Just Breaking the Rules (Hockey Ever After #1)

Chapter 1

THE LLAMA-KISSING EX

MABEL

What’s more nerve-racking than decorating a delicate heart-shaped cake in front of a few hundred strangers and the world’s most scathing food judge, who’s scrutinizing every swoop of your frosting?

Doing it thirty feet from the big-screen TV where a promo plays of your douchey ex hitting on a fellow reality-show contestant.

I’m not saying the universe has it out for me. But I’m not not saying that either.

I force myself to stop sneaking peeks at the expo’s nearest high-def monitor.

I’ve got exactly five minutes to finish my “Hearts and Flutter” cake.

The gigantic kitchen timer ticks ominously on the long table, where the final five contestants vie for the cake-decorating prize at Webflix’s Love Is in the Air romance fair.

The local expo, right next to the Ferry Building, is to promote their fall slate of new rom-coms and—thanks, universe!

—their hit reality dating show starring none other than my annoying ex.

As I position the last baby-pink fondant heart in the cascade of hearts spiraling around the vanilla cake, I’m hoping—no, make that begging the universe—that the publicity of a win here today will help me finally nab the financing I need to open a bakery in San Francisco. The cash prize would help too.

Not a pop-up shop. Not a ghost kitchen. But a real, honest-to-goodness storefront after years of trying and failing.

To take the top prize, I need to impress guest judge Ronnie Legend—the intimidating British celebrity chef whose own baking show can make or break bakers. He’s been stalking my station the whole time, making me sweat.

All that’s left to do is mount a half dozen dainty rice-paper butterflies onto white chocolate sticks, then insert them on top of the cake. The heart-shaped wings are so light they’ll flutter in the breeze for the ultimate aww effect.

With quick, efficient moves, I line up the first butterfly on the edge of the pretty pink cake.

Ronnie prowls in front of me, his bald head shining like a cue ball as he emcees the action on the center stage of the expo’s big tent.

He speaks into the mic as if he’s narrating a nature documentary: “And now here we have a local pop-up baker attempting the very risky rice-paper butterflies. They take several hours to make at home. One single misstep in front of the crowd could spell disaster for her.”

Gee, thanks. I’m totally not picturing all my painstakingly prepared butterflies wilting in the San Francisco heat now.

I offer the crowd a small smile, and thankfully, Ronnie moves down the table to unnerve the rest of the bakers. I keep my head down and try to concentrate.

Over the course of the contest, the three hundred or so chairs in front of the stage have stayed mostly full, plus there’s a crew from a local TV station streaming the contest. The expo is stuffed with booths hawking merch and goodies, and the huge screens in the aisles run promos of Webflix romance-themed shows.

Romance Beach, among others. The sound is turned down, thank god.

My ex—or Dax Strong, as he calls himself on TV—dumped me for that show.

I don’t want to even accidentally catch a word of it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a man in a dark suit at the edge of the crowd.

Big shoulders, broad chest, messy brown hair—something familiar about him catches my attention.

Before I can place him, Ronnie’s back, telling the enrapt audience, “This is the do-or-die moment for the butterfly baker. Hold your breath with her.”

A hush falls over the tent, leaving the conversation on the closest monitor the only sound, just as a woman asks Dax why his last relationship ended.

Ignore them, Mabel. Just ignore them.

I do my best as the man I used to live with lounges beachside in a cabana, a garish blue drink in his hand, holding a very intense conversation with the woman on-screen. “The thing about my ex is she’s kind of a hot mess,” he confides.

What the hell? I whip my gaze to the screen as he blathers on about me.

“It was easy to choose this opportunity to find love and a real connection, with someone here who seeks success. My ex can’t really get her act together.

She’s been chasing her own tail for years now, and we’re just not in the same league.

It’s sad, but the breakup was a long time coming.

I mean, this is a girl who dreams of making cakes with two llamas kissing on them but doesn’t do a damn thing to make it happen! ”

Lies! I don’t put llamas on my cakes. I put llamas on my logo.

Seething, I go back to work, praying no one will connect the self-absorbed reality-show contestant with the self-made baker on the stage. I reach for the final butterfly oh-so casually—too casually for someone who’s just been cruelly mocked on TV.

But the universe unleashes Ronnie on me. The host’s steely blue gaze locks onto the illustrated llamas on my apron, twined together in a heart-shaped hug, and he pounces. “It’s you! The kissing llama ex!”

“Nah,” I say breezily. “You must have me confused with someone else.” I dismiss the comment with a careless wave.

Too careless. The last butterfly slips in my fingers, knocked loose from the chocolate stick, and it flutters away into the October breeze.

Frantic, I lunge for the breakaway butterfly. Stretching across my station, I balance on one sneakered foot. I grasp for the wing and…I catch it. Yes! My lucky streak starts now.

Then, I wobble—once, twice, three times—and kersplat. I plant my arm in the middle of all those pink hearts.

“Oof.” My elbow sinks through cake, filling and fondant, all the way to the ceramic cake stand. The strands of hair that have wriggled free from my lucky lilac hair clip are covered in goop now too.

The audience gasps. Ronnie clucks his tongue. Phones lift. In seconds, everyone’s recording me.

Well, if this frosting fiasco doesn’t tie into the hot mess narrative Dax just wove about me, I don’t know what does. I’m up to my elbow in demolished dessert, and I kiss the prize money and publicity goodbye. I catalogue the crowd’s wide eyes and unhinged jaws. They feel sorry for me.

Decision time.

I could slink off, saying nothing, and disappear down the shame spiral staircase.

Or, I could try to make this cake still rise.

Yanking my elbow from the once-beautiful creation, I slap on a smile.

“Surprise! It’s the birth of a new cake era.

May I present the I Meant to Do That smashed heart cake.

” I commit to the improvisation one hundred and ten percent.

I spread my arms, ta-da style, toward the pile of crumbs and frosting.

“Smash cakes aren’t just for a baby’s first birthday.

Nope, adults can have fun with their cake, too, and it still tastes delicious! ”

I lick a big dollop off my finger to make my point.

There’s nervous laughter and curious looks.

Mostly curious looks. And one what-the-hell-are-you-up-to host shooting a dagger stare at me.

Then his gaze drops to his shoes, where a chunk of pink frosting has dripped off my arm and onto his motorcycle boots, which scream cool chef. They look awfully expensive too.

Oh shit.

I wince. He simmers a moment longer, then sighs heavily before he turns to the crowd. “Smash cakes. What a fascinating idea. A sobering reminder that anything can go wrong in the kitchen. Like this”—he points to the ruined cake—“disaster.”

His grin carries sympathy but a clear message: I’ll handle the audience, thank you very much.

He lowers the mic and shoos me away from the station. “I’ll see if my assistant can grab you a towel,” he whispers, guiding me from the dais and toward the edge of the noisy tent. “You can clean up before the photo shoot with the winner and the runners-up then be on your way.”

A chill whooshes down my spine, and I swallow uncomfortably. Be on your way is quite the dismissal. I’m about to utter a quiet and embarrassed thanks when someone cuts in.

“A towel? Is that the best you can do?” The voice is rough, commanding, stern.

Ronnie whips his gaze to the stranger. Who’s…not a stranger at all.

That vaguely familiar face earlier? All becomes clear when I get a proper look at the man who’d been at the edge of the crowd. Clean-shaven, chiseled jaw? Check. Clever, gold-flecked green eyes? Check. Soft lips and a take-charge vibe that makes you want to listen to him? Checkmate.

Because of course Corbin Knight, the guy I crushed so hard on when I met him seven years ago, would show up today when I’m a mess and a half.

And the unfair universe makes my brother’s best friend hotter and more together every time I see him.

Every time I’m not.

Corbin stands in front of me in charcoal gray slacks that hug his thighs, a crisp white shirt that shows off his strong chest, and a matching jacket slung over his arm. He looks like a guy who doesn’t ever break a sweat, though, of course, he does. He plays a pro sport for a living.

Judging from the suit, it must be a game day. But how did he happen to pop in here just now?

Ronnie gives him a tight nod and then turns to me.

“Look, I don’t appreciate the song and dance, but I concede it was a valiant effort.

” He spins around and points to the tiniest trailer I’ve ever seen.

It’s maybe ten feet outside of the tent.

“That’s mine. You can freshen up in there.

I don’t want to see any cake on you in the photo. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” I say.

“I’ll have her back for the photo shoot,” Corbin confirms.

“In fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

“I never am.” Corbin’s voice brooks no argument. He’s so capable that it’s a little tingly. Ronnie returns to the contest while my unexpected knight in shining tailored suit pins his gaze on me and says, “Let me help you.”

“I mean, if you really think I need it,” I deadpan, sarcasm covering my embarrassment.

Okay, some of my embarrassment. A blanket the size of a hockey arena couldn’t erase it all.

“Maybe a little.” Corbin sets a hand on my back.

As we walk, the words echo. Let me help you.

He said that seven years ago when I met him at the scene of another public disaster. Maybe that’s what I should name the future bakery that I’ll clearly never get financing for.

Dessert Disaster.