7. Cake Catastrophe
7
CAKE CATASTROPHE
DAISY
I hover outside Hawthorne Heritage Room, pressing my ear against the door in a futile attempt to catch any whispers from within. Charles’ stoic bodyguards show no reaction as I awkwardly drop to all fours, trying to catch a glimpse through the small gap at the bottom of the door.
We all know today is freaking important.
“Daisy? I knew I’d find you here.”
No, God no. Not today and definitely not right now.
“You can’t pretend to not hear me, Daze.”
My arms feel like they’re carrying a ton of bricks as I try to rise up. I’m still kneeling when I face Jax, and I immediately cringe, coming face-to-face with his belt buckle. All his texts from the past days fill my head, making me want to retch.
His lips curl on one side, letting me know he’s thinking the same thing. How did I never notice before that Jax resembles a character from a zombie movie when he smiles like that?
I straighten up, taking a step closer to him. He needs to leave, and fast.
“Jax, I’m working. You need to go.”
He responds with a deep chuckle. “Not happening. We need to talk, and I’m not budging until we do. Who answered my call that day, anyway? Did you hook up with someone in our off time, my bad girl?”
Was I seriously with this man all these years?
“Jax, this is not the time for this!”
“Was it the guy from your office reception? Or the coffee machine repairman? I’ve seen how they look at you.”
He doesn’t even consider it could be my boss, the person I’m closest to at work.
But shouldn’t I be relieved? Isn’t it a good thing he doesn’t suspect Charles?
My thoughts whirl like a blender at full speed. Dad, Charles, and now Jax.
“I’m not having this conversation here, Jax. Actually, I’m not having it at all.” I pull on Jax’s arms, but he remains stubbornly in place.
“Do you need some assistance, Daisy?” Steve takes a step closer to us.
“Assistance?” Jax’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. “What are you going to do? Drag me away? This is a public place, dude.”
“Jax!” My teeth grind together. “Don’t cause a scene here.” This time, when I pull on his arm, he surprisingly relents. I continue until we reach the entrance of the building. “You and I are finished.”
“Like hell we are. I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” I scoff, though my heart aches with pain and anxiety. “Which part was a mistake? Letting someone give you a blow job or being too lazy to find a discreet spot instead of the office coffee corner?”
“Daisy, you don’t get it. You were working nonstop those days. You had no time for me, and I needed someone.” Jax’s words sear like acid through my ears.
“How dare you try to pin this on me?” I hiss.
“I’m not putting all the blame on you, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. You were never around, and Marcy reminded me so much of you when we first met.”
“Are you kidding me? Do you honestly think that makes it any better? You need to go, Jax, and I never want to see you again—”
My words are cut off as I’m blindsided by a door from the right, sending me careening into a massive three-tier cake. I hit the ground, bringing the cake down with me, until I’m left sprawled on the floor, covered head to toe in icing. My hair, face, and the purple silk top I bought just for today are all coated in the sticky mess.
I feel a prickling sensation behind my eyes, the tears threatening to spill over.
God, why are you being so cruel today? What have I done to deserve this punishment?
Instead of offering me a hand, Jax stands there looking at me as if I’ve committed the biggest crime of the century. “Dammit, Daisy. What the hell did you do? You wrecked the poor guy’s hours of hard work in an instant.”
“I…I’m sorry.” My throat tightens as I struggle to rise, the buttercream frosting making it difficult. Thankfully, my skirt is long enough to spare me from flashing anyone as I try to find my footing, feeling like a newborn baby goat.
“My chef will kill me!” The young server snaps out of his shock and dashes back through the door he came out of.
I grapple to rise up unsuccessfully, while Jax is fully immersed in conversation with the man who threw the door open carelessly, without bothering to check if anyone was standing on the other side. My ex, of course, has lots to say about how clumsy I am.
Right now, I want to hurl all this icing on him.
Did he really come here to patch things up between us?
“Let me help you, Daisy.” Like a gentleman, Steve extends a hand, pulling me up. “Mr. Hawthorne has reserved a room for himself. There’s a bathroom in there.” He hands me the key card, gesturing to the right.
“Thanks, Steve. Could you please also make sure that this man is no longer here?” I nod toward Jax, who finally pays me some attention.
“You got it!”
As I exit, I catch a proud smile on the bodyguard’s lips. Jax calls after me, but I tune him out. I was afraid he’d make a scene, but nothing could top what just happened.
I quickly locate the bathroom upon entering Charles’ lounge. Glancing in the mirror, I realize I look even sillier than I imagined. Pink glittery frosting clings to my forehead and the left side of my cheek.
I run my tongue over my lip, and a groan leaves my mouth as the delicious buttery cream dances on my palate.
So, so delicious.
I feel bad for the baker and her hard work, and all the people who will miss out on this slice of heaven.
After shedding my icing-covered shirt and skirt, I hastily text Willow.
Me: How quickly can you get to the town hall?
Willow: How soon do you need me?
Me: I’d have preferred if you were already here. But I’ll manage if you can make it within the next fifteen minutes.
Willow: You got it. Anything else?
Me: Yes, please bring me a change of clothes.
Willow: What are you doing naked in the town hall?
Me: I’m not naked. I got caught in a cake catastrophe—a door slammed me into a cake. Now I’m covered head to toe in icing.
Willow: Yikes! I feel for the baker.
Me: Me too. I’ll apologize once I’m properly dressed.
Willow: Where are you now?
Me: I’m in Charles’ lounge while he’s at the interview. I should have been in that room with him an hour ago!
Willow: Got it. I’m wrapping up a shoot. Will be there soon.
Me: You’re a lifesaver, Wills.
After resolving my clothing crisis, I rush into the shower to scrub away the clinging cream frosting from my hair and face. I step out from the glass door, then slip into my undergarments and immediately realize there’s no bathrobe and the only towel isn’t big enough to be wrapped around a human body.
They probably weren’t expecting a cake catastrophe like yours, Daze.
When I return to the room, my gaze lands on Charles’ laptop bag on the coffee table. In the middle of a white table runner are two water bottles symmetrically placed. The half-visible water ring clearly indicates that the flower vase has been recently adjusted to be at an equal distance from the two glass bottles.
Oh, Charles. You and your OCD tendencies. How are you holding up in that room?
The thought brings up a fresh wave of anxiety, prompting me to grab my phone.
Me: Everything okay in there?
Jimmy: Thank goodness you’re here. Your boss is about to lose it at any second.
Me: What? Why?
Jimmy: Just join us and see for yourself.
Me: I can’t. I’m in Charles’ lounge. I’ll explain later, but I can’t step out of here.
Jimmy: Dammit! Then I’ll have to wrap up this interview.
Me: Why? Don’t we have half an hour more?
Jimmy: Trust me, the media won’t survive. Charles Hawthorne is on the verge of exploding.
Me: I don’t get it.
A second later, my phone rings, with Jimmy’s name flashing on the screen. I pick up and hear an unfamiliar voice.
“Mr. Hawthorne, what about your personal life? We’ve spent the last hour discussing your plans for the town’s future, and we believe in your vision. But people want to know more about you , the real Charles, the man behind the future leader of Hawthorne Empire.”
“Being a Hawthorne is who I am. Since I can remember, I’ve known I’d be leading the family business someday. Every decision I made, from my studies to my university choice, was geared toward leading the company, growing Cherrywood, and serving my legacy.”
Silence stretches in the room before a female reporter says, “Everyone in this town admires your dedication, but this is the first time we’ve had direct access to you. I hope you understand our curiosity about the real Charles Hawthorne.” Her voice dips low, invoking an irritated vein in my temple.
“I don’t think even I know everything about myself, so I’m afraid I can’t share.” Charles’ serious and clipped response is met with her giggles.
Seriously, woman. Get your hormones in control! You’re exhibiting unprofessionalism of the highest order!
“Okay, then give us something,” she probes further. “What does Charles do to destress?”
Easy. Organizing stuff to precision.
My chuckle stops short when Charles replies, “Aikido.”
What the heck?
Keeping the phone on speaker, I quickly search Aikido on the internet. As opposed to my thinking that it might be some sort of computer game where you get badges and money for cleaning, images of people in martial arts uniforms—white kimono-style gis and black loose-fitted hakamas—fill my screen.
“Wow! That’s completely unexpected.” The woman’s surprise is genuine, and my initial annoyance toward her subsides.
She’s definitely onto something. After all, in the past four years, I had no idea how my neat-freak boss spent his free time.
As if everyone in the room shares my feelings, no one interrupts her when she asks, “What is the most important thing in Charles’ life?”
Work and Hawthorne Holdings, of course.
“My family,” Charles replies instead.
0 for 2. Do you even know your boss, Daisy?
“What is Charles looking forward to the most right now?” the rapid fire continues.
This interview being over.
“Getting out of this room, preferably within the next second.”
Finally! 1 for 3.
The interviewer giggles once again, drowning my own chuckles. She genuinely sounds fun and competent. If there was a romance movie about a hot billionaire and a sexy reporter falling in love during an interview, I’d definitely watch it. But somehow imagining the same situation with my boss doesn’t leave me with happy feelings.
“We all love seeing this secret funny side of your personality, Charles,” the interviewer remarks.
“He’s not being funny, lady,” I mumble to myself, flopping flat on the couch. “Plus, it’s Mr. Hawthorne.” With the phone resting on my chest, Charles’ voice rumbles against my heart.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
2 for 4.
Even my inner voice has lost its excitement, and I’ll never admit it out loud, but right now I share Charles’ abhorrence toward the media and reporters.
“I meant, what’s Charles Hawthorne looking forward to the most in the near future?”
Becoming the CEO of Hawthorne Holdings.
I’m one hundred percent sure that’s the only thing on his mind these days.
“Visiting my sister at the end of the year. Since she’s in France, I spend every Christmas with my family here and every New Year’s Eve with her.”
“What?” I jump in place. How did I not know this?
Because your boss gives you a break once a year, and you’d rather worry about your own fun than wonder what he’s up to. You wouldn’t even think about him if there was a chance your thoughts would call to him and remind him that he has an assistant he can boss around.
“That’s really sweet of you. Speaking of your sister, it’s been years since Chloe Hawthorne has set foot in Cherrywood. The whole town is dying to see our local heiress in person. She’s certainly taken Europe’s fashion industry by storm.”
“I’ll give you anything if you can motivate her to come back,” Charles says in his no-nonsense voice.
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne, that’s a risky thing to say in front of a camera. In case you don’t know, there are many people in this town who would take this challenge seriously, including me.” The reporter giggles, but Charles responds with a light clearing of his throat.
“On that note, we can close the interview.”
“Oh no! You’ve just started telling us the good stuff. You have to give us something more. Please, Charles, we insist.”
There’s a collective hum of other reporters.
I can imagine Charles biting the inside of his cheek before he says, “I’ll give you one more question.”
“One? No! At least three, please.”
“One is my final offer. You can take it or I can leave.”
“You’re a tough businessman, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Believe me, I don’t feel like one right now.”
“So since this is the last question, I have to be very careful. Does Charles Hawthorne have a special woman in his life?”
My grip around the phone tightens and I sit straight. I’m one hundred percent expecting a “Not at all,” but still, this is the first time someone has asked this question to Charles directly.
“Yes, I do. And thank you so much, everyone, for coming here.” Charles’ words are drowned out by the loud gasps.
Holy freaking hell!
Before I can process Charles’ bombshell declaration, my phone pings with an incoming text.
Willow: I’m here.
Thank goodness.
I end Jimmy’s call right when there’s a knock on the door. I rush to the door and swing it open.
“I love you the most.”
I’m about to throw my arms around Willow, only to realize it’s not her.
No, it’s my boss on the other side, with an unreadable expression on his face. I’m held in stunned captivity under Charles’ penetrating gaze. Moments roll into one another until I’m blinded by the flashing lights of a camera, reminding me that I’m just in my undergarments. Cold sweeps over me as more cameras whir, and finally Charles steps forward. He shields me from the intrusive lenses before guiding us back into the room and closing the door behind us.
“Daisy? What the fuck are you doing here?” His brows furrow and stay on my face for another second before his gaze slides lower.
Heat blooms in my stomach, spreading like wildfire across my skin under his weighty scrutiny.
“Where are your clothes?” His usually composed voice is nothing but a growl right now.
“I…had an accident,” I stammer.
Charles’ hands grip my shoulders, their warmth searing into my bare skin. Despite the heat, a shiver runs down my spine.
He’s worried about me?
“With a cake,” I quickly add.
“You were hit by a cake?” His jaw tightens, a flicker of emotion breaking through his indifferent expression, and the next instant, he withdraws his hands and removes his jacket before handing it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, slipping it on and inhaling the scent of pine and tobacco that envelops me.
“So what happened?”
“I was hit by a door, which sent me crashing into a cake.”
I wait for him to scream at me any second. This would definitely be a first time, but I’ve never ever fucked up like this before. As his assistant, I should have been at the town hall hours before anyone. I wasn’t just late, but I also ended up in his room in my underwear. I messed up big-time and would completely understand if he fired me right now. But instead of reprimanding me, he surprises me once again.
“Are you hurt?”
A lump forms in my throat at his soft foreign concern. I shake my head, both in reply to his question and as a reminder to my own erratic heartbeat to settle down. This unfamiliar caring version of Charles is giving my poor heart tiny jerks, as if alerting of an imminent heart attack.
“I thought you were Willow. She’s bringing me a change of clothes.”
Before he can say anything, there’s a knock on the door. I take a hesitant step forward, then glance back at Charles to find his gaze fixed on me. I used to think I’ve learned to read his every expression, but the way he looks at me today is completely alien.
“I’ll get it,” he says finally, striding away to answer the door.
“Someone’s here for Miss Price, sir,” Steve’s voice rings out from behind the door.
“It’s alright. You can send her in.”
A second later, Willow breezes past Charles as he holds the door.
I rush to her. “What took you so long? You said you were here like ten minutes ago.”
“It hasn’t been ten minutes, Daze. Plus, I was at the light when I said I was almost here.”
She never mentioned “ almost. ”
Willow hands me a shopping bag from one of the fancy shops outside of town, and I slip into the bathroom.
The soft fabric of the white silk dress glides over my skin like butter. When it finally hits my legs, I realize it’s much longer than I expected. Not quite floor length, but close. I open the door to ask my friend why she brought what feels like an elegant wedding dress.
“Hello, Mr. Hawthorne,” I hear Willow’s sultry voice—the one that used to make the boys in school squirm and follow her like lovestruck puppies.
A foreign uneasiness settles in me as I watch my friend grin at my boss, who, as usual, couldn’t appear more bored. Willow is beautiful in every way. Unlike my unruly hair, which often looks like I’ve just been electrocuted, her long, silky red strands are pulled up in her usual bun. She’s wearing a black crop top paired with frayed jeans. Even in sneakers, she reaches Charles’ shoulders; unlike me, who looks like a dwarf even with suicidal four-inch heels.
“Miss Pershing, I hope you’re doing well?”
“I’m always well. I was doing a wedding shoot for a newlywed couple who got married at my family’s inn. Speaking of weddings, when are we seeing yours? The whole town is dying to meet the next Mrs. Hawthorne, even though no one has any idea what you really like in a woman.”
I can almost picture the way her tongue hits her upper lip when she emphasizes the word like .
“Willow, did you bring me the bride’s wedding gown?” My voice is accusatory without trying as I step back into the room.
“Of course not. It was the dress she wore to the venue before getting ready. You are just so tiny, Daze.” My friend shrugs before walking over to me. “But it does look like a wedding gown on you.”
All the playfulness disappears from her face as she walks closer and fixes the strap hanging from my shoulder. “But as your future bridesmaid, I’d kill anyone who suggests a boat neckline for you. No, we need a plunging sweetheart or a Queen Anne neckline. You need to flaunt these girls.” Her eyebrows dance as she nods toward my boobs.
“My girls thank you for the compliment.” I smile. Over the years, I’ve grown to love my body. It might not be perfect, but I find it beautiful. And whoever doesn’t, including Jax, who tried to make me eat kale salad once a week, can go to hell.
A throat clears, slicing through our laughter. “You remember I’m here, right?”
Holy crap.
Willow and I turn to face him, and is it my imagination, or did he really, for a fleeting fraction of a second, stare at my chest?
I can’t miss the fluttering sensation in my stomach, a mix of foreign nerves and excitement.
“I’m sure what you’re discussing is extremely important , but I’d rather leave this place fast. Miss Pershing, can we drop you somewhere?”
“No.” Willow shakes her head. “My car is parked outside. I can’t wait to read your interview, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“I’ll return the dress to you tomorrow after getting it cleaned. Thank you so much once again, Wills.”
“Don’t worry, the couple is already on their way to their honeymoon in Hawaii. I’m sure clothes are the last thing on their mind.” She winks before sauntering out.
Once Willow leaves, Charles loosens his tie and lets out a deep breath. Perching on the couch, he pours himself a glass of water.
“You really don’t like people.” Even though my voice is free of accusation, the words sound strange. Charles’ gaze slants to me, but before I can apologize, he tips his head toward the room.
“It’s not just the people, but also the place.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s unfamiliar and unknown.”
A chuckle escapes me as his pout deepens the frown lines on his beautiful forehead.
“Life is nothing but an unknown, Charles. You can never guess what’s coming next.”
“But I can prepare for possible scenarios.”
“And what about enjoying the surprises?”
“Good for those who feel that way.” His lips twist as if he just tasted sour milk.
“Alright, Mr. I’m-Prepared-For-Everything , what’s going to happen next?”
Charles effortlessly fixes his tie in a single tug. “We’re leaving this place and forgetting about interviews for the next four years.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, boss”—my grin couldn’t be wider, especially when his irritated frown is back—“but you are one of the media puppets now. There’s no way they’ll let you off that easy.”
“I’m nobody’s puppet. I’m serious, Daisy. Let Jimmy know we are not doing this nonsense again. Once was more than enough.”