Chapter 18 So Long, and Please Don’t Fall Into the Mop Bucket
OH NO. NO, NO, NO, no, no.
“Tee hee terr herr,” the pooka says as Levi rolls out of the ruined top tier of the cake. Sensing her moment, Mandy drops the knife and swoops in, snatching the creature from behind.
“Cuddle attack!” she shrieks, squeezing it joyously.
“No! My weakness!” the pooka sobs.
Mandy cries too, apparently overwhelmed by its evil-cute vibes.
I can barely contain my own tears. All that work, and the saboteur has won.
The wedding cake is lost—an absolute, irredeemable, thirty-thousand-dollar mess.
Also, is Levi okay? He’s gone unconscious—I hope he won’t need a hospital trip?
Once I confirm Levi is breathing, I grab a loose apron and get Mandy’s help to roll the pooka in it longwise, like I’m constructing a giant, savory croissant.
“Nooooo!” the pooka wails. It paws its icing-covered mitts desperately against the apron. “I’ve been trapped!”
“Tee hee her herrrrr,” I tell it.
The pooka doesn’t find this amusing. Kicking futilely, it cries, “Let me free, let me free! And I will answer your questions three.”
Satisfying as it might be to spend the next five minutes watching the pooka squirm, finding out what it’s doing here would be better. I squat, up close and personal. But not so close it could kick me in the neck.
“All right.” I catch my breath. “I’ll let you go if you answer my questions and leave this wedding alone. Why are you here?”
The wiggling of the impromptu-croissant stills. “I’m here to test you.”
Aghast, Mandy throws a hand to her forehead. “Oh, it was you! You started throwing whiskey around when I was kissing Levi!”
I—nope. I can’t deal with that now. A chortle emanates from the pooka’s dark, dark heart.
“Yes! It was me!” brags the pooka. “I fed glamoured wine to the groomsmen, from the land of Fai-ry. Misdirected a caterer with bags of blood. Poked holes in those boats. Have you two enjoyed my sowing of oats? Oats of chaos?”
I stick a finger right into the plush fur of its belly, causing it to yowl.
“Have you done anything else to mess up this wedding? Are there more disasters waiting for me?”
“How could you!” cries Mandy.
Before Mandy’s question can wreck my chances at stopping it, I interrupt: “That question doesn’t count!”
“Oh, fear not!” The creature squirms sassily.
“I am pleased to answer. Miss Pixie, Miss Planner, I dare for it’s my nature, but be not too upset with me!
I’ll bring no more trouble unto thee. I’ll bring thee no more tests!
My work is done in threes! I am filled with woe and wan, for I could not make this room explode. ”
I glance at Mandy, concerned.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but let’s please not keep him afterward. I don’t think he’d make as nice a pet as Bulan.”
Mandy and I are in agreement.
“Last question, pooka, then I’ll free you,” I say, my attention returned to the spiteful being. “Did you do this for my grandmother, or her friends, or someone else?”
“I do not know of which woman you speak, so I cannot say if it was she!” The pooka kicks at me through the apron. I hold fast.
“That wasn’t an answer!” I growl. “Who sent you?”
“Alas, your questions are complete! Release me from this foul and floury sheet!”
What an asshole. Bravely, I reach forward and unpeel enough apron to stare into the white, wiggling creature’s beady eyes. It’s maybe a little terrifying.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll let you go. But if you attack again, know that we’ll retaliate. Horribly. I have friends in high places.”
“That you do! That you do! Tee herr herr herr,” laughs the pooka in a disturbingly knowing way. “Now unhand me! UNHAND ME!”
I give Mandy a signal. Together, we take the pooka out through the back kitchen door and unwrap it. The tiny monster bursts from the apron like a Ping-Pong ball with jet-packs.
“Goodbye, chaos!” cries Mandy as we watch its hind legs scurry away. “And good riddance!”
Back in the kitchen, the gnomes cheer. Levi moans and smacks his icing-encrusted lips together uncertainly. “Delicious,” he manages.
And me? I feel a weight drop from my shoulders.
I’ve done it. I’ve caught my saboteur and kicked it to the curb. It can’t cause any more trouble. What’s more is, if that pooka hadn’t gotten involved, Sidney and Brett’s wedding reception would have proceeded up to this point without a single hitch.
Who’d have thought I might actually be good at wedding planning and coordination? And not just that, but that I’d feel good about being good at it?
I should probably leave that thought for later.
“Do you know how much that cost?!” I gesture at Sidney and Brett’s ruined six-tier once-masterpiece. “That cake sold at a higher price than my wedding planning package. It’s like, the same cost as a mortgage for a house.”
“Not in this economy,” drawls Levi from the floor.
“There, there.” Mandy pats his cheek.
“Mandy.” I draw her attention back to me. “You shouldn’t have let this happen. Seriously. Do you really think your pheromones or whatever will erase this guy’s memory?”
“I don’t know. I think they will?”
“I hope you’re right. Because if the PBI comes knocking, I legitimately will not know how to help you.”
The pixie sniffles with unmistakable guilt as she hauls Levi upright and helps him find kitchen towels to freshen up with. I use the time to investigate the damage to the cake. By the time Mandy’s returned, I’m not optimistic.
“So. The top two tiers of the cake are definitely ruined. The bottom ones are surprisingly… intact, but the detailing and sugar flowers look like smashed Play-Doh you’d find in a pre-K classroom.”
“I don’t think it looks so bad,” Mandy says hopefully.
“I’m not done with my negatives. The biggest one is this: food can’t be eaten after touching the ground. This cake is finished. It’s done for. Like us.”
“Is that really true? Because I’ve seen you eat—”
“The five-second rule doesn’t apply in a business context,” I explain.
“Oh,” says Mandy, eyes downcast. “I guess it’s been more than five seconds.”
“The point is, even if we cover up the damage, we can’t let people eat this.” I cast a look at Mandy. “Not any people.”
“Ohhhh,” she says.
Ohhh is right. I snap my fingers, drawing the gnomes’ attention. “You guys owe me big after that pooka-catching disaster. So. How about some gardening?”
Borrowing the kitchen knives, I command the gnome army to rebuild our cake.
The multitalented little men scrape away smooshed fondant, giving the cake a “semi-naked” look.
With unexpected artfulness, they affix loose leaves and blooms into the crumbled dents and crannies of the damaged cake, so it becomes more forest than disaster.
I mean, really: the wedding cake has taken on the appearance of an ecologically intact forest, replete with tiny roly-polies peeking out of sugar-spun clover.
While pretty, the result is more than a bit whimsical, a bit too ready for a nature documentary, and it resembles nothing of Sidney’s vision.
Also, while dogs and other canines may not mind eating food off the floor, this cake will be inedible for the vast majority of our guests—which is why I approach the head table with distinct unease.
“Sabby!” calls out a familiar voice.
I should’ve guessed Hanry would find me. A good half hour has passed since he spotted me, and the memory of his wink alone makes my toes curl—which would be more pleasant if it weren’t for the stickiness of blood and sugar inside my Crocs. And on my face. And in the insides of my ear canals.
“Where’ve you been?” Hanry asks. “You look—”
“Frazzled?” I ask. “Overwhelmed? Like I’m losing my shit?”
“Beautiful.”
Hanry reaches down to wipe icing from my cheek, drawing his index finger slowly across my skin. Only after I suck in a breath do I realize he just complimented me, and my instinct wasn’t to immediately sink back and hide. This is novel. This means I’m changing; he’s changing me.
Or maybe I’ve inhaled too many oven fumes.
“Not now, Hanry,” I say, detaching his hand from my face. “I’m one mistake away from this whole party imploding.”
“Can I help?”
“I already took care of it.” Kind of. Sort of.
Though visibly disappointed, Hanry doesn’t push. “Yeah, I bet you did,” he says. “You’ve gotten good at this.” He untucks his handkerchief as if to wipe icing onto it. But then he changes his mind. He draws his finger to his lips and sucks off the icing, smiling at the taste.
Dear god. A hot jolt of desire blazes down into my belly.
“How about,” I say without thinking, “you meet me in the catering closet in five minutes? The one near the kitchen?”
Hanry’s eyebrows jump in surprise. “Okay.”
Oh, hell yeah.
“See you there,” I promise.
As the band plays a jazz cover of “Hungry Like the Wolf,” the caterers begin passing out the first of the four raw meat courses.
Seizing the opportunity, I escape from the reception hall, my thoughts all Hanry.
That mouth. That touch. Once I’m past the flower archway and confident the coast is clear, I throw open the door to the catering closet—
To find it empty. Of handsome, broad-shouldered types, anyway.
There’s a dinky yellow mop bucket filled with gray, sudsy water, and the attached metal pole appears precariously close to bashing my head.
Clearly, this is a mislabeled maintenance closet.
I wonder if that was the pooka’s doing? If so, I’m grateful.
I can’t imagine making out with Hanry in here. I’m glad he had the same idea.
Doing my best to stay unnoticed, I shut the door and walk casually around the flower arch, where I find an unlabeled closet. More encouragingly than last time, it isn’t surrounded by a scent-moat of lemony cleaning product. I try the handle, which takes a bit of jiggling to open, but—