Her Sweet Cake

1. Trudy

CHAPTER 1

Trudy

I sigh.

Well, this has been pretty anti-climactic as far as Valentine’s Days go.

I mean, sure, like everybody else in the world, I’ve had ‘em worse, but I’ve never felt as disappointed as I do right now.

I’ve also never had someone like Jordan in my life before —or kind of around my life, to be precise—, so that could explain this feeling of hollowness in my heart right now.

Days and nights spent fantasizing about him showing up on Valentine's Day and asking me out or something, and then, today, nothing happened.

Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

Could I have misunderstood the situation to this point? All that buildup, all that tension between us, and then just adios, thank you, ma’am, without the wham-bam part that usually should go before it?

All those sparks for weeks and then zero fireworks?

Damn.

And there I was, so sure that something was brewing between us.

Not that I’m usually cocky that way or anything, especially not when it comes to men, but a girl can hope and dream, especially if given good reason, right?

Only, maybe I should have kept in mind that the fact that you can hope and dream doesn’t mean you should.

Heck, I should have learned that lesson a long time ago…

Challenge me to leave you open-mouthed with a sinfully good cupcake, and I can get all smug for real, but with guys?!

Not so much. It may be because I don’t have much experience or perhaps — just perhaps— because my ex cheated on me, and only recently, I’ve started to feel like myself again.

Still with Jordan, every conversation —albeit short—, every glance and every smile exchanged made me feel like, for once, I was really acing the whole flirting thing, but then, today, he was a no-show.

If a guy comes to your bakery for two weeks straight every freaking day, and then the first time he misses, it happens on Valentine's Day, you can be sure that the only things he’s interested in are your cookies.

It’s definitely a subtle message, right?

A polite way to tell you not to expect anything from them, that they’re not that into you…

Because if he liked you… if he really li?—

“Trudy? Are you listening to me?”

I turn around to face my assistant-baker, Kayla, dropping the rag that I was supposed to be using to clean up the counter and was instead kind of holding in midair, probably looking like an idiot in the process. “Uh? Sorry… what were you saying, K?”

“The leftovers, boss: the little heart-shaped cookies and also the teddy bears and Cupids. What do you want to do with them?”

“We could dowse them in propane and set them on fire right now,” I deadpan.

I sigh. I so don’t want to think about cute little lovey-dovey cookies right now.

She gives me a long, silent look and goes back to business. “It’s not like there are many left… but we could discount them so they don’t spoil? Sell them all by tomorrow…”

I nod. “I can see that: we could add a little gore here and there, sell them to those who had a depressing Valentine's Day.”

Kayla’s eyebrows arch up her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean, make them all Halloweeny and stuff: severed Cupid’s heads spiked on little bloodied arrows for starter; I’m sure there are hundreds of thousands of people out there that would love to have that little shit's head on a platter. We could give a makeover to the teddy bears, too. Make them badass: white icing around their mouths to make them look rabid, blood on their claws… I'm sure that by the end of the day, we'll have sold all those babies and probably have several outstanding orders to fill."

“And what about the heart-shaped cookies?”

I glare at her. “You don’t wanna know.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “O-kay, and then, when we’re all done with the creepy baking, we can invite Dario Argento and Wes Craven to take tea with us… you know, ask them if they want to sponsor you and all that. Oh, and let’s not forget Stephen King, we can’t have a Masters Of Horror’s cookie-tasting without him, right?”

I give her the stink-eye. "Tone down the sarcasm, will you?! Also, I think Craven is dead. We'll discount the stupid frilly cookies starting tomorrow like you said. Hopefully, we'll be rid of them by the time we close."

She laughs. “Maybe you should have picked a different name for this bakery…”

I groan. I love my little bakery, and the name is perfect; I refuse — refuse! — to let a man take away from that perfection just because I’m a gullible, clueless, deluded dreamer who thought she felt a spark and a certain hunk with a sweet tooth happens to be an ass instead.

Uh, all right: he’s not an ass, he just like my cakes more than me, that’s all.

Nothing wrong with that. Nothing.

Kayla looks at me like she wants to ask me something, and I really hope she doesn’t.

Thankfully, she changes the subject. “So, for those vanilla cookies that we were talking about. What do you say we also add white chocolate chips to them?”

I smile at her, picking up the rag again. "Sounds great. We could flavor a batch with dried lavender or maybe rose water... make them a bit unusual."

Her face lights up. “Perfect, and we could frost them accordingly, do a little color scheming…”

I nod to myself, pick up my tablet, and jot down a few notes. “Light purple icing for the lavender ones, pink for those with rose water… cream piping in light yellow for the plain vanilla ones.”

“Awesome. We can test them for the next couple of days on a few selected customers and see what they think since they’ll taste a bit unconventional.”

"Yeah…" I sigh. And I know precisely the one selected customer on which I would like to test my cookies and… other things , too.

I’m kind of bummed, but it’s hard denying how I feel about him, even if he has no romantic inclinations toward me.

I stare in the distance, feeling myself flush, my heart picking up its pace while visions of him dance before my eyes.

I hear Kayla’s laughing. “You’re getting that face again, Trudy.”

I shake myself, focusing again on cleaning up and getting ready to close for the day. “What face?”

She gives me a knowing look, her dark eyes glinting behind her big round glasses. “The one you get when Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome walks in every day. You know what I’m talking about, Miss Arizona: pink hearts in your eyes, complexion alarmingly red, slacked-jaw…”

“Gee, that’s a pretty picture, thank you very much.” I mock-glower at her, but I can’t blame her for teasing me. I know I probably look ridiculous almost ninety-five percent of the time nowadays whenever the aforementioned hunk with the panty-melting sky-blue eyes and the fastest metabolism that could be is either in my bakery or anywhere near my head —I’ve timed myself: it’s that bad.

“Alright, I’m going to head out if you don’t need me anymore. I still have to pick up the kids from my mom.”

“Sure, go ahead before it starts snowing again. I’ll be right behind you.”

“See you tomorrow.” She picks up her bag and heavy jacket and waves at me.

“Bye,” I lock the door behind her and go back to my last-minute tidying.

I know that in a little town as quiet as Sylvan Creek, there’s probably no need to bolt the door since I’ll be leaving in ten minutes top, and it is barely dark outside, but old habits die hard, and I’m still a city girl at heart —pun intended.

I really like this place. It's everything Phoenix could never be and everything I was hoping for, and not just because some hunk in love with my cupcakes roams its snowy streets. It's more than that. I've been here barely three months, and I already feel more at home in this lovely small town than I ever have in any other place before.

I did a lot of bouncing around when I was little.

My mother died when I was a baby and left me nothing aside from a last name I’m pretty sure she invented herself: Heart.

She was a teenage runaway living under an assumed name, and to this day, I don’t know who she really was, where she came from, or how she ended up being in Arizona. She left the details relating to a possible father blank on the certificate when I was born. She got mixed up with the wrong crowd and drugs and died before I reached six months. I’ve been told she loved me very much by some of her old friends that I managed to track down, but she was barely able to take care of us, so after she was gone and until I was about a year old, my health wasn’t the best, and I was so malnourished there was no way I could leave the hospital.

Once I recovered, they put me in the system, but then I was never adopted, only placed in foster care.

I went from one foster family to the next, all the time hoping I would end up with real parents who could love me, but it never happened, and by the time I was finally officially adopted when I was about ten, I had almost lost hope. Susie, my adoptive mother, was this kind, middle-aged woman who loved baking just as much as she loved eating cakes, and she's the one I have to thank for helping me discover my passion.

Sadly, the ink on the adoption papers was not even dry when she passed away, so I was with her only for a year —a year I’ll treasure forever.

After that, I firmly moved back into the system and there I stayed until I turned eighteen.

I don’t like to talk much about that period of my life because every time I do, people shake their heads, sigh, and give me pitiful looks, but I know in many ways I had it easy, more so anyway than many of the other orphans I knew. I kept my nose clean, stayed out of trouble, and somehow was lucky enough to never end up in abusive homes, only cold, temporary ones, so I can’t complain.

I studied hard, worked odd jobs every chance I could, and with the help of a scholarship, I managed to put myself through a well-known culinary school, always cherishing the dream of someday owning my own bakery.

After graduating, I started working in this beautiful little restaurant in Phoenix under an amazing pastry chef who taught me all the stuff no amount of schooling could ever have. Then, three years ago, he surprised me because when he retired, he talked the owner into giving me his job and made me a very happy girl because there’s nothing I love more than baking, aside from eating everything I bake, that is. My love of chocolate, ice cream, pastries, donuts, cupcakes, and, well… pretty much everything man-made that has sugar inside is the reason for my thick thighs and big, big curves, but I never regret a bite.

I saved everything I could while working in that restaurant, and I’ve been ready for some time to just dive into the business of bakery-owning, I probably would have set up shop already if it wasn’t for the objections —very loud objections— of Keith, my then fiancé.

My now good-for-nothing, lying, piece of shit ex-fiancé.

Before he put a ring on my finger, his complaints and arguments against my dream bakery were that I didn't have enough money, that I needed to research location more, and that, maybe, I should have spent yet another year developing my recipes.

After he put a ring on me —a ring that, with the benefit of hindsight, I can now safely surmise that for him was more like a freaking leash-and-muzzle combo than a simple piece of jewelry— he changed his tune. Suddenly, it wasn’t that I needed more time and more money to invest, no, it was more like that ‘it wouldn’t look good for the wife of a doctor –especially not one belonging to the Warren family– to own something as mundane as a stupid little bakery.’

And was crushing my dreams under his boot enough?

No.

Four months before the freaking wedding, I caught him cheating on me with this lettuce-worshipping stick-figured bimbo nurse.

Naturally, I was hurt, pissed, and… well, noisy about it because I only have three modes. Mode one is everything’s-okay-so-I’m-not-talking . Mode two is muttering-while-I-contemplate-murder . And then there’s my third mode and that is fucking loud, and boy, his parents did not like loud one bit.

I could have even played along and stopped the screaming. After kneeing the bastard in the balls, I could have simply walked away. Let it go. I could have cried myself to sleep for a combination of hurt at his betrayal and relief at the narrow escape from a life with such a snob, cheating prick. I could have.

I could say I even wanted to, but would his stupid, snooty family let me do it? No!

What, calling off the wedding?

‘Just’ for a ‘little affair’?

Was I crazy?

Didn’t I know who they were?

Why wasn’t I thinking about the scandal?

Why wasn’t I worried about the Warrens’ name being muddied?

Honestly, for people who dislike noise and commotion so much, there was no shutting them up, and no amount of yelling would persuade them to let me walk away from their cheating son in peace.

For them, I was supposed to plaster a smile on my face, go along with the wedding, mold myself into the role of the perfect little Stepford Wife, and look the other way while my husband slept around.

Oh, and since we were 'finally openly talking,' his mom pointed out there were also other minor requirements that I had to meet.

First, while it looked nice that they had ‘adopted me,’ the little miss nobody from the wrong side of town, I had to learn to be more cultured and proper.

Second, no more sass, and total class was to be my motto.

Third, I could work up until the wedding, but then I had to stay home, play the society lady, provide the required heir and the spare, and just forget about the 'silly bakery thing.'

And last but not least, my favorite of the bunch, couldn’t I do something to slim down a little?

According to his parents, I have such a pretty face, such pretty eyes, if only I could, oh, I don’t know, lose thirty pounds, it would be perfect, forty would be better even…

Uh.

I wish I could have a dollar for each time in my life I’ve heard those same words or a slightly different variation of them. I would be rich by now, or even better: I wish I could have a cupcake for each time that ‘well-meaning’ advice was given; maybe I’ll be even chubbier right now but a helluvalot happier.

And what was my asshole ex —the one who had barely recovered from the knee in the balls thing, the one who should have been on his freaking knees begging for mercy— doing while his parents spewed their shit?

He was freaking nodding along. Nodding along.

Whoa.

I had to give them a piece of my mind; I had to.

Could I have done it quietly?

Maybe.

But I didn’t want to, and that’s when they called me white trash. To. My. Face.

I mean, I know that they never liked me, but damn.

That was it for me.

No amount of cajoling from Keith —at that point, he realized how deep in shit he was, and he got around to begging— could change my mind.

I wasn’t just hurt; I was practically flabbergasted, and I had to call a halt to everything and get the hell away from all of them, and that’s exactly what I did.

I went back to our flat, gathered my things —maybe, just maybe, accidentally dropped a cup of steaming coffee on his computer— threw my clothes in a couple of suitcases, and then I got in my car.

Leaving Arizona behind felt like the only sane thing to do.

I was tired of everything and felt like I couldn't breathe there.

I was tired of the damned heat, the dryness of the air, the glaring sun, my job, my life, and, most of all, I was tired of Keith; tired of his lies, tired of his stupid, stuffy, class-conscious family always looking down on me, making me feel like I wasn't good enough to date their precious doctor son let alone marry him unless they could first turn me into a completely different person.

As I sat behind the steering wheel, vision too blurred by tears and hands shaking, I realized aside from the possibility of a life with him, a life full of lies and misery, there was nothing in Phoenix for me, no friends, no family, no love and no future.

Bouncing around between foster families meant changing schools often, so I never got around to making any friends, and then, in college, I was too busy working two part-time jobs and studying to socialize. Then I met Keith two years ago, and he kind of hijacked my life, so there was literally nothing but painful memories there for me. There was just one thing that had always given me joy and hope: the idea that I had been stuck on since I was ten.

Opening my bakery.

Suddenly, I added another segment to that dream: open my dream bakery somewhere else . Not because I needed to run away but just because I needed to be somewhere I could call home, somewhere new, a place where I could start fresh.

The word 'fresh' really got me thinking about how I wanted out of the desert and the constant heat. I wanted to be somewhere cool, cold even, where you could see the snow and breathe crisp air.

I wanted a place totally different from Arizona, with lots of verdant nature all around, far enough from there but not so far that I couldn't go with my car, so I thought of Colorado.

I don’t know why; it just popped into my head; maybe it was fate.

I drove through the night for almost fourteen hours straight and didn’t stop until I reached Denver.

I stayed there for a few days and, initially, I was thinking about moving there, but I felt like living somewhere smaller could offer me a better chance at the kind of different, simpler life I was looking for. I decided to explore a little around Denver before settling down, get my bearings, and see if there was a town somewhere in the surroundings that spoke to me. I figured that spending a few hours a day getting in touch with nature —something abundantly available here in Colorado— could give me all the time I needed to heal from Keith's betrayal. Then I found Sylvan Creek, and it was just too pretty for words. I immediately fell in love with the place.

It felt just… right .

Like I had finally found my one true home.

The beautiful little town is nestled in the Rocky Mountains, surrounded by lush green forests, streams, and blue skies as far as the eye can see, and it just felt like I could finally breathe again.

Snow, peace, calm, and happy trepidation fell on me like a fuzzy blanket, and once I got here the first time over three months ago, I never looked back and did everything I could to move permanently as soon as possible.

Years and years ago, Sylvan Creek was a little silver-mining town, and now its economy relies primarily on tourists that come year-round, and I just knew it would be the perfect place to settle down and open my bakery.

As soon as I persuaded myself that it was a good idea, the perfect name materialized in my brain: Cupid’s Cupcake.

Not only because baking is my first love, my passion, but also because I wanted something, something concrete to symbolize the fact that no matter Keith's actions and no matter the tears I was still crying then, I still could believe in love, he didn't take that away from me. I would take my smile back as soon as I was strong enough.

Huh, the bitter irony!

The one thing I had not counted on was falling for someone this hard, this fast, and, it seems, this one-sidedly, that could make me loathe Cupid and everything he stands for in the span of two weeks.

Still, mysterious hunks and their weird behaviors notwithstanding, coming here was hands down the best choice I’ve ever made in my life, even if it was a spur-of-the-moment, impulsive decision, and I can’t say I was exactly in my right mind when I resolved to leave Phoenix and all the lies and the pain behind.

I know one should never make life-altering decisions when greatly upset because it can be dicey. I've read you shouldn't even consider something as basic as a haircut or a change of color when overwhelmed by things outside of your control because, in the end, when you calm down, you have to live with every thoughtless alteration you made. But I guess I was lucky for once. Sure, I was so pissed I could not see straight when I kicked my fiancé to the curb and quit my job. Heck, I'm pretty sure steam was still coming out of my ears when I threw my belongings in the back of my beat-up car —these days held together more by sheer bravado and prayers than actual bolts and screws—, worn tires skittering away from Phoenix, but even if the last of my rage has long fizzled out of me by now, I've yet to bemoan the decision I made. I don't think I ever will.

There was nothing left for me in Arizona apart from tears and bullshit I was tired of dealing with, but here in Sylvan Creek, I really feel like my life has just started.

I'm finally living my dream: no more stupid procrastination and taking into consideration the opinions of people who don't believe in me and only want to drag me down.

I had to use all my savings, sell my car, and ask for a small loan in order to secure a prime spot for my bakery —I finally own a bakery! — and make sure it took off, and I’ve been working sixteen hours per day for the last two months straight so that Cupid’s Cupcake could really have a shot, and two weeks into the business, I can say that maybe, just maybe, I’m going to make it, and I’ve never been this happy in my life.

I've made a couple of friends already, found me a fantastic assistant baker in Kayla, and a month ago, I finally left the depressing motel room I was renting and moved into this tiny but super-cute, one-bedroom house a stone's throw away from my bakery. After twenty-six years of feeling alone and like I don't belong, it really seems that I've found my place in this tight-knit community.

Oh, at first, they were wary of me: the city girl moving into their territory to open up shop, but once I befriended Kayla and after my thousandth cupcake was baked and thoroughly enjoyed by the denizens, they started to warm up to me.

In short, things are going great, and I have a good and steady stream of customers passing through my little bakery every day, all clamoring for my pastries and cakes. The only thing that it’s not going as planned is the way my heart flutters and butterflies start throwing freaking rave parties in my belly every time my hunk with a sweet tooth strides into my shop.

And damn: Arizona might as well have been Alaska, judging by the number of hot flashes I’ve had here in Colorado since meeting him.

Early thirty, epitome of tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous, about six-feet-four of lean, sexy muscles, a face like sin, a smirk that could —and probably does— burn off panties left, right and center, impossibly deep eyes fringed by thick eyelashes I would kill for, a mop of messy brown cropped hair and a long yet perfectly trimmed beard that makes me dream up blush-worthy, naughty things.

Jordan Arrow.

Even his name sounds hot to me —the arrow through my heart, again, stupid irony— and he doesn’t want me.

He is the one thing I didn’t plan on finding in Sylvan Creek.

He has been coming every day to my bakery to grab something sweet since my grand opening two weeks ago, and it seems he has made it his life mission to make me crazy about him. We have chatted, I’ve done my fair share of eye-fucking, and yet, until two days ago, I didn’t even know his first name because I lacked the courage to ask him, and it took me an embarrassing amount of babbling to get the words out.

He turns me into a teenaged little girl.

How pathetic is that?

I still can see in my head the first time I spotted him, clear as day.

Me, behind the counter, boxing a to-go cake, and this super handsome, muscular hulk of a man speaking on the phone, standing straight just outside my bakery with a commanding air about him and a frown on his face. He looked mightily pissed and impossibly hot, and I smiled to myself, thinking that whatever his problem was, it probably was nothing one of my cupcakes couldn't cure if only he would step inside.

As those words popped into my head, he ended the call, actually walked into my bakery, and took my breath away.

For a moment, before I made myself think reasonably, I felt like I could see my entire future in his eyes as he intently looked at me, and then he opened his mouth and talked with that sexy, low timbre of his, so scratchy and deep, and made things about a hundred time worse.

And now, even though I barely know his name, I already feel like my entire life could burn and crumble like over-baked shortbread if I don’t have the chance to look into his entrancing eyes every day, but he’s way out of my league, and apart from being clearly addicted to my cupcakes, he is entirely immune to any charm I might claim to have.

Damn.

And even worse, maybe I was so blatant in my flirting —I suck at it, apparently— that he realized I liked him and decided not to get his dose of saccharine today to avoid humiliating me by rebuffing me on the most romantic day of the year.

Double damn.

I wish I could make myself not want him.

I really don’t need this.

A part of my brain tells me he is the right man at the worst possible time, while another part of it is telling me that I'm totally nuts for feeling this way about a guy I've only known for two weeks — and I'm stretching the verb 'know' here.

Every day, we exchange a few words when he comes in before he walks out with the frosting of one of my cupcakes on his tongue, and every day, I flirt with him in a way I didn’t even know I could fake in front of a mirror, let alone implement on a real man —and he is just that. A real man, big, strong, bearded and too sexy for words. In every one of his looks there was a fire, an intensity that deluded me into thinking he would happily eat me up instead of any of the delicate sweet morsels I have on display, but maybe I read too much into his body language and stares.

Every day I was in his presence, I itched to get closer to him and felt myself burning a little hotter for him, but now I know I’ve been kidding myself.

I have to keep in mind that he’s just a hot customer who likes my baking and nothing more. A stranger, and clearly a very wealthy man —and I’m so done with them, thankyouverymuch .

Not that it matters since whatever this is, I’m the only one feeling it.

I should focus on my bakery and nothing else.

These first months are too important, and I’ve worked too hard for this to screw it up.

I shouldn’t allow a man, any man, to distract me from my goal, but it doesn’t feel like he’s any man, and that makes him even more dangerous to my peace of mind.

Jordan Arrow —who I refused to Google, not that it matters anymore because today Kayla spilled the beans anyway and told me he’s a freaking billionaire— should be the last thing on my mind.

What would I even do with a billionaire?

Even if he liked me —which is not the case because if he liked me, he would have done something about it, after all, it’s been two weeks, right?—, we’re too different, and I’ve tried that already.

If I could not fit in Keith’s family, Keith, who is dirt poor compared to the CEO of Arrow Tech, whatever that is, I can’t see how I could mesh with Jordan and how I could be in his life.

Ugh. I shouldn't even waste my time thinking these stupid thoughts. I'm sure I'm nowhere on his radar –unless you count me as a cupcake-pusher; the guy really enjoys a good sugar rush almost as much as I do.

He must work out very hard to burn all the calories he's getting from my sweets off his sexy, muscled body.

He’s so yummy that I would be more than happy to help him work them off in a different way.

I shake my head.

Get a grip, Trudy.

Not happening.

But I can still at least enjoy the view and look forward to seeing him again, right?

Because that’s totally harmless, right?

I thump my head on the counter.

I’m such a liar.

The harm has been done already: I’m half gone for this man as it is.

Two weeks, only a few short conversations —okay, a lot of short conversations: the man really likes my cookies and sometimes stops by even more than once per day—, and his smiles and I'm all mushy inside already.

Damn, those smiles…

And that deep, husky voice.

And those eyes.

And that beard.

That beard that I so want to lick…

And why, oh why, does he have to smell that good on top of everything else?

All manly and stuff.

Whatever cologne he’s using should be outlawed right this instant.

Ugh, but then I would totally miss his scent and buy it on the freaking black market for him and face jail.

Not that I wouldn’t happily do a stint behind bars for it: the damn perfume is simply that mouthwatering on him.

I feel myself flush, and I shake my head as if to clear it —not that any amount of shaking could really make him slip away from my thoughts. I pull on my super-bulky, pale pink bomber jacket and grab my purse and keys, ready to close up shop and head home; where a hot shower, fuzzy PJs, hopefully, a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and a tube of Chunky Monkey —okay, two tubes is more likely, I'm too depressed to stop at one— await me, along with too many thoughts of this man. This one giant, stupid, sexy hunk who managed to ruin even more an already ruinous Valentine's Day and has turned me into an even whinier version of Bridget Jones bemoaning singledom.

Well, I still cook better than her, so there’s that, at least.