CHAPTER 37
Alone once again in the kitchen, Lynn stared down at the crumbled mess on the counter.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Anger gave way to frustration as she picked up one of the support dowel rods—completely useless—and jabbed it into the heap of collapsed cake. Again and again. Each stab brought a strange, petty satisfaction.
“We talked about this, Lynnette,” she scolded the mound of frosting and sponge like it had ears.
“I told you how important you were to my sister. She’ll never admit how excited she is about Bryce or this wedding—some weird sense of guilt or whatever…
” She trailed off as she grabbed a serving spoon and scooped a generous portion of the wreckage into a bowl.
“But I see it in her eyes. That excitement trapped inside… like always. Just dying to come out.”
She dipped her fingers into the frosting and swirled aimlessly, watching the pale blue and ivory smear into a hypnotic marbled mess.
“She always holds back. Scared if she lets herself feel joy, she’ll get disappointed. But I know. I see it.” Lynn jabbed a finger at the cake with sharp conviction.
”You and I, Lynnette—we made a deal. We were not going to disappoint her. We promised to give her a delicious, joyful, edible experience for her wedding day. Because food—dessert—is the only time Beth actually lets go. When she finally pulls that stick out of her [CENSORED] and just lives.”
She spooned a bite into her mouth and immediately moaned, loud and theatrical.
“Oh, yoooouuuuu [CENSORED]…” Another bite.
Another moan. A shoulder shimmy followed—slow at first, then more enthusiastic—as if her taste buds were dancing and dragged her body with them.
“How could you commit suicide? You taste sooooo—”
She stopped mid-sentence, still chewing, eyes rolling a little from the pleasure. So engrossed in her one-sided cake conversation, she didn’t notice the looming figure now stationed in the kitchen doorway.
A tall shadow stretched along the floor, cast by the warm overhead light. The figure didn’t speak, just stood there—arms crossed, brows raised in amused disbelief. Watching. Listening.
Still distracted and simmering with sugar-fueled emotion, Lynn finally set the bowl down with a sigh. The pounding in her ears thundered, matching her erratic heartbeat. She turned toward the coffee pot and poured a mug with the impatience of someone on the edge of snapping.
Muttering under her breath, she moved toward the bag hanging from a wooden hook by the door and tugged it open.
She pulled out her silver flask. With a flick of her thumb, she spun the lid off in one smooth motion and poured a generous splash of the clear liquid into her coffee.
She gave the mug a swirl, mixing the two liquids with practiced ease.
“Are you sure that’s gonna help you fix the cake?”
The deep voice pulled Lynn’s gaze to the doorway.
Lynn boldly stared at him, then slowly raised her mug and took a long, deliberate sip—never breaking eye contact with Bryce’s brother.
After a loud, satisfied sigh, she tilted her head.
“Oh yeah. In fact…” Another long sip. She could already feel the warmth settling in her chest. “I know it will.”
She winked and lifted her mug in a lazy toast toward the tall, infuriatingly good-looking man across from her.
Brock chuckled, easy and unbothered, as he stepped up to the counter to inspect the sugary mess.
“Just sayin’,” he said with that calm, coastal drawl. “Seeking peace from the bottom of a bottle rarely delivers you where you think it will.”
Lynn tipped her chin toward him. “That’s only true if you’ve got the wrong bottle.” She pointed to her bag. “Mine? Delivers every. Single. Time.”
She sauntered closer, her voice steady, her eyes daring. The space between them shrank—she was too close to be polite and too confident to care.
Brock opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get a word out, a chunk of cake hit him square in the chest.
“Listen here, Billy Graham,” Lynn said, holding up another sticky handful, “I don’t have time for a sermon. I’ve got a cake to redo and no time to do it. So either stick around and help or surf off into the sunset.”
Brock looked down at his shirt, scooped the cake off with two fingers, and popped it into his mouth like it was a normal occurrence.
“Mmm. That is good. What’d you do to it—drop it off a cliff and pray it’d stick the landing?”
Lynn threw up her hands. “Ah! I didn’t do anything!” Then, eyeing the cake more closely, she added, “I mean… I must have done something. I made it. And now it’s dead. So, yeah.”
Brock grinned. “You gonna have time to bake and decorate another one before tomorrow?”
“Nope.” Lynn didn’t even hesitate. “Clearly, I’m better at decorating than baking.”
She stared at the cake like it had betrayed her, then pulled out her phone and started scrolling. Brock watched her silently, stealing another bite when she wasn’t looking.
Lynn hit call and waited. “Yes, hi. I’m calling to see if you have undecorated cakes already baked.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. That’s right. Cakes. No frosting.”
Brock leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, clearly entertained.
“Wonderful. I need six 8-inch rounds. Four chocolate, four vanilla.” Pause. “Now.”
As she gave her name and the pickup details, she didn’t even notice Brock slipping toward the door.
“Yes, tonight. I can be there in ten minutes. Just write down ‘Stoner.’ Yep, like the criminal record. Great. Thanks.”
She hung up, scooped the cake scraps into a storage container—too good to toss—and grabbed her bag. Then she headed out back to borrow her mom’s car.
Eight cakes on a motorcycle? Even she wasn’t that reckless.
Out by the firepit, Brock found Bryce chatting with a man whose name he couldn’t remember.
“Hey, man,” Brock said, still brushing crumbs off his shirt, “Something happened with the wedding cake, so—”
Bryce burst out laughing before he could finish. “Yeah, Pastor Steve and Beth already told us about Lynn’s rant. Sounded... colorful.”
Brock smirked. “I caught the tail end. It was... something.”
Bryce raised an eyebrow.
“She named the cake, Bryce.” Brock shook his head. “Gave it a whole lecture. But now she needs to grab some stuff to redo it,” he added.
Bryce grinned. “You driving her?”
“Yeah. Figured it’s safer than letting her balance cakes on a bike. I’ll swing back after and take Mom to the loft so you can stay as late as you want.”
“Appreciate it,” Bryce said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help earlier.”
Brock waved it off with a lazy hang ten as he turned back toward the house. He’d barely stepped inside when he almost collided with Lynn.
“You giant oaf!” she said, skidding to a halt. “Move.”
“Nah. Let’s go. I’m driving you to the store,” he said, extending a hand toward the front door.
“Why?”
“Why not?” His grin was all easy mischief. “Maybe I just want to spend a little more time with you.”
She snorted. “Look, you might be cute…” Her eyes did a slow, deliberate up-and-down.
“And yeah, you’ve got that whole ‘surfer-god-who-accidentally-walked-into-a-pulpit’ thing going on.
” She turned to proceed him, her voice tossing over her shoulder.
“But you’re a preacher—and I don’t date holy men.
However, I will let you give me that platonic ride. ”
“Not sure if that was a compliment or an insult... but I’ll take it.” Brock chuckled and followed her, unbothered.
“So, is this an anti-clergy thing... or are you just morally opposed to dating anyone who owns a Bible in more than one translation?”
Lynn looked over her shoulder. “Let’s just say I don’t do that whole God-thing. And I’ve got no interest in dating one of His spokespeople.”
Brock raised his brows, clearly surprised.
She caught the look as she slid into the passenger seat of his rental. “Ahhh, that face says it all. Lemme guess—nobody warned you about the black sheep in the family.”
He gave a slow grin as he started the engine. “Nope. But I’m starting to think I should’ve asked for a playbook.”
“Take a left out of the driveway,” she said, buckling up. “And a playbook wouldn’t help you... I’ve never been one to play by the rules.”
Their banter continued on the short ride to the store. Once the car was in park, Lynn was out and powerwalking toward the doors.
“We’re in. We’re out. No detours. You touch a beach ball or walk like you’re on a Sunday stroll, I swear I’ll leave you here.”
Brock came up behind her, keys jangling, pushing the cart like he was on Supermarket Sweep. “You say that, but I’m the one in the lead.”
“Only because your legs are longer!” Lynn shouted, breaking into a jog to catch up.
“Better hurry up!” he called over his shoulder, weaving through aisles with reckless joy.
Laughing, she raced after him, nearly sideswiping a display of canned soup. She caught up just as he spun around, and she tossed bags of powdered sugar into the cart like a pro baller.
“I have some extra frosting at Mom’s and lots of butter. I’ve got decorating tips. I just need layers, piping bags, and peace. Inner peace, preferably.”
Brock nodded solemnly. “God can provide inner peace.”
Lynn skidded to a halt in the aisle and gave him an annoyed look.
“Thanks Friar Tuck, but I’ll take the baking supplies and leave the sermons in aisle four.”
He grinned, completely unoffended.
“Piping bags... piping bags...” She turned to scan the shelves.
When she looked back, Brock was gone.
“Oh no,” she muttered.
He returned two seconds later, casually holding a box of neon-colored shot glasses.
Lynn blinked. “What are those for?” She hadn’t exactly pegged him as her next drinking buddy.
“Cake toppers,” Brock said with a grin, clearly enjoying the mix of horror and delight on her face. “Too soon?”
“I hadn’t planned on making tequila-flavored frosting,” Lynn said, then burst into laughter, the image of Beth’s reaction playing out in her head. “Oh my gosh, can you imagine?”
Brock raised an eyebrow like he absolutely could.
“But NOOOOOOOOOooooo,” Lynn said dramatically, wagging a finger at him. “Go put those back! We are being nice to our siblings!”
“Aren’t we, though?” he asked, twirling the box in his hand. “Because I feel like this could be a subtle reminder to put God first in their marriage… Maybe we throw a cross between the shot glasses? Real spiritual moment. Ya think?”
Lynn burst out laughing. At her reaction, Brock kept going, feigning confusion.
“What? Is it too much?”
“YES!” she said, still laughing. “And people are always saying I’m too much!”
Without missing a beat, she pointed down the aisle. “March, preacher boy.”
“Alright, alright. No tequila-frosted sermons. Message received.” Brock raised both hands in surrender, still grinning.
Lynn spun on her heel. “Crap! The cakes! We have to grab those layers. I will lose it in this grocery store if we leave without them.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve witnessed a spiritual breakthrough in a supermarket,” Brock muttered, jogging to catch up.
“Less talkie, more walkie, Reverend Briggs!”
They tore down the aisle like the final leg of a relay, dodging a confused stock boy and a less than impressed mother of four with a cart full. They slid into the bakery pickup counter like they were crossing a finish line. Lynn slapped the counter with pride.
“Eight layers. Four chocolate, four vanilla. Please tell me
they’re ready.”
The woman behind the counter looked startled, then nodded slowly. “Y-yes... they’ve been waiting for you.”
“Just like the Lord. Always waiting for you to choose Him.”
Lynn elbowed Brock in the ribs.