Decision time.
I could slink off, saying nothing, and disappear down the shame spiral staircase.
Or, I could try to make this cake still rise.
Yanking my elbow from the once-beautiful creation, I slap on a smile. “Surprise! It’s the birth of a new cake era. May I present the I Meant to Do That smashed heart cake.” I commit to the improvisation one hundred and ten percent. I spread my arms,ta-dastyle, toward the pile of crumbs and frosting. “Smash cakes aren’t just for a baby’s first birthday. Nope, adults can have fun with their cake, too, and it still tastes delicious!”
I lick a big dollop off my finger to make my point.
There’s nervous laughter and curious looks. Mostly curious looks. And one what-the-hell-are-you-up-to host shooting a dagger stare at me. Then his gaze drops to his shoes,where a chunk of pink frosting has dripped off my arm and onto his motorcycle boots, which screamcool chef.They look awfully expensive too.
Oh shit.
I wince. He simmers a moment longer, then sighs heavily before he turns to the crowd. “Smash cakes. What a fascinating idea. A sobering reminder that anything can go wrong in the kitchen. Like this”—he points to the ruined cake—“disaster.”
His grin carries sympathy but a clear message:I’ll handle the audience, thank you very much.
He lowers the mic and shoos me away from the station. “I’ll see if my assistant can grab you a towel,” he whispers, guiding me from the dais and toward the edge of the noisy tent. “You can clean up before the photo shoot with the winner and the runners-up then be on your way.”
A chill whooshes down my spine, and I swallow uncomfortably.Be on your wayis quite the dismissal. I’m about to utter a quiet and embarrassedthankswhen someone cuts in.
“A towel? Is that the best you can do?” The voice is rough, commanding, stern.
Ronnie whips his gaze to the stranger. Who’s…not a stranger at all.
That vaguely familiar face earlier? All becomes clear when I get a proper look at the man who’d been at the edge of the crowd. Clean-shaven, chiseled jaw? Check. Clever, gold-flecked green eyes? Check. Soft lips and a take-charge vibe that makes you want to listen to him? Checkmate.
Because of course Corbin Knight, the guy I crushed so hard on when I met him seven years ago, would show up today when I’m a mess and a half.
And the unfair universe makes my brother’s best friend hotter and more together every time I see him.
Every time I’mnot.
Corbin stands in front of me in charcoal gray slacks that hug his thighs, a crisp white shirt that shows off his strong chest, and a matching jacket slung over his arm. He looks like a guy who doesn’t ever break a sweat, though, of course, he does. He plays a pro sport for a living.
Judging from the suit, it must be a game day. But how did he happen to pop in here just now?
Ronnie gives him a tight nod and then turns to me. “Look, I don’t appreciate the song and dance, but I concede it was a valiant effort.” He spins around and points to the tiniest trailer I’ve ever seen. It’s maybe ten feet outside of the tent. “That’s mine. You can freshen up in there. I don’t want to see any cake on you in the photo. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I say.
“I’ll have her back for the photo shoot,” Corbin confirms.
“In fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
“I never am.” Corbin’s voice brooks no argument. He’s so capable that it’s a little tingly. Ronnie returns to the contest while my unexpected knight in shining tailored suit pins his gaze on me and says, “Let me help you.”
“I mean, if you really think I need it,” I deadpan, sarcasm covering my embarrassment.
Okay,someof my embarrassment. A blanket the size of a hockey arena couldn’t erase it all.
“Maybe a little.” Corbin sets a hand on my back.
As we walk, the words echo.Let me help you.
He said that seven years ago when I met him at the scene of another public disaster. Maybe that’s what I should name the future bakery that I’ll clearly never get financing for.
Dessert Disaster.
