Chapter Thirty-Five
Amiya
T he smell of burnt sugar still lingers in the air, hanging heavy like guilt, as Lennon and I stand in the center of the bakery. The ruined cake lies in shambles on the counter, mocking us.
The door to the back of the bakery swings open, and Jessica steps out. She looks frazzled, her graying hair sticking out in every direction, but her expression softens when she sees us standing there. There’s a brief moment of silence as she takes in the wreckage, and then she sighs.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Mother Nature sucker punched us,” Lennon replies.
Jessica bites her lip as she inspects the damage.
“Well, the bottom tier is fine, and I can make fresh buttercream and maybe save the top tier, but the second and third are total losses, as is most of the coral,” she says.
“We have to fix it,” I say. “The wedding is tomorrow.”
Jessica’s eyes come to mine. “Fix it? There’s no fixing it.”
“But we have to,” I stress.
“The best I can do is reduce it to two tiers, one large and one small, dump the coral, add some more isomalt to make it look like the top tier is floating in water, and add a few more shells I made for another cake. They aren’t oysters, but I’m sure I can make a decent design, mixing them,” she offers.
I shake my head. “No. We can’t show up with half of Avie’s wedding cake with a bunch of mismatched decorations. We’ll pay you double or triple, but we need a whole cake,” I screech.
Her eyes come to me. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. It’s past closing. My staff has left for the night. It’s just not possible.”
“Amiya,” Lennon calls as he grasps my arm.
“No. I’m not leaving here without that cake,” I say as I jerk free.
“You heard what she said. It’s not possible. I’ll explain what happened to Sebastian and Avie and tell them it’s my fault.”
My eyes snap to him. “I’ve watched enough episodes of The Great British Baking Show to know that it’s possible to bake a whole-ass wedding cake and decorate it in six hours,” I say.
“It’s eight at night,” he points out.
“So we can have another cake by two in the morning,” I say, looking back at Jessica. “Name your price.”
She shakes her head.
“Please,” I plead.
She sighs. “I’ll need help.”
“Right here,” I say, pointing at Lennon and myself.
“All right,” she says, giving in. “I’ll make a pot of coffee. We’ve got a long night ahead of us. I hope you’re both ready to work.”
Lennon gives me a searing look as I nod, and I know he’s fighting the urge to strangle me.
Jessica leads us to the back of the bakery. The industrial kitchen has stainless steel counters, mixers, and racks of baking supplies, and I can’t help but feel guilty. Everything is spotless. She had just finished and was ready to go home for the night until we came along and messed everything up.
“First things first,” she says, pulling two aprons that say Sunshine & Sugar from a hook. “Put these on, and I’ll get you both a hairnet and gloves.”
I fight the urge to pull out my phone and snap a picture of Lennon. He looks like a large, disgruntled lunch lady.
Once we’re properly attired, she pulls out a massive bag of flour and sets it on the counter. “We need to bake the sponge layers again. Amiya, you begin with the dry ingredients. Lennon, you handle the wet. I’ll get the espresso machine going for the ganache and start making the raspberry coulis.”
I nod, roll up my sleeves, and we get to work.
The sound of flour hitting the metal bowl is oddly soothing, and I fall into a rhythm, measuring and sifting according to Jessica’s instruction as if my life depends on it. Next to me, Lennon is cracking eggs and whisking them into a creamy mixture with sugar and butter.
“This is kind of fun, isn’t it?” I say as he spoons the mixture into the bowl and I fold the batter together.
He gives me a scathing glance. “Sure, if being on a high-stress baking show is your thing.”
“It is. But at least there’s less yelling,” I add.
“For now,” he teases.
Exhaustion begins to creep in, but Jessica keeps us on task, working through the night.
Hours pass in a blur of flour and frosting. We bake the layers, carefully stack them, and level them off with precision. There’s no room for mistakes this time. Lennon and I work like a well-oiled machine, moving in sync as we navigate the narrow space of the kitchen.
At one point, I catch him staring at me as I smooth a new layer of buttercream over the lemon poppy seed sponge.
I raise an eyebrow, my lips quirking up in a smirk. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Just admiring your work.”
I laugh softly. “Is that so? Or are you just distracted by the fact that I’m covered in frosting?”
He glances down to where streaks of frosting decorate my arms, my neck, and even my hairnet.
“I can help you with that,” he says as he licks his lip.
I playfully swat at him with a frosting-covered spatula, leaving a smear of vanilla buttercream on his cheek.
“Hey!” he protests.
“Don’t worry, Sailor. I’ll clean it off later.”
“Oh, I know you will. You owe me.”
I stop and glare at him. “How do you figure that?”
He shrugs. “You’re the one who volunteered us to pick the cake up, and you’re the one who told Jessica we’d pay triple for the cake, and you’re the one who volunteered us to help her bake. I’d say you owe me big time. And I plan to collect.”
The tension that sat between us earlier at the rehearsal dinner has melted away, replaced by something … more.
Jessica interrupts our moment with a gentle cough, and we snap back to reality.
“All right, lovebirds,” she says with a knowing smile, “let’s focus. We’re in the home stretch.”
I feel my face heat up at her comment, but we get back to work, determined to finish.
As the night wears on, the cake begins to take shape. The final layer of buttercream is smoothed over the surface, and I help Jessica carefully place the delicate sugar coral and shells she crafted around the edges. They’re beautiful little works of art that make the cake look like something out of a fairy tale.
When we finally step back to admire our handiwork, it’s nearly dawn.
“Okay, so the time they give on The Great British Baking Show is a little skewed,” I admit as the first light of morning filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the bakery.
The cake is perfect—an elegant, towering creation that looks nothing like the disaster we caused just hours before.
Jessica lets out a low whistle. “You two did good. Really good. Now, get out of here. I’ll call in a favor and have this delivered to the venue this afternoon.”
I throw my arms around her, and it catches her off guard.
“Thank you so much. I’m sorry we kept you up all night.”
“Yeah, and we’ll stay to help you clean up,” Lennon says as he tosses seven hundred dollars on the counter.
“No, no. My staff will be here shortly. They can handle that. You two need some sleep. You have a big day today.”
He tosses another hundred-dollar bill on top of the stack as he turns to me.
“Not bad for a couple of cake wreckers, huh?”
I laugh. “Not bad at all.”