“Wait, who’s been telling you about my cake?”
He sighed. “Most of the little old ladies who come in, Logan Marten, Jake Evans…probably all the people you pay to tell me. Do you have any cake?” he asked again. My brain was only thinking about one name. Logan was telling Chad about my cake?
I thanked my lucky stars I had made chocolate cake slices the night before to sell today. I make a layered round cake and cut individual slices, wrapping each in plastic wrap to sell. They had always sold very well.
I grabbed the last one available from the cooler. “That’ll be five bucks.”
His eyes widened. “Five bucks a slice? Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t make me raise it to six.”
A reluctant smile slipped onto his face as he pulled out his wallet, because deep down, he loved me. He slapped a ten on the table, unwrapped the cake, and took a large bite.
I watched with feigned disinterest, though I was dying inside. It had been sitting out the whole day. Fingers crossed the half pound of butter in the frosting was just enough to keep it from drying out.
He gave me no sign of anything while he chewed. He took another bite.
We made eye contact before he finally groaned and shoved another piece into his mouth. He swore. “You have no idea how much I wanted this to be horrible.”
I lifted my hands triumphantly in the air.
“Would you want to make me a couple cakes to try out in the restaurant next week? I’d pay you.”
“Did that hurt? I feel like it hurt you to say that.”
“Don’t make me ask Aunt Nancy for this recipe.”
I scoffed. “It’s not my mom’s recipe. It’s mine.”
“You came up with it?”
“It’s a mixture of three different recipes I’ve tweaked and added to over the years.”
He made a snort that sounded like he was mildly impressed before he asked, “That was your last slice?”
I hesitated. Logan’s slice was still in the cooler. Chad was good for business, but Logan loved my cake…
“No. Sorry. Last piece. I could make you a cake for free next week to test it out,” I offered, because I was pathetic.
Chad rolled his eyes. “I’m paying you for anything you bring me,” he said, walking backward toward the driveway. “Friends and family will run you right out of business if you’re not careful.”
“Are we friends?” I called out excitedly.
“Family,” he shouted back, getting into his truck. “I didn’t choose this. I’ll figure out the details and legal stuff and get back to you.”
I laughed and waved him off, feeling flattered and happy and excited and like I wanted to share this news with Logan.
Like I would a boyfriend.
* * *
I walkedoutside the next morning just after 7 a.m. to begin organizing and filling up the tables with produce. The front door slammed shut behind me while I made my way down the front steps, my feet coming to a halt on the last stair when I noticed I wasn’t alone outside. My hand perched on the rail, my eyes wide, and my mouth open.
Logan’s truck was parked near the old tables, and he looked as though he had just finished unloading a wooden structure that towered over him by at least three feet. He was dressed for work in jeans and a t-shirt, steel-toed boots, and his baseball hat, his light-brown hair sticking out of the bottom. At the sound of the front door, his head snapped over to me, and his shoulders seemed to sink, even as he turned back and continued pulling out of his truck another piece that looked the same size as the first. He grunted under the weight as he lifted and edged it next to the first piece. My brows furrowed as I made my way over to greet him. To my surprise, he turned back to face me, holding his hands out in front of him almost defensively.
“Now don’t read into this, alright? I had some extra material. That’s all this is. I promise.”
He immediately turned back around and busied himself, pushing the two sides of the structure together, making one long table with a thin pillar in each corner, holding up a large wooden sign that ran the length of the table. Logan snapped something together before lurching back from the table at my approach.
