Chapter 10
Four days later, Molly set aside her latest failed attempt to decorate a cookie—the autumnal leaf looked like it was bleeding;
how was that even possible?—and finally let herself ask the obvious question.
“Why haven’t you asked Charlotte to help you back here?” Stripping off her gloves, she watched him bend over the other side
of his favorite stainless-steel worktable and begin decorating a custom-ordered two-layer round cake. “From what you’ve told
me, her instinct for flavor combinations is impeccable. She’s reliable. You enjoy her company. So why not make her your assistant,
if she’s willing?”
With an offset spatula, he liberally applied the almond cake’s apricot buttercream, velvety in texture and tinted a gorgeous,
pale shade of peach. “Not happening.”
She frowned at him, befuddled by his immediate rejection of the idea.
Over the course of the week, she’d spent almost all her daylight hours at the bakery—and by Tuesday, she’d already begun to
comprehend the scope of his staggering workload and the never-ending nature of his tasks. It all seemed very Sisyphean, frankly.
When she finished narrating an audiobook, it was done.
As eternal as anything digital could be.
Rarely revisited by her. But when Karl finished making brownies, people ate them.
He then had to make more, which would also be consumed promptly.
So he was never truly finished. He could always do more prep for the days ahead, and each morning he’d confront the same beast he’d slain the day before.
The same boulder to be rolled up the same hill, ad nauseam.
But hopefully not literal nauseam, or else his sanitation grade might drop.
An assistant could ease his workload. Why he didn’t have one already, she couldn’t quite understand. Unless . . . “Is the
bakery not profitable enough to support an apprentice baker?”
At that, he ceased spinning the cake turntable in front of him, set down his spatula, and directed a withering glower her
way. “Of course it is. What the hell made you think it wasn’t, Dearborn?”
“Because if it’s not a money issue, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t ask her to help.”
He was a ridiculously busy man, with half-moon shadows under his eyes that darkened day by day. And he wasn’t in his teens
anymore. Sooner rather than later, the constant abuse on his body would take its toll. From the way he sometimes stretched
his back, groaned, and mutter-shouted a heartfelt motherfucker, she figured at least some of that bill had already come due.
A few more hours of rest would do him good. Simple as that.
“Got enough on her plate already. Asking her to work my shitty hours and spend all day with an asshole like me. . . .” He
shook his head and returned his attention to the cake. With a steady hand, he carefully placed a delicate bone-white rose
on top of the now-smooth apricot frosting. “It’d be cruel. Taking advantage of her kindness.”
The layers for all of today’s cakes had apparently been baked in large batches over the weekend, then frozen until the appropriate day.
Now they sat on the counter, fully defrosted and ready to be .
. . well, frosted. Also decorated with the flowers he’d created and set aside on little squares of wax paper.
The entire flower-piping process had fascinated her. The equipment, with various lovely colors of frosting contained within
a dozen conical plastic bags, each punctuated by a differently shaped metal tip. The precision and artistry, as he rotated
what he called a piping nail—essentially a long steel spike with a round, flat top maybe two inches in diameter—between his
gloved thumb and forefinger, squeezed a frosting bag with his other hand, and produced each fragile, gorgeous petal, one by
one, gradually creating a bloom on the square of parchment topping the nail. The easy confidence and speed with which he created
those lush roses, bold poppies, and ruffled, blush-pink peonies.
He was so very talented. Also so very dense, on occasion.
“Yes, having her become your assistant would help you. But it might help her as well.” When she echoed his posture, bending
over the table to study his work, her own back immediately twinged. “Have you asked her what she wants to do for the rest
of her life? Maybe she’d like to be a baker too.”
His answer didn’t include words. Just a discouraging grunt.
Stifling a sigh, she tried again. “How about someone else, then? Wasn’t Johnathan looking for extra hours? Could he come in
to help before class?”
Another discontented-sounding grunt.
Fine. She’d let it go.
Excluding Lise, the people of Harlot’s Bay were still basically strangers to her. In a little over two weeks, she was leaving
them, without any definite plans to return. Their decisions, however misguided, shouldn’t concern her this much.
Even when it came to Karl.
Hanging out with him had been fun, and she appreciated his ill-fated trust-building efforts.
He was a good man, one whose grumpiness didn’t fully hide how deeply he cared about others.
But she wouldn’t consider moving across the continent or risking her fragile heart for someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—discuss important issues with her.
Issues that, if she and Karl ever tried to make a real relationship work, would become her concerns too.
If they were a real couple, she’d actually want to spend time with him outside the bakery. Especially since her own post-vacation
projects wouldn’t allow her to hang out at his workplace all day. With his current schedule, they’d barely see each other
except on weekends. And if he wasn’t willing to even consider getting help—help he could apparently afford—so he could change that schedule . . . well, that told her something, didn’t
it?
If he didn’t want to fundamentally change his existence for someone else, fair enough. But seventeen years of shaping her
life around someone else’s needs, preferences, and professional obligations had left her exhausted and utterly unwilling to
repeat the experience.
Because she worked for herself, Rob had always expected her to accommodate his demanding doctor-to-be schedule. Tiptoe around
the house whenever he slept and make herself available whenever he was awake and at home. Scrimp and save and deny herself
travel, conference fees, and upgraded recording equipment so they could afford medical school.
More precisely: so she could afford his medical school.
She’d gone along with it all, because each individual sacrifice had seemed reasonable.
Because they were a team. Because she prided herself on being Unflappable Molly Dearborn, able to sail through the choppiest of seas without undue fuss.
Because, as he kept reminding her, he’d be the one paying their bills soon enough.
Because she loved him. Because he supposedly loved her too.
Then he’d left her high and dry, and she was done twisting herself into knots for someone else’s plans. Any sort of accommodation
on her part now would require an enormous amount of trust, and Karl hadn’t earned that trust yet. Couldn’t earn it, unless
he chose to share more of himself with her. Which was an outcome that seemed increasingly unlikely, given his heartfelt love
of grunts and general avoidance of complete sentences.
“I’m going to grab a latte out front.” And also impose some necessary distance between us, she silently added. “Can I get you anything?”
When she straightened, her spine audibly popped in a disconcerting manner, but a quick stretch didn’t hurt. Reassured, she
walked to the interior door and paused, waiting for his answer.
“Hold your goddamn horses, Dearborn.” After he finished placing the remaining roses on top of his cake, he began piping decorative
swirls around its base. “I’ll make your latte myself. Give me two minutes.”
Another pastry bag lay beside him on the worktable, its buttercream contents a slightly deeper shade of peach due to judicious
application of gel food coloring. He laid down his swirl bag and picked up the darker color. His movements deft but careful,
he piped out the first letter of the cake’s message in a lovely, flowing script.
She couldn’t look away, despite her better judgment. Something about the contrast—a gruff, burly man crafting such delicate
beauty, his nonchalance matched by his meticulousness—melted her knees and tangled her tongue. Made her lean harder against
the doorframe as her cheeks flamed.
Only . . . wasn’t he starting the lettering too far up? “Happy Birthday” didn’t require that much vertical space, and the cake was a full twelve inches in diameter.
Pushing off the door, she drifted closer again.
Oh. He wasn’t piping out a birthday greeting after all. In fact . . .
Dildos, Vibrators, and Clamps, Oh My: YOU SUCK, he spelled out in creditable calligraphy, before adding a star-shaped asterisk at the end. Below that, he piped out another
asterisk, then a clarifying addendum in smaller, swooping letters: And Not in a Fun Way.
Brow furrowed, he glanced over the order sheet again. Then he nodded a little, grabbed a box Molly had folded and taped into
place earlier, and cautiously slid the cake inside, making sure not to damage any of his decorative elements.
She fought herself. Lost.
“I have to ask, Karl. Who exactly buys a twelve-inch cake in a custom flavor combination, asks for that cake to be beautifully
decorated”—because she’d also read the order sheet just now, and the delicate colors and roses had been special requests;
moreover, whoever placed the order had inspired an underlined note reading, Please make it pretty!—“and then specifies a message like that?”
“Rival sex shops.” He wrote SLATTERNS ‘R’ US on the side of the box with a Sharpie, then taped the order form to the top. “Across the street from each other. Owners need
to have sex already and get that shit over with.”