“Emberleigh called me,” I say by way of explanation.
Cody nods, knowingly.
The firefighters wash their hands. Dustin grabs a half-apron and puts it on, posing with his hands on his hips. Emberleigh rolls her eyes at him and puts the guys to work.The line starts moving more quickly with the three of them helping.
She calls me into the kitchen. “Carli, you’re free to go home. You have a ranch to run. You’re picking McKenna up tomorrow. And you have your interview this week. You’ve done plenty.”
“I’ll stay until the rush settles. Morning chores on the ranch are finished.”
“You always step up,” Emberleigh says. “You don’t have to say yes to everything.”
“I don’t say yes to everything. Just … important things. Where I’m needed.”
She smiles a soft smile and then turns to get back to business.
The rush continues all morning. Emberleigh has me frosting cupcakes. I’ve done this hundreds of times for parties or girls’ nights. I’m grateful she’s given me something I can’t mess up. I hum my favorite songs while I work, just like I do when I’m out in the hog barn—only the bakery smells infinitely better than a pigsty.
I squeeze the bag, ready to make another perfect swirl of buttercream frosting on top of the next red velvet cupcake. Easy, breezy—baking 101.
Nothing comes out, so I squeeze harder.
The bag balloons slightly. “Okay, buddy,” I say to the bag. “I know your type. I’ve sorted swine far more stubborn than you.”
I squeeze the blockage and it budges a little.
Phew. Emberleigh’s waiting for the frosted cupcakes.
“Got it!” I shout. Not that anyone could hear me.
A dollop drops out.
I hold the bag in the air so we can talk eye to eye. “Come on, buddy. Don’t make me resort to violence.”
Lowering the bag and readjusting my grip, I massage theend of the bag with the same patience I use on a sow in labor. “Come on, push!”
I put a little more muscle into it, and the frosting budges.
Okay, now we’re good.
Bracing the bag in both hands, I squeeze with all my might.
The bag makes a high-pitched, ominous squeal—like it’s digging in its heels.
Air. Air’s good. Frosting will come next. Probably.
Only, the frosting doesn’t come out the front through the tip. Buttercream blasts out the back of the bag in a white explosion, coating my hands, apron, and hair.
And then it keeps coming—right onto the hot fireman who just popped through the kitchen door.
Splat! Splat! Splat!
Shirt. Pants. Shoe.
Cheek. Eyebrow.
Cody stares at me.
I stare at him.
