Chapter 7 Meet with the Cake Designer #2
“Jordan Carter, are you being modest?”
“I’m being honest.”
Jamie hums. Jordan doesn’t like that noise. The okay, sure implied behind it.
“I think it’s more than that,” Jamie says. “All this effort isn’t just about doing your job.”
“It isn’t,” Jordan stiffly confirms.
“Then what is it?”
Jordan bites the inside of his cheek. The first response that comes to him feels too personal. Something he can’t afford to be with Jamie. This is a business meeting. Jamie’s a consultant to his client, not someone Jordan whispers secrets to on the floor of a dark basement bedroom.
“We should focus on Amy,” he suggests.
He feels Jamie sigh before he hears it. “You said you were okay with this,” Jamie says.
Jordan doesn’t need context to know what Jamie’s referring to. “I am,” he says.
“And that we wouldn’t be awkward.”
“We’re not.”
“Jordan, this is the longest conversation we’ve had in six months,” Jamie whispers.
“We talked longer the other day. When you hit me with the door.”
“That was an accident—”
“I’m fine, Jamie,” Jordan cuts in, finally pivoting enough to look at Jamie’s face. “We are fine.”
“I can’t tell,” Jamie mutters. Doubt circles those big brown eyes. Like a sad, trapped-in-a-kennel border collie waiting to go home.
What does he expect Jordan to say?
Actually, I’m fantastic! That whole you-rejecting-me thing?
That didn’t fuck with my brain at all. For the record, I don’t care that you’re dating either!
That some beautiful model is right for you.
Also, guess what? I still have no clue why you’re the only man I liked kissing.
Or why I fuck up every single date I go on.
Instead, Jordan says, “Jamie, as Bowser is my witness, I promise we’re good even though you still foolishly think Toad is the best character,” with the biggest smile he can manage.
Jamie’s nose wrinkles. “Because he is.”
Amy walks up. “Are you two talking about Mario Party again?”
“Mario Kart,” they both correct her, then laugh.
For a brief second, Jordan really does believe what he said.
They’re good.
“Whatever,” Amy huffs. “We decided on some options. Yara’s grabbing samples.”
Some options translates into eight different cake flavors.
Ten minutes later, they’re seated at a small table on the other side of the shop, forks in hand. Yara places two long, rectangular ceramic dishes with four neatly cut squares of cake on each in front of them. It’s like a wine flight but with cake.
A cake flight.
Yara stands over them, grinning. She goes over each flavor profile as they sample.
First is strawberry, then French vanilla. A basic white is next. Jordan doesn’t have a sweet tooth—not like his mom—but each forkful of cake is light and flavorful. Fucking delicious. He can’t imagine how Amy’s going to choose.
“That one is the peach,” Yara points out.
It pops with a nice headiness on Jordan’s tongue. Not too sugary or overwhelmingly artificial. The smell alone reminds him of being in his auntie Leena’s kitchen as she whipped together her famous cobbler.
To his right, Jamie full-on moans. Eyes closed, shoulders trembling. It’s a lot to witness.
Jordan forces himself to look away. That doesn’t stop the strange shift moving through his belly.
“It’s so good!” Amy cries, like she has with every slice.
Yara beams. “Thank you. Next to that one is the matcha.”
Amy sighs, disappointment etched into her face.
“What’s wrong?” Jordan asks.
“This one’s more for me,” she admits, forking up a piece. She nearly sobs after trying it. “We can’t have it at the wedding.”
“Sam hates matcha?”
“Are you kidding me?” Amy guffaws, head back, sunglasses almost falling off.
“I’m the reason he loves matcha! We used to trade off who’d pick our next date destination.
He always went for the sophisticated places.
Just to impress me. Once, he took me to a rooftop lounge to watch fireworks.
But everyone was so drunk and noisy, it was hard to enjoy it. ”
“Yikes!”
Jordan could never imagine planning a date that poorly.
Amy giggles, then goes on. “I like simple, unassuming places where we can talk.” She takes another bite. “One time, I took him to a boba café. He’d never tried it. I got him a matcha with br?léed cheese foam. He wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month!”
Jamie snaps his fingers. “I remember that!”
“Wait.” Jordan pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “If he loves it so much, why can’t this be your wedding cake?”
Amy sulks. “His parents.”
Jordan crooks an eyebrow.
“We took them to the same café once,” she explains. “His dad hated it. He just wanted black coffee. Sam’s mom said the matcha tasted like grass. We never went back with them.”
Jordan steadies his expression.
A pattern he’s seen with other clients is forming. Sam’s parents have as much influence on the wedding decisions as Amy and Sam do. Jordan feels for Amy, but it’s not his place to comment.
He pushes out another smile. “Tell me about the proposal.”
Just like that, Amy’s face turns soft. Happy. She slices into the next sample—champagne. A content sigh leaves her lips after the first bite.
Chair legs drag across the floor. Warmth settles into Jordan’s side. It’s Jamie, giddily rubbing his hands together.
“I love this story!”
Blush blooms over Amy’s cheeks. “Short or long version?”
“Whichever one you feel like telling,” Jordan says.
He probably should’ve asked for the short version. The faster she tells it, the quicker Jamie will scoot back to his own side of the table. Far from Jordan.
But Amy doesn’t read the desperation on his face.
“Well, I’ve always been a bookish girl,” she starts.
“Book nerd,” Jamie amends.
Amy flips him off. “Sam knew this about me. So, one afternoon, he takes me to a used bookstore. No one was inside. Only us and the staff. Which was strange, but I didn’t notice right away. There were so. Many. Books.”
“Nerd,” Jamie coughs out.
Jordan bumps his shoulder to silence him. Jamie takes it as an invitation to lean more into Jordan. A thin wall of heat from elbows to knees.
“Sam dragged me to the rare editions section”—Amy lowers her eyes, smiling—“to show me a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”
The corners of Jordan’s mouth quirk.
“I loved the Kiera Knightley version,” Jamie whispers.
Amy takes another bite. “Who doesn’t?”
Jordan doesn’t tell either of them he hasn’t seen it.
“Anyway, the copy Sam was holding wasn’t an actual book. It was a book-shaped box! With a ring inside.” She stares at the diamond on her finger as sunlight winks off it. “He got down on one knee. He admitted to renting the entire bookstore out. Just to propose to me.”
A genuine smile overtakes Jordan’s face.
Jamie rocks into his side. “That’s not even the best part.”
“It’s not?”
“Tell him.”
Amy groans, mortified. “Before all this happened, I’d been planning for weeks to propose to Sam! I couldn’t figure out how. And this asshole”—she points her fork in Jamie’s face—“was in on Sam’s plans. He gave me the worst suggestions just so I’d delay asking.”
“He begged me,” Jamie says defensively.
“What kind of suggestions?” Jordan inquires.
“Skydive proposal. Karaoke proposal. Do it at an Ed Sheeran concert,” Jamie lists on his fingers. “Ooh, organize a flash mob.”
“I hate flash mobs!” Amy whines.
Jordan cracks up. Even Yara’s chortling. And right there next to him, Jamie’s face is lit up neon like a Times Square billboard at night—probably another terrible proposal idea Jamie suggested.
He cuts into the next sample. Heavy notes of vanilla and something floral tickle Jordan’s nose. He can’t pin down the scent.
“This will fit your garden-themed wedding perfectly,” Yara says. “It’s our sweet lav—”
“No!”
Jordan smacks the fork out of Jamie’s hand. It clatters on the table. Cake lands on Jordan’s sleeve. All eyes are on him, wide and confused. He doesn’t care.
“It’s lavender,” Jordan says, throat tight. “Jamie can’t have that. He’s allergic.”
Amy face-palms. “Oh, shit. I forgot. When Yara asked about food allergies, I thought of me and Sam. Not—Jamie, I’m so sorry!”
Voice small, Jamie says, “It’s okay.”
“I almost killed you!”
“Ames, calm down. You didn’t almost kill me.”
He grabs a napkin to brush cake from Jordan’s shirt.
Without looking, Jordan can feel Jamie’s eyes on him.
“It’s fine,” Jamie says after balling up the napkin. “No harm done.”
Amy shakes her head. “Thank you, Jordan. That could’ve been bad.”
Jordan nods once. He finally studies Jamie.
Daylight frames his face in soft hues. Slivers of seaweed green ring his brown irises. There’s something indecipherable buried in his eyes. Jordan wants to know what he’s thinking. But he’s scared the answer might be something he’s not ready to hear.
Jordan blinks, and shifts back to Yara. “We should move on to the last one.”
Yara hands Jamie a new fork. “The last flavor is our summer staple. Citrus. A bright combination of lemon, orange, and grapefruit.”
“It’s so good,” Amy moans.
“Fuck, it is,” Jamie agrees.
Amy twists to him. “How do I decide?”
He shrugs. “All of them?”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “I thought you were here to help her.”
“I am,” Jamie argues. “Eight tiers, each one a different flavor. Problem solved.”
“That’s an awful idea,” Jordan says flatly.
“What do you propose? Ha! Get it? Propose.”
Jamie barks out a laugh at his own joke. Jordan is going to stab himself in the eye with his fork. Before he can, Amy shouts, “Oh, I have an idea!”
They both turn—forcing Jamie even farther into Jordan’s side—to stare at her.
Amy holds her hands up like she’s anticipating another fight. “Hear me out: Remember at the greenhouse? When we weren’t sure it was the right place?”
Jordan doesn’t like where this is going. “Yes?”
“And you two pretended to be us?”
Jordan really doesn’t like where this is going.
He inhales deeply. Stupid mistake. He gets a thick whiff of amber and oak and—fuck him. He hates how big Amy’s grin is right now.
“I need a visual,” she tells them. “I need to imagine Sam and me. On our wedding day. Sharing our cake for the first time.”
“Amy,” Jordan attempts, his voice strained.
She doesn’t listen. “What if Jamie—”
“Feeds cake to Jordan?” Jamie finishes. “That’ll help you decide?”
“I don’t know! It worked last time.”
Last time shouldn’t have happened. Jordan was ambushed. He didn’t have the space and opportunity to react in a professional manner.
But he does now.
He clears his throat, and says, “I don’t think that—”
“Let’s do it.”
Jordan balks at Jamie. He stares at him like he’s a two-headed talking dragon with big red wings, casually sitting in a bakery sampling wedding cakes.
“Excuse me?” he squeaks.
“She needs help,” Jamie reasons, as if this is something people do all the time. “That’s what we’re here for. It’s just cake.”
It’s just cake. Three words have never sounded so threatening. Because it’s not just cake. It’s Jamie feeding him cake.
“Amy,” Jordan tries again, “maybe we should—”
“Jordan.”
The low-timbred voice dangerously close to Jordan’s ear makes him jump. He snaps around in Jamie’s direction. His tilted head reminds Jordan of the practice on me one he knows now to walk away from.
Get up, he tells himself. Walk the fuck away.
He doesn’t. Only because Amy says, “Just this last slice. I’m pretty sure I know which one I want, but I need to be sure. Please?”
It’s official. Jordan’s screwed. Between her large doe eyes and Jamie’s this is why we’re here stare, he crumbles like, well, cake.
“Fine.” He sighs. “One bite.”
Amy claps. “Thank you!”
And to Jordan’s horror, Jamie scoops up the sample. With his hand.
“What are you doing?”
“She wants a visual,” Jamie explains. “She’s not going to feed Sam their wedding cake with a fork.”
“She might,” Jordan argues in a voice way too high.
“That’s not sexy. Or romantic. She’s feeding her husband cake on their wedding day. Not mashed peas to a cranky toddler in a high chair.”
Amy snorts into her hands. “It’s true.”
Jordan scrambles for a stronger argument. He comes up with nothing. Then, the cake’s right there. Perched on Jamie’s fingers. Inches from Jordan’s mouth.
God, he wants this to be over with.
“Open up,” Jamie requests softly.
Jordan squeezes his eyes shut. Mortified, he obeys.
The icing brushes his lips first. Sweet and a little tart. Then, the crumbly cake. The texture’s perfect, just like all the other samples. Instinctively, his lips start to close, and, for a brief second, they catch around Jamie’s fingers.
His fingertips are soft, uncallused. Jordan’s bottom teeth slide across well-groomed nails. Something ripples hot and relentless through his core.
Jamie’s hand retreats.
Jordan’s left with cake on his tongue and warmth low in his belly.
The citrus is like sunbeams in his mouth. It reminds him of weekend visits to Santa Monica. Of summers spent poolside at Denz’s house, Jamie in the lounge chair next to him.
“Well?” Amy prompts.
Jordan keeps his eyes shut, savoring. If he ever gets married— if he ever wanted one flavor to explain to his family and friends what his love story tastes like—it’d be this cake.
A throat clears.
Jordan’s eyes finally flutter open.
“That’s the one!” Amy announces. “That’s our wedding cake.”
“Great,” Yara says. “Should we discuss design?”
Amy leaves the table with her, moving back to the corner with the giant book.
“Jamie,” Amy calls, “I want your input too.”
Reluctantly, Jamie stands. He looks down at Jordan. His eyes are glazed. Maroon burns against his cheeks. He’s silent.
Jordan’s not sure he wants Jamie to say anything. His own throat isn’t working. Clogged with cake and embarrassment.
“Jamie?” Amy repeats.
“Coming,” Jamie says, his voice rough.
His gaze lingers on Jordan for a beat too long before he’s gone.
Jordan exhales. He’s not ready to get up. He can’t get up, not yet.
When he’s certain everyone’s attention is elsewhere, Jordan discreetly reaches under the table to adjust himself.
This is … new for him. Weird. Even more confusing.
But one thing’s certain: A slice of cake has never made him feel like that before.