Yes.
Unfortunately.
Let’s just say when I stood to take a leak, staring at a framed picture of the word “Pussy” wasn’t exactly what I expected in my seventy-plus-year-old parents’ house.
“Loved the touch of pink,” I say, sarcasm heavy in my voice, but neither of my parents appears to read it that way.
“Thank you, I thought it was clever,” Dad says.
Mom holds the plate of cookies in front of me. “Cookie?”
The last thing I want to do is prolong this project, but it looks like I’ll be here all night anyway. So, I take a cookie and lean back against the coffee table.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“The least I can do, since you’re making your dad’s Home Edit project come to fruition. All he’s talked about the last week while he waited for that shelf to be shipped is how excited he is to organize his books.”
“I already planned on asking Alexa to play some Glenn Miller while I delight myself in color coordination.” Dad has a cookie in one hand, a colored pencil in the other, and his head tilted down so I can see the bald spot on the top of his head.
I’m not sure if it’s because I’m constantly over here fixing things for them, but man, it seems like my parents have aged drastically over the last year. I try to ignore the pang in my gut at this thought.
“Sounds like a winning night,” I say, finishing off my cookies.
“Oh, did I tell you Ellen over at the flower shop received your email invitation?”
“You didn’t, but let me guess: she had something to say about it.”
“She had no idea it was a joke invite, and when she got the real one in the mail, boy did she stick her foot in her mouth.”
“Wow, so embarrassing for Ellen,” I say, turning back toward the directions and trying to understand the pictures.
“Oh, you could tell she was thoroughly embarrassed at bunko the other night. I told her some people just don’t get your sense of humor.”
“Yup, I’m a strange one,” I mutter.
“Which reminds me: I ran into Henrietta yesterday, and she asked if you planned on using Cake It Bakery for the anniversary cake. I assumed you already put in the order with Nora, but she informed me Nora said you never came in to see her. Is that true?”
Practicing patience and trying not to grow irritated at the mention of Nora, I say, “Haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Well, you might want to go in soon to talk to her. She’s getting booked up with weddings.”
“Maybe we don’t have a cake; maybe we do something like . . . doughnuts. I can pick some up from Top Pot and make some sort of doughnut wall.”
“Don’t you even think about an insane thing like that,” Dad says. “Those doughnuts belong in mouths, not on walls.”
Mom pats Dad’s arm. “I think what your father is trying to say is that although we love Top Pot, we would prefer a cake from Nora. She’s a family friend, and we’ve had one of their cakes at every event since I can remember. It would feel wrong to have anything else. Please go see her tomorrow. It would mean so much to us.”
I exhale out my frustration. “If that’s what you want.”
“Thank you.” Mom claps her hands. “And maybe when you’re there, you can ask her out on a date.”
And there it is . . .
CHAPTER THREE
NORA
“Okay, let me read your order back to you. Three tiers, vanilla sponge, strawberry filling, and bubblegum buttercream coat with drips of fudge along the side and two zebras on the top, but the zebras need to be realistic, not cartoon. Did I get that right?”
Mrs. Cano on the phone says, “And don’t forget the slogan on the side.”
“Ah yes.” I read the quote I put down on the order form. “‘What a man. You finally made the bed. Yay!!!’ And that’s with three exclamation points.”
“Perfect.” Pure joy rings through her voice. “After forty-five years of being married to my husband, he finally figured out how to make the bed. This is cause for celebration.”
“With a bubblegum cake, no less. You’re a good wife.”
“I believe I am to put up for so long with a man who can’t make a bed.”
“An absolute saint,” I say just as the bell at the front rings. “Mrs. Cano, this has been lovely, but a customer just came in. I’ll have this for you in two days, ready to pick up.”
“Thank you, dear. Have a lovely day.”
“You too,” I say before hanging up.
I set the phone and pen down, scoop my long black hair up into a bun on top of my head, and then head to the front, where I see a man bent at the waist, taking a look at one of the display wedding cakes I have in the front windows.
“Can I help—”
The man stands tall and spins around, pulling the breath straight from my lungs.
Cooper Chance.
Tall, with black hair and light-silver eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses, he gives off all sorts of PNW vibes with his formfitting straight-leg jeans cuffed at the ankles, showing off his faded brown Thursday Boots. His worn jeans contrast with his pressed slate-blue shirt and olive-green cardigan that just so happens to be pushed up to his elbows. If Clark Kent and L.L.Bean had a baby, it would be Cooper Chance.
A family friend for years.
A faultfinder of a man.
A man who knows how to push my buttons.
And the only guy I’ve ever had a one-night stand with.
“Cooper,” I say, my voice coming out breathless.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Hey, Nora.” His eyes scan my body, searing through me with every inch he takes in.
Gathering myself, I adjust the string of my apron. “What brings you in today?”
He looks off to the side. “I, uh . . . I need to order a cake for my parents’ wedding anniversary.”
“Oh yes, I do recall the email invite I got the other day. It was really poetic. Can’t wait to see the kind of fun you so evasively spoke about.” When he doesn’t crack a smile, I pull out an order pad from under the counter and pick up a pen. Clearing my throat, shaking off the nerves that emerged the minute I spotted him, I ask, “What can I get you?”
“A cake,” he answers simply.
When he doesn’t continue, I glance up at him. “Yeah, I figured a cake, since, you know, you’re at a bakery that exclusively makes cakes. What kind of cake would you like?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” he huffs out. “A good one.”
“Your attention to detail is really stunning.”
He drags his hand over his face, and I can’t help but notice the way his sleeves cling to his shapely arms. “I don’t have time for this. I have two biographies I have to edit today, and both have put me to sleep within the first fifty pages. Can’t you just pick flavors and be done with it?”
I set my pen down and fold my hands, making eye contact with those devastatingly silver irises. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t have time for your parents?”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters before stepping up to the counter and holding out his large hand. “Where’s the menu?”
“That’s what I thought.” I offer him one of our simple menus. “Here are the sponge flavors, and to the right are all of the fillings. Now, we can also make the outside frosting to be the same as the middle if you want, but honestly, there’s no fun in that.”