“Brooke.”
I can’t cancel. There it is. My decision made, and one that comes with a mound of stress, knowing how easily I can still end up ruining this woman’s wedding day by screwing up this cake. But canceling? I just . . . I can’t do that. I will never do that to someone.
Maybe she’ll be so deliriously happy on Saturday, she won’t notice my blunder in the corner of the reception hall?
I bite at my thumb nail and squint at the floor, the wall. I force air into my lungs and will my pulse to slow.
If I have a stroke right now and Dylan has to go against doctors’ orders and get up to call an ambulance, everyone will hate me for dying.
“Brooke.”
Turning my head at the sharp sound of my name, I focus on Dylan’s face and halt near the window. I lower my hand. “Huh?”
She smiles hesitantly. “Why don’t you do a practice run this weekend? The whole cake. That way if you have any issues or difficulty with any of it, you can figure it out ahead of time. Plus, I’ll be right upstairs if you have questions.” She rolls her eyes, sighing. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
My spine straightens. A practice run?
I can work on the cake until I get it right. Until I get it perfect.
“Really? Dylan, really?” I move around the bed and stop to stand beside it. “You don’t mind if I stay and work on it after hours? And Sunday?”
“Not if you clean up your mess.”
“I will!” My own excitement startles me. I place a hand to my mouth, a rush of hot breath bursting against my fingers. “Sorry,” I murmur, blushing as I spin to grab my bag. “Okay. Yeah . . . okay, I’m just going to go get changed now.”
Dylan laughs quietly, reaching for her magazine again.
After dressing quickly in my dark washed jeans and a print v-neck top, I pull my hair back into a haphazard bun and dart down the stairs, stowing my bag away before rushing into the main bakery up front.
I have so much to do now that Dylan is bedridden. But first things first.
Joey eyes me curiously while he helps a customer, nudging against my hip as I reach for the design binder on the shelf.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs.
I open the binder on top of the display case and flip to the special orders paperwork we keep in the back flap.
“I want to see what I’m up against with this cake. I’m going to do it. Dylan suggested I practice it this weekend. I want to be prepared.”
“Wow, really? You’re actually going to make a wedding cake by yourself? You?”
I glance up when I hear the disbelief in his voice, then fake glare at him for obviously playing it up. His spirited smile beams at me.
“I have all the faith in you. Rock it out, girl.”
Taking the money being held out for him, Joey hands the woman behind the counter her purchase while I search for the order form for next weekend. The woman takes her change and exits the shop.
“Here.” I slide out the form after matching up the dates and lay it out flat on the open page of the binder. I drag my finger down the thin paper to the bottom where the description is scrolled in Dylan’s handwriting.
Three-tiered almond cake with a chocolate ganache filling and a mocha buttercream.
Okay. I can do that. Three-tiered is better than five-tiered. See, Brooke? No big deal. You got this.
I continue reading the notes on the design.
Edible flowers. Tons of them . . .
Make them epic?
Oh, God, no. No. No. No. No.
I drop my head into my hands, groaning. “Fuuuck. Why couldn’t she have wanted farm animals or something? I hear country weddings are all the rage. Shit!”
“Don’t believe what you hear. I went to a country themed wedding one time. We all sat on hay bales during the ceremony and drank out of mason jars. Talk about slumming it. I was itchy the entire night.” Joey’s body presses into mine as he leans closer. “Oh . . . gardenias,” he quietly observes. “Dylan’s really good at those.”
I slowly look up at him, my scowl unforgiving.
Flinching, he steps back. “You know, I think I’m going to go get my coffee now.”
“Good idea.”
As Joey hurries out of the bakery, I lean against the case and rub my temple, digging my fingers into my flesh. I stare down at the order form and fight off tears when my eyes begin to sting.
This is it. This is how I’m going to get fired. Taken out by the mother of all baked goods.
Tugging out my phone, I sniffle and type out a message as tears dampen my cheeks.
Me: Hi.
God, I need him to talk me through this. To tell me I’m not going to fail.
His reply comes within seconds.
Mason: Hello, gorgeous. How are you?
Me: Freaking out.
My stomach coils and my hands shake. I wipe at my face and wait for his response, staring at the screen, waiting for those little bubbles to appear.
I wait.
And wait.
They never come.
The bakery door chimes open. I look up, expecting to see a customer, or Joey returning with his coffee and hopefully something alcoholic for me.
I’ve never needed a drink so badly before in my life. Screw unprofessionalism. If I’m getting canned, I might as well spend my last week of employment drunk and oblivious.
To my surprise, Mason steps inside the shop, looking more keyed up than I feel, if that’s even possible.
His fretful gaze slams on me as he clutches his cell in his one hand and rakes through his sweaty hair with the other. The muscles in his arm swelling and glistening. His chest heaving.