Chapter 16
Addison
After a week of researching recipes, experimenting with mixes, and consulting with Hank, I decide on three decadent cake recipes for the big dinner. With salmon and a vegetable bake as the main course, cake felt like a safe yet delicious option for dessert. Who doesn’t like cake?
And it also left room for me to experiment with frosting and presentation.
“Never thought I’d see the day my kitchen would turn into a full-blown bakery,” Hank says as he walks through the double doors. The dinner rush is over, and he’s carrying a tub of dishes. I’d taken a break to eat dinner with Cruz, but I quickly returned to the kitchen to get back to work.
I laugh, following his gaze to the myriad of cakes resting out on baking sheets to cool.
“These look fantastic,” he says, stepping in for a closer look.
“They’ll look better once I add all the icing and toppings,” I assure him. The big dinner is tomorrow night—Friday—which means I need to have all the cakes done today so I can spend tomorrow icing them before the evening. Good thing I only have one left in the oven.
Hank shakes his head in admiration, depositing the tub of dishes into the sink. “What’ll we do when you go back to Seattle at the end of the summer?” he says with a playful tsk. “You’ve got all my ranch hands spoiled rotten.”
The idea hits me a bit harder than expected. Sure, I knew I was eventually going home but … I guess I hadn’t really thought on it. Suddenly all the peace and calm and giddiness I’d felt evaporates, leaving a tightness in my chest.
I clear my throat and force out a small laugh. “Yeah … you’ll have to take up baking,” I joke.
“Oh, my baking would be worse than no baking,” Hank guffaws.
The timer on the oven goes off, startling me momentarily. I hurry over and peer inside, seeing my yellow base cake looking nice and done. I don oven mitts and pull it out, setting it on a vacant cooling rack. I step back with hands on my hips, surveying the mass of cakes.
“You better not be thinking of starting in on the icing tonight,” Hank says as he starts washing dishes. “You’ve been hard at work since early this morning. Go relax. I’m sure Cruz wouldn’t mind spending some time with you,” he adds with a guilty grin.
I blush slightly and turn away. Of course Hank knows about Cruz and I.
Not because either of us has said anything, but because Hank isn’t an idiot, and neither Cruz nor I are very good actors.
But even if there was something to say out loud, what would it be?
We haven’t exactly had a conversation about what we are.
And having been suddenly reminded of my imminent return to Seattle—to the real estate life, to my family, to the stress of it all—I suddenly don’t want to think too hard about anything at all.
I take a deep breath. “I’ll just do one,” I tell Hank. “One cake, then I’ll head home.”
The next day passes in a blur. I’m in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, icing cakes, adding toppings, and looking up techniques on YouTube. And while I can still definitely pick out the flaws in my design, the cakes all actually look … professional.
As the dinner hour nears, I busy myself with setting up the dessert table in the cafeteria. Hank is busy with his own prep, and we barely exchange words, lost in our own little worlds.
As I step back to observe my cake display, a familiar scent envelops me—as well as two strong arms—from behind. I giggle as Cruz kisses my cheek in greeting. “You sure you didn’t just pick these up from the local bakery?” he teases.
I scrunch up my nose. “I’m nervous. I hope they live up to the whole ‘fancy dinner’ title.”
“Addison, these look incredible. Like, seriously,” Cruz assures me. “And I know they taste great because I was your taste tester earlier in the week.”
It’s true. He and Hank were the two people around for me to run recipes by, giving them samples and getting their input.
“You’re just saying that because you like me,” I protest.
“Can’t both be true?” he replies, wrapping his arm around my waist and giving me a little squeeze. “So tell me—what all did you decide on?” He gestures to the cakes on display.
“Well, there are a few of each cake type, since there are so many people to feed,” I explain.
“But this first one is a German chocolate cake with cherry filling layers and maraschino cherries on top. This is a vanilla cake with buttercream frosting and strawberries—because who doesn’t love strawberries?
” I point to the last one. “And this is a gluten-free, dairy-free cake to make sure everyone gets a sweet treat. I chose chocolate again for this once since I think it’s always a fan favorite.
” I glance to Cruz, beaming from ear to ear.
He shakes his head, taking it all in, then wraps his arms tighter around me. “You’re so fucking talented,” he murmurs into my hair. “Ugh, I’m proud of you.”
I’m surprised at the emotional reaction his words provoke in me. My chest floods with warmth, and I hug him back, giddy.
The sound of the front doors opening has Cruz stepping back, putting just the right amount of space between us. He glances over his shoulder at the group of ranch hands entering. “Your fans await,” he says with a smirk.
I swat him on the arm, although it’s somewhat true. Ever since I started baking, I’ve become fully embraced by the staff here. It’s true what they say, I guess—the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach.
It doesn’t take long for the mess hall to fill, and soon I spot Theresa, Tate, Lucy, and the kids. And they’re just as blown away by my newfound hobby as Cruz.
“When Hank mentioned you were baking, I wasn’t prepared for this,” Tate says as he stands in front of the dessert table.
Dinner is served, and as expected, the salmon fillets are incredible—just like everything Hank whips up.
Cruz sits with me and my family, although we’re careful not to act lovey-dovey.
Tate and Theresa keep glancing at me throughout the meal, though, and I start to worry that somehow the news about Cruz and I has spread to them—but then the mess hall door opens, and my mouth drops.
Theresa grins wide, standing and waving to the new visitor.
My mother, Jennifer Thatcher, smiles warmly and strides across the room, her kitten heels clicking against the linoleum.
“Mom?” I ask numbly, standing from my seat.
“Addie, sweetheart,” she greets me, rounding the table to pull me into a hug.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, the reality setting in. Mom is here. In Montana. At Thatcher Ranch.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she says, pulling back to grin down at me. “I was supposed to get in earlier, but my flight was a bit delayed.” She huffs in irritation but then quickly regains her smile.
Tate stands from his seat beside me, scooting over and offering the seat to my mom. “We’ve been eyeing the door all evening,” he says with a chuckle. He waves to Hank, who gets up to fix a plate and bring it over to Mom, setting it down in front of us.
I sit down, glancing sideways at Cruz in shock. He looks surprised as well, but shoots me a small, encouraging smile.
“I’ve been worried about you, you know,” Mom says quietly, pulling my attention back to her.
“Especially after our last call.” She shakes her head, tucking a strand of her perfectly curled hair behind her ear.
“I know sometimes we don’t see eye to eye.
I try to comfort you, but I think it … makes it worse sometimes. ”
My initial discomfort softens. I know both she and my dad truly love me and want the best for me, despite their shortcomings. I smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Mom,” I say.
She pats my knee with a smile.
We finish dinner in amicable discussion, Mom catching up with Theresa, Tate, and Lucy. As dinner dishes are starting to get cleared, the sound of tinkering glass grabs everyone’s attention. Hank is standing at the head of the mess hall beside my dessert table.
“Now, it’s time for the best part of the night,” he announces with a wide grin.
“I’m sure everyone has noticed this gorgeous dessert spread,” he says, and the hall erupts in murmurs of agreement.
“Thanks to our talented Miss Addison Thatcher over here,” Hank gestures my way, and I feel myself blush slightly, “we have three varieties of gourmet cakes—including a gluten- and dairy-free one! Now, line up in an orderly fashion,” he instructs, “if you’d like dessert.
But first, let’s give Miss Addison a round of applause. ”
The room erupts in claps, hoots, and hollers, and I try my best not to turn beet red—despite the fact that their acknowledgement warms my heart.
It’s strange. Normally being called out like this would be my worst nightmare.
And don’t get me wrong, I’m still not about to stand up and make a speech, but I’m surprisingly not anxious in this moment.
Mom turns to me with a look of shock.
“You made those?” she asks.
I nod.
“You’ve been, like, working here?” she reiterates.
I shake my head with a snort. “I mean, it’s not like that. It started because Hank needed help in the kitchen and I was bored, and then I got really into baking and …” I gesture to the dessert line.
Mom still seems a bit lost for words.
“Go show her the cakes you made,” Cruz suggests from beside me.
I nod, taking his advice. “Yeah, Mom, wanna see them?”
“Okay,” she says, although she doesn’t seem fully convinced. We make our way across the mess hall to the table of desserts. I stand off to the side, close enough for us to see, but not in the way of the line of people passing through.