25. Sophie
TWENTY-FIVE
SOPHIE
“Is that icing on the cake, or leftover extinguisher powder?” Abigail pointed at a blemish on what was once a perfect white wedding cake.
“Let’s hope it’s icing, and that nothing got on these other tiers,” I answered with a raised eyebrow. “There’s no time to bake a new cake. The wedding is in three hours.”
Though one of my best friends was in attendance, I had decided not to stay for the Donny and Blair Show yesterday. Not that I was formally invited anyway. Saturdays at Magnolia Café were always some of the busiest, and yesterday had been no exception. But that hadn’t stopped me from checking the live feed on Blair’s social media account between customers.
And— oof .
I’d nearly dropped my phone when I logged on and watched as Abigail sprayed Bridezilla down with the fire extinguisher. Me and six million other people (and counting). Blair's wedding had gone viral, after all, and Abigail had been getting a lot of attention for her heroics. There were cuts of her walking up to Blair with the fire extinguisher, and even a few people recreating it for comedy skits. The internet was abuzz, and I wasn’t surprised.
Abigail was such a badass. Sometimes, I wished I could be a little braver. A little more like her. A little less of a people pleaser.
It was the day after the incident, and we were in the commercial kitchen of Theo Sinclair’s vast empire, also known as the Sinclair Vineyards. Abigail had pulled this one out of her hat overnight, as she always did. She was so good at fixing problems, and she was the best saleswoman I’d ever met. If she wasn’t a realtor, she’d be making gazillions selling water to unsuspecting fish.
I stuck to muffins, cinnamon rolls, and the best coffee in town, and that was good enough for me.
I’d never actually been to the Sinclair Vineyards, since I was loyal to the town and he was a dirty interloper. From what I’d seen, Sinclair’s tastes leaned classic, if a bit extravagant for my tastes. The kitchen was to die for—but it was brand new, as if it was just for show. Not that I was complaining. It was a heck of a lot nicer than the shoebox I called a workspace back at Magnolia.
I got to work making a new batch of buttercream. The maybe-fire-extinguisher-powder was on the bottom tier of the cake, which was actually just for show. Blair had wanted five tiers, and the cake ended up being almost as tall as I was (not that that was saying much). The bottom three tiers were Styrofoam on the inside, which meant I could cut a new block to size, ice it, and decorate it, and we’d once again have a blemish-free cake.
Abigail leaned against the stainless-steel counter and dropped her head. “I’m sorry about the cake.”
“Why? It’s not your fault.”
“It kind of is. It was my compost that started it.”
I dumped butter into my stand mixer and started it, then grabbed the Styrofoam I needed to make another fake cake layer. “Don’t beat yourself up. You were trying to do something good with that compost. You were so consistent with it! Every time I came over, you were adding to it.” I beamed at her.
“Soph, that was the whole reason it combusted.”
I looked back at the butter being mashed around the silver bowl. “Right. Well. You know. It happens.”
She tilted her head. “It does?”
“I’m trying to be supportive. Besides, you’re the one who saved Blair. And you saved the wedding. Look at all of this!” I gestured to the setup that had become grander after the fire.
Blair and Donny’s wedding had made national news, and now their live stream views were expected to double. And supposedly, in the world of social media, double the views means double the sponsorships. Everything from flowers and centerpieces to wedding favors and napkins had all been shipped in overnight for the event.
Blair had even had the gall to offer to tag me in the wedding cake photos for a small fee of five thousand dollars, or about ten times more than I’d charged her for the cake. In what world is five thousand dollars a small fee? Certainly not for a bakery owner and part-time animal shelter volunteer from New Elwood, Virginia. And even if I had that kind of money for promotion, I would not be giving it to Blair Hollins.
I stopped the mixer and grabbed my bag of icing sugar. “After everything you told me about what a nightmare Blair’s been, it was cool of you to find them another venue.”
Abigail gazed over the scene as we watched caterers set up the reception area just beyond the swinging steel doors that separated the kitchen from the vast reception space. She cringed. “Yeah, I just felt kind of bad about the whole thing. Karmic retribution or not, it was still my compost.”
“Bad enough to go to Theo Sinclair, I guess,” I grumbled, giving her a sideways look. “How did you arrange this? I thought Sinclair was our mortal enemy. Now his vineyard is going to get all kinds of attention. Blair and Donny’s followers will flock here.”
Abigail shrugged. “Tourism is good for the town. Plus, all those trendy tourists will want to book at the new Monticello Hotel when it’s open. And that’s a good thing for Charlie and Sebastian and the rest of the town. Even you.”
“I guess that’s true, but it still doesn’t answer my question. How did you manage to arrange this?” I asked again, not letting her off the hook.
“Well,” she started. “Sinclair has recently become a client of mine. He’s looking to buy some commercial property.”
I wiped my butter-and-sugar-smeared finger on my apron as I spun toward her. “What! Have you lost your mind? What about everything he put Charlie through this year?”
“I know. I know. But he’s not a threat to Charlie anymore. And the way I look at it, if I’m his agent, then I can be sure to show him only the appropriate properties—not the historical ones that Charlie’s meant to protect.”
“Is that like a Trojan horse thing?” I asked. “You’ll be on the inside?”
“Sure. Except I’m not planning to take him down,” she said. “He’s switched gears. He’s trying to rehab his image.”
“I get it. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of sabotage this week,” I joked.
“Hey.” Abigail playfully shoved my shoulder, and I rocked back, elbowing the middle tier of the wedding cake. The cake wobbled, and Abigail yelped.
I lunged forward to catch the middle tier. My fingers sank through the buttercream to the Styrofoam beneath, and I caught the cake before it toppled off the counter. We shared one of those I-can’t-believe-that-just-happened looks.
“Oh, my God, Sophie. I did it again!” she said, looking genuinely dismayed at her next bout of sabotage.
A little giggle slipped through my lips, and Abigail groaned—then began to laugh. I wiped the frosting off my elbow and did my best to smooth the dimples in the cake. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing a bit of buttercream won’t fix.” I looked at the stand mixer and added a couple extra sticks of butter. I might need more if Abigail stuck around any longer.
“Abigail! I need you!” Blair shrilled from a distance.
“Think I can hide behind the cake?” Abigail asked.
“I think you should step away from the cake now,” I said, leading her off to the side as we both giggled. Blair called for her again.
Abigail rolled her eyes. “I guess I'd better go see what’s going on. Will you be here for the ceremony? ”
“Of course! How could I not stay for part two? I just need to duck back to the café to help with the lunch rush, and then I’ll be back here in time to see the vows.”
“I’ll see you later then.”
I watched Abigail walk off, then glanced at my watch. I needed to hurry. I finished the buttercream, taste-tested it (obviously), then got to work icing the bottom layers. Then I piped the borders and moved the top tiers of real cake back onto the bottom two fake ones.
When I got married, I’d have real cake all the way through. And I wouldn’t live stream my wedding to anyone. It would be intimate and small, and exactly how I wanted it.
Yeah, right , my mind scoffed. You’ll be able to magically stand up to the family’s expectations?
I huffed and refocused on the icing. With one last swirl of fresh buttercream to hide the cake boards holding up the top tiers, I was done.
Time to get back to work.
As I packed up and made my way through the back door toward the parking lot, I saw a man striding toward the vines in the distance, broad and tall and tanned. His soft blond hair had a little waviness through it, and his teeth were pearly-white and perfect, just like the rest of him.
On the outside.
Theo Sinclair. The man who’d tried to destroy Charlie’s beloved home. I scowled at the sight of him, then scurried to my car. Abigail might be willing to entertain him, but I wasn’t. I’d be staying away from Theo Sinclair if it was the last thing I did.