day has gone according to plan. Yet my internal radar went haywire the moment I stepped into the reception hall. Tom and Grace made their grand entrance, and I lined up with the bridal party, shaking hands and offering pleasantries in the reception line.

It’s no wonder my neck’s stiff. I’m tired and hungry from a day of shuffling about in a tuxedo, but I can’t complain. The wedding was beautiful, my friends are happily married, and sooner or later, the wedding planner will cut us loose so we can relax and enjoy the party.

I visually sweep the room, looking for the slightest hint as to the reason behind my heightened awareness. I’m usually comfortable in crowds and meeting new faces. I‘m confident in my ability to carry on an intelligent conversation with just about anyone. It’s my biggest asset in conducting business and working with people. I learned early on that listening is the best way to connect with people and put them at ease. Nana, my maternal grandmother, taught me that.

I owe my success to her. Even named my Sapphire Bakehouse in honor of her. I spent hours in Nana’s kitchen learning the proper way to hold a knife, knead dough, and make delicious dishes from scratch. She taught me the importance of sharing meals with loved ones. Food has the power to bring people together and create moments of joy. Nothing else on the planet can do that to the extent a meal can.

“All right people. We’re almost done here.” The wedding planner slides her glasses to the tip of her nose to check her clipboard. “We’ll cut the cake and then have the bouquet toss followed by the garter toss.”

“You’re the only one of us without a girlfriend, Beau.” Kent, the best man, nudges me as we dutifully follow the wedding planner across the reception hall. “You’re catching the garter. I’m not getting engaged anytime soon.”

“Scared?” I chuckle, ribbing him back. “It isn’t the garter you need to worry about. It’s the bouquet.”

Kent pales as he draws his palm over his face. He isn’t ready to walk down the aisle with Kylie yet, but he’ll get there. There’s no chance he’d let her slip away. She’s good for him. Someday, when things slow down at work and I’ve had my fill of community outreach, maybe I’ll find someone, too.

How long does it take to know someone is the one? A year, six months, days? Does true love have a time frame at all?

“Okay, people. Grace, the bakery had a small glitch with flowers for the cake. She’s finishing up right now.” The wedding planner scrunches her nose, clearly unsettled about the hiccup in her carefully choreographed plan. “Do you mind if we do things a little out of order? Bouquet toss before cake?”

“Not at all,” Grace stares adoringly at Tom, unruffled by the change of plans. “Nothing could ruin this day. It’s all perfect, don’t you think?”

“You’re perfect,” Tom replies, bringing their intertwined hands to his lips.

The wedding planner signals the DJ to announce the bouquet toss. A group of hopeful, eager women gather around the bride. As I move to the side, a flash of red distracts me from the tittering ladies around me.

Red, high-heeled pumps move quickly around the cake table, a striking contrast to the draped white linens. The woman’s floral dress hits a little lower than mid-thigh, showing off her toned, muscular thighs. Crisp white apron strings tied into a bow around her waist are the only indication she’s working rather than here as an invited guest. Her long locks are pulled back into a sleek, professional knot as her hands move quickly, tidying the table.

She shifts, turning her head to glance at the group of women vying for a chance to catch the coveted bouquet. My pulse quickens when I catch a glimpse of her face. Eisley. She’s the one. The stunning brunette from the holiday mixer.

Eisley caught my eye the moment I arrived at the party that night. I know most of the small business owners in town, but she was a newcomer to the annual party. While I like to think of myself as a one-man welcoming committee, my desire to meet her had nothing to do with business and everything to do with personal interest. I made my way toward her, shaking hands and offering Christmas well-wishes to the sea of local merchants who stood between us. My pulse quickened, much like now, sparking a chain reaction of nervous energy and eagerness racing through my veins.

The mistletoe she stepped under was sheer luck, paving the way for an excuse as old as Father Time.

I sidestep the growing group of ladies and head straight toward Eisley. She ducked out of the party before I had a chance to circle back around to her that night. I won’t let history repeat itself this time.

A collective countdown begins as Grace prepares to seal some lucky man’s fate. I don’t bother looking, but if I had to guess, I’d say Kylie’s determined to make the bundle of flowers her own.

Eisley turns when the collective countdown registers three. Our eyes meet, and her cheeks brighten to a lovely shade of pale pink. I continue toward her on a mission to get more than her first name. At two, a grin spreads across her face. It’s the cutest smile and adds a bit of glittery mystery and mischief to her eyes. My heart thunders against my ribs. Three steps, and I’ll be close enough to touch her and hear her voice.

One.

Squeals of delight, shuffling feet, and rustling fabric fill the reception hall, drowning out the music playing overhead. Eisley’s eyes waver from mine, darting upward. Her grin flattens, and panic overtakes her features. She darts forward as the bride’s bouquet flies overhead.

Eisley lunges for the airborne missile, her knees buckling in front of me. She snags the bouquet in one hand and gropes into the air for something to cushion her fall. I surge forward to catch her when a collective gasp fills the air. I’m thrown off balance when I’m struck from behind. My knee hits the carpet as Eisley crashes into my chest, knocking the wind from my lungs.

I wrap my arms around her and roll, shielding her from carpet burns, bruises, and possible wardrobe malfunctions. My shoulder catches on a white linen ruffle before hitting a table leg. The fabric strains as it gets pinned between my arm and the floor. Plates and silverware rattle as the table shakes. A clip holding the tablecloth in place pops off the corner, and a woman shrieks as the cloth begins sliding over the edge.

I tuck Eisley’s head under my chin and hope for the best while bracing for the worst. Things are about to get sticky and messy.