2. Scottie Elise Reed
Scottie Elise Reed
The bakery in downtown Boston is far too bright for ten in the morning, and it smells aggressively of buttercream.
My tolerance for whimsy is incredibly short today. By the time the third tray of samples arrives I’m ready to kill myself and everyone within a five-foot distance.
Across the table, Iveline and Callahan are leaning into each other, their foreheads almost touching as they debate whether the filling of a sponge cake can truly taste “cloud-like.”
They look sickeningly happy, which is great for them—really, it’s heartwarming—but it’s making the logistics of the seating chart much, much harder to manage.
“Scottie, try the red velvet,” Ivy says, pushing a plate toward me.
I take a bite, but before I can even swallow, a shadow falls over the table, effectively blocking the overhead lights.
“It’s a lie, you know.”
Finnian “Cash” O’Connell slides into the empty chair right next to me. He sits too close, his thigh pressing against mine, entirely too comfortable.
“What?” I frown, setting my fork down with a sharp clack against the china.
“The cake,” Cash says, eyeing my plate with something bordering on disdain. “This stuff is a scam. It’s just chocolate cake with identity issues and an entire bottle of red forty.”
He shifts his focus, looking over at Ivy with a dazzling, practiced grin. “Morning, Coach.”
Ivy lets out a weary, fond laugh, shaking her head. “Cash, please. I haven’t been your coach for years.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt. “Old habits, Ivy. You’ll always be the one who taught me how to stop a puck without losing my soul.”
“Go away, Cash,” I say, pulling my planner closer, as if creating a physical barrier between his proximity and my sanity. “Go find a puck to hit. Go sit in a dark room and visualize a world where you don’t annoy me. Do something that doesn’t involve talking to me.”
“I like it when you’re bossy,” he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “It’s kind of hot.”
“I hate you,” I deadpan.
We are both grown-ass adults; this level of juvenile baiting should be beneath us, yet here we are, behaving like we’re in the back of a middle school bus.
“Ivy, tell him to leave.”
Ivy sighs, rubbing her temples. “Cash, stop flirting with my best friend.”
“I can’t help it, Coach,” he says, his gaze lingering on me. “She’s the only one who doesn’t worship me. It’s a turn-on.”
“Finnian, I will shove this planner so far up your—”
“See?” Cash gestures at me with his chin. “She loves it.”
“Can everyone act like adults for like ten minutes?” Dean asks, sliding a fresh coffee onto the table and claiming the chair next to Ivy.
“Dean, thank God. Tell him to be normal,” I plead.
“You’re asking for a miracle, Scottie,” Dean says, not even looking up from his phone. He glances at the chaotic web of sticky notes on the seating chart and frowns. “Why is Uncle Evan next to the DJ?”
“Because he’s a liability and I want him deafened by bass drops before he can start a political debate with the florist,” I say.
“Fair enough,” Dean nods. Then he looks at Cash, his expression bored. “O’Connell, stop poking the Shark. You’re going to get bitten, and I’m not driving you to the ER during a cake tasting.”
Jenna, perched on the edge of the table in a silk dress that looks like it cost more than my car, snorts into her champagne. “Oh, let him poke. It’s the only action she’s had all season.”
“Jenna!” I snap, feeling the heat bloom across my neck.
“Shush,” she chirps, fixing her blonde hair in the reflection of a display case. “Anyway, Cash, did you convince her yet? Or are you going on that road trip alone like a tragic country song?”
The table goes quiet. The only sound is the hum of the bakery’s refrigerator.
Cash shifts next to me. “I’m working on it.”
“I’m not going,” I say, shaking my head. “I have a business to run. I have other clients. I do not ‘road trip’ in a van for two months.”
“It’s a reset, Scottie,” Cash says.
His voice is serious now, devoid of the teasing lilt, and God, I hate serious Cash. It makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerously like weakness.
“The season was a grind. My body is a wreck, and my head is worse. I need to get right. You’re the only person who tells me the truth.”
“I can tell you the truth over Zoom, Finnian. I can call you an idiot from my office, here, in Boston.”
“Not the same,” he says.
Ivy looks between us, her expression softening into something pitying.
“He has a point, Scottie. You’ve been working yourself into the ground.
A couple of months away might keep you from having a stress-induced stroke.
Plus, who else is going to keep him from making stupid decisions in the middle of nowhere? ”
“Don’t even start,” I mutter, but I can feel my resolve chipping away, bit by bit.
***
We spend the next hour going through the remaining samples.
“Look at the texture on this one,” Ivy says, pointing a fork at the cake book. “The almond is dense, but the lemon layer might bleed if the room gets too warm.”
“It won’t bleed if they keep the thermostat at sixty-two like I told them,” Callahan says, leaning his elbows on the table. “I talked to the manager. Nobody performs well when they’re sweating.”
“Cal, it’s a reception, not the playoffs,” Jenna laughs. “People want to dance without seeing their own breath. Scottie, tell him he’s being ridiculous.”
“He’s right about the temperature, actually,” I say, moving a yellow sticky note on the chart. “If the room is hot, the champagne goes flat and people get cranky. Keep it cool.”
Dean pulls a small plate over, cutting a square with his fork. He tastes it and makes a face at Callahan. “Too rich. People are going to be asleep by nine o’clock. You need something lighter.”
“See? This is why Dean is here,” Callahan says. “What about the passion fruit vanilla?”
“Passion fruit is too sharp,” Cash says, leaning across me to grab the water pitcher. His arm brushes my shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You want a cake that finishes smooth. Like a clean shot.”
“Everything is a hockey metaphor with you,” I mutter, taking the water from him before he can spill it. “Give me that.”
The baker arrives with a final silver platter holding the salted caramel and vanilla bean variations.
“Salted caramel or vanilla bean?” Callahan asks, looking at me.
For a man who was once the most intimidating NHL captain in the league, he looks genuinely stressed about the choice.
“Salted caramel,” Cash and I say at the exact same time.
We freeze, looking at each other.
“See?” Jenna says, popping a macaron into her mouth. “You’re already mentally bonded. It’s disgusting. I love it.”
“It’s a coincidence,” I snap, busying myself with my pen.
“The numbers don’t lie, Scottie,” Cash says, leaning over the seating chart. He points a finger at a table near the floor. “Why am I at Table Six with Jenna’s marketing people? Are you trying to get me killed by boredom?”
“Yes,” I say smoothly. “I’m hoping one of them convinces you to do a hair care ad so I can take my fifteen percent and buy an apartment so far away from you that you can’t find it.”
“My hair is naturally magnificent,” Cash says, running a hand through it. “It doesn’t need corporate sponsorship.”
“It needs a pair of scissors,” Dean says without looking up from his phone. “You look like a golden retriever that got stuck in a dryer.”
“Et tu, Brute?” Cash gasps, clutching his chest. “The brotherhood is dead.”
The tasting winds down as the sugar crash hits everyone. Dean starts helping clear the plates, leaving the rest of us with the charts.
“Seriously though,” Callahan says, leaning over the table, a stray streak of white frosting somehow caught on his jawline.
“If we don’t finalize the tier count by three today, the baker said she’s going to charge us a massive rush fee.
Scottie, where are we on the total guest count? Are we accounting for the late RSVPs?”
I tap the tip of my pen against my index card. “I gave them a hard deadline of yesterday at midnight. Three people tried to text Ivy this morning saying they might bring a plus-one. I told them the kitchen was already locked in. We don’t compromise on the headcount this close to the wire.”
“God, you’re brutal,” Cash mutters, though there’s an undeniable trace of amusement in his eyes. “Imagine getting a text from the Shark saying you can’t bring your date because you missed the buzzer by six hours. That’s cold.”
“It’s called budget management, Finnian,” I say. “If I let everyone do whatever they wanted, this entire day would cost twice as much.”
Ivy leans her chin in her hands, looking drained. “Honestly, at this point, just put everyone in alphabetical order. I don’t care anymore.”
“Alphabetical is a disaster for family drama,” Jenna chimes in. “You’d have the divorced side of the family sharing a bread basket. Trust the seating chart Scottie made. She’s literally built a fortress.”
“It’s all going to be fine,” I add, checking my watch. “And we need to clear out of here anyway. The owner’s looking at us like we’re loitering.”
“We’re paying guests,” Cash says. “Well, Callie is paying. I’m just here for moral support and accurate cake analysis.”
“Your analysis was useless,” I tell him, gathering my folders and clicking my pen shut. “You literally compared a sponge cake to a defensive line shift.”
“And I was right,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “The vanilla bean has no transition game. It just sits there.”
The group thins out, their voices carrying through the front door into the brisk air outside. I can hear Jenna already arguing with Callahan about where they should get lunch, her voice high and sharp over the rumble of city traffic.
Ivy stays back for a second, squeezing my arm.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just trying to keep everything moving. Go on, get some air before Callahan decides to buy another round of pastries.”
She laughs, a small, genuine sound, and slips out the door.