Chapter 7 Meet with the Cake Designer
? Meet with the Cake Designer
Turns out, adding another project to Jordan’s already busy schedule helps.
His days are all about the wedding. Creating design ideas. Running them past the vendors. Selecting the rental company. He has so many calls and texts with Amy and Sam, he basically knows their entire schedule plus what they had for lunch.
Two days later, a completed form arrives in his inbox.
He dedicates his evenings to helping her. Between grocery shopping and laundry, he writes emails. While on the treadmill, he does research. Within a week, they have a basic plan of attack. It’s invigorating. Energizing.
There’s barely a second to be stressed about anything.
Until his next scheduled meeting with Amy and Sam.
It’s cake day. The best day.
He arrives fifteen minutes early. Not because he needed time to prepare. Cake tasting is easy, fun. It’s because he couldn’t sleep last night. He couldn’t bench-press the nerves out of his system this morning either.
Jordan hasn’t seen the lovely couple in person since they picked a venue. Which means he hasn’t had to be around Jamie either.
He stands outside, cracking his knuckles, waiting for everyone to show up.
The bakery sits on a quiet block of Kirkwood, on the east side of Atlanta.
It’s wedged between a pottery shop and a pizzeria.
Jordan loves historic neighborhoods like this.
He loves that, outside the city’s mind-numbingly ridiculous traffic and noise, you can still find small pockets filled with hidden gems to get lost in.
Late June means Pride paraphernalia is everywhere.
LOVE IS LOVE stickers smacked on lampposts.
A rainbow-painted crosswalk. Colorful flags fluttering on the light breeze.
While most of the businesses are only doing it for the commercialization—something Denz has griped to him about on multiple occasions—Jordan’s been to this area enough times to know their support is authentic.
Year-round, the same ALL ARE WELCOME HERE signs can be found hanging in windows. There’s Drag Story Hour at the library. Queer trivia nights hosted by nearby bars. Diana Ross unironically blasting from a breakfast spot on Sunday mornings.
That “fuck your homophobic conservatism” energy the South desperately needs more of.
Jordan’s not sure where he fits in here. If he fits in. But that doesn’t stop this part of the city from being one of his favorites.
Sam and Amy are supposed to arrive in five minutes. In the meantime, Jordan stops in front of the pizzeria. Strung in the big glass windows are LGBTQ+ flags. He only recognizes a few. The six-colored Pride flag. Bisexual and Progressive Pride ones too.
Jordan decides to google the rest.
Pretty shades of red, pink, and orange for the lesbian flag. Pink, green, and blue for polysexuals. Light blue, pink, and white for transgender. The yellow intersex flag with a purple circle. Pink, yellow, and blue for pansexual.
Jamie’s flag, Jordan briefly thinks.
Two flags are black, gray, white, and purple, but in different patterns, next to a flag with varying shades of green, white, gray, and black.
Asexual. Demisexual. Aromantic.
There are more, but Jordan’s eyes lift just as Amy is rounding the corner. Like a teen caught looking at porn, he fumbles with his phone while closing out the Google tab. He approaches her with what he hopes is a nonchalant expression.
Amy’s glowing, backlit by the sun like an angel. Her floral-print midi dress sways with the breeze. A pair of designer shades sits on her head. She has two paper cups from a local coffee shop in her hands.
“Sorry we’re a little late,” she says by way of greeting.
Jordan smiles. “No worries.”
“It’s her fault, not mine!”
And that’s when Jordan sees him.
Jamie, in a V-neck so beautifully blue, the sky’s probably jealous. A matching shade of blue runs through his tartan pants. His hair’s rumpled, the way Jordan likes—er, is used to. In his hands are twin Styrofoam cups. He stops in front of Jordan, grinning.
“She had to pee.”
“I needed coffee,” Amy corrects, elbowing him.
As they bicker, Jordan notices it’s just them. He looks beyond Amy’s shoulder. No sight of Sloane—something Jordan wasn’t secretly preparing for—and no Sam either.
He clears his throat. “Is Sam still at the coffee shop?”
Amy’s attention snaps to him. She frowns. “He can’t make it. There’s … stuff going on with the film. His dad needs him.”
Something unsaid flashes behind her eyes. She blinks it away, pushing out a big smile.
“Sam trusts my judgment,” she adds. “So you get my superior taste buds today.” Again, she nudges Jamie hard. “Oh, and this guy’s mediocre ones too.”
“And—” This time, Jordan creeps onto his tiptoes to look past Jamie. “No … Sloane?”
Jamie’s eyebrows droop. “Why would she be here?”
“Well.” Jordan tugs the suddenly tight shirt collar away from his neck. “I mean, she came to the venue.”
“We had dinner plans. With Amy and Sam.”
Of course. A double date. The kind of thing you naturally do with your friends and the woman you’ve been on a “few dates” with.
“She’s not, like”—his struggle for words is peak sixteen-year-old Jordan asking Yazzie out—“in the wedding party? As, like, your…”
Amy snort-giggles. “No, no. Sloane’s not in the wedding party. She won’t be at any more of these meetings,” she assures. “Jamie’s the only non-McClintock, current or future, that’ll be around.”
“Perfect,” Jordan says under his breath, doing his best to grin his way through the embarrassment.
Jamie’s flexed mouth tells him he’s failing miserably.
Jordan needs something else to look at. His eyes drop to Jamie’s feet. “Are you wearing Crocs?”
Amy laughs again, bright and nasally.
Jamie says, indignantly, “I wasn’t aware there was a cake-tasting dress code.”
There isn’t. Jordan has on a striped linen polo shirt with simple navy trousers. Fine, each pant leg has a sharp crease in it. But this is technically still work. He’s not gonna be caught wearing shoes made from weird resin material.
At least, not in public.
“Wow,” Jamie says. “You’re actually shoe-shaming me right now.”
“I am not—”
“I expected this from Auntie Eva,” Jamie interrupts. “Maybe Nic. But not you, Jordan Carter. Never you. Betrayed on cake-tasting day.”
He pretends to look devastated.
Jordan crosses his arms, unimpressed. But the corners of his mouth twitch.
Amy leans between them. “Do you two need a moment? Should I leave?”
The back of Jordan’s neck prickles. No, he most certainly does not need a moment alone with Jamie.
“Nope, we’re done,” Jamie answers for them both. He thrusts one of his cups in Jordan’s direction. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“A smoothie.”
“We made a bet on which you’d prefer,” Amy inserts, also offering one of her cups to Jordan. “Toffee nut latte. You don’t seem like a caramel guy. Or plain, boring vanilla.”
Jordan grins. “You’re correct.” He hesitates, staring down at her cup. “Thank you, but I’ll … pass.”
Instantly, Amy’s face falls.
Jamie—very carefully—fist-pumps. “I told you!” he boasts. “Jordan hates coffee. Smoothies are his preferred wake-me-up beverage.”
He eases the Styrofoam cup into Jordan’s open hand. Their fingers brush. Heat crowds into Jordan’s cheeks. It’s a particularly hot summer morning. That’s the only explanation.
Jordan squeezes the cup. Jamie had thought of him. He remembered Jordan’s never been a fan of coffee, no matter how many variations he’s tried. Jamie paid attention every time Jordan skipped a coffee shop in favor of a smoothie bar.
His stomach flips. Just a smidge.
“I can’t believe this,” Amy hisses.
“You owe me lunch,” Jamie tells her.
“Whatever.”
“Blueberry, banana, pineapple, and peanut butter,” Jamie says when Jordan takes a tentative sip.
It’s a ridiculous combination. And fucking good. Jordan’s going to expire right here on the hot sidewalk.
RIP, future events manager Jordan, you would’ve loved this smoothie.
Absently, Jordan exhales a soft moan.
The left side of Jamie’s mouth rises. “Amazing?”
Jordan swallows, not answering.
“Better than late-night diner pie?” Jamie prods.
Fuck, Jordan can’t handle that crooked grin and this delicious smoothie and memories of their feet tangled under a sticky diner table all at once.
“We should, uh—the cake tasting,” Jordan rushes out. “This way.”
The bakery is airy and bright. The walls are splashed in yellow with rustic wood paneling. Confectionary sugar and vanilla scent the air.
Yara, the owner, happily greets them in a clean white chef’s coat that looks sharp against her gold-brown skin.
She’s worked with 24 Carter Gold before.
Her biggest claim to fame is the multi-tiered red velvet cakes she bakes yearly for the mayor’s Valentine’s Day gala, but her selection of flavors is first class.
She sizes Amy up. “What profile are we thinking? Classic, like white or almond? Tropical? Decadence? Something bold like blue velvet? A boozy bourbon?”
“I—” Amy pauses. She nervously sips her latte, then says, “Is it bad that I don’t know?”
Yara laughs. It’s a full, infectious noise. “Not at all.”
“But shouldn’t I have some idea? It’s our wedding cake.”
“Miss Welch—”
“Amy’s fine.” Pink dusts Amy’s cheeks. “You’re about to save my life. I think we can skip the formalities.”
Another laugh springs from Yara. “Amy, trust me, you’re not the first to walk in here unsure of what you want. That’s what I’m here for. Let’s make some magic.”
Jordan smiles as Yara leads Amy to a corner table near the window. A thick design book awaits. He can already see the tension leaving Amy’s shoulders. She openly snort-giggles when Yara makes a cake joke. He knows Yara has won her over.
Quietly, Jamie says, “You’re really good at this.”
The shop is empty except for them. Still, Jamie’s sidled up to Jordan like there’s nowhere else to stand.
“Good at what?” Jordan asks in the same low voice.
“Reading your client. Knowing who and what makes them comfortable.”
Jordan shrugs one shoulder. “That’s my job.”