12
The Carob Cake
Hazel
Three years ago, a wealthy couple commissioned a twelve-tiered cake from The Cocoa Bean. It had been a work of art, one of my best. Even though I wasn’t really into social media, I’d taken a photo of it to post on my Facebook page.
And then disaster had struck.
My industrial refrigerator had decided to die exactly twenty-four hours before the wedding. I’d woken up to find my masterpiece slowly melting into itself like a Salvador Dalí painting. The fondant had started weeping. The buttercream had turned shiny with separation. The sugar flowers I’d spent three days crafting had drooped like wilted roses.
The cake had been beyond salvaging. So I’d done what any reasonable baker would do when faced with total catastrophe. I’d rebuilt the entire thing from scratch, running on spite and enough espresso to kill a small horse.
The replacement had been functional. The tiers were level. The frosting was smooth. But it hadn’t been thesame. The sugar flowers were simpler. The piping less intricate. The proportions slightly off because I’d been working too fast to properly measure. It had been good enough to satisfy the contract. But every time I looked at the photos from the reception, I flinched. I could see all the places where exhaustion had won over artistry.
Nothing, not even the sight of my compromised work of art, had prepared me for today’s disaster.
One moment, I’d been standing next to Ignatius, processing my own complicated feelings about the situation. The next, I was watching two grown men try to murder each other on Nana’s perfectly manicured lawn.
Brok had Ignatius pinned to the ground, one massive hand wrapped around Ignatius’s throat. Ignatius was fighting back with vicious efficiency, his knee driving up toward Brok’s ribs. They rolled across the grass like angry bears, destroying flower arrangements and scattering panicked guests.
A serving table went over with a crash. Crystal glasses shattered. Someone’s purse went flying.
I stood frozen, my brain trying to process what I was seeing while my body refused to cooperate.
Brok was here. Actually here. After weeks of radio silence, he’d shown up at my grandmother’s charity gala and started a brawl with my blind date. Surely, this couldn’t be happening.
Brok slammed Ignatius’s face into the ground with enough force to leave an impression in the grass. Dirt sprayed. Ignatius made a sound that was more animal than human. It was a little unnerving, but it snapped me out of my paralysis.
“Brok!” I screamed. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
Both men went rigid. Brok looked up at me with wild eyes, his chest heaving. He released Ignatius and stood up in a smooth motion I couldn’t help but admire. “I was protecting you.” He pointed at Ignatius with one bloodied hand. “From this… This man. He’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Ignatius pushed himself upright with careful dignity, brushing dirt and grass from his ruined suit. “I’m not the one who attacked a perfectly polite guest at Mrs. Roth’s gala.”
As if summoned by Ignatius’s words, Nana manifested by my side, Fifi tucked under one arm. “Hazel. I don’t suppose you have an explanation for this.”
I wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. I wanted to turn back time and uninvite myself from this entire event. Anything would be better than standing in the wreckage of my grandmother’s most important fundraiser, guilty and humiliated.
The Rescue Paws Gala was Nana’s pride and joy. She’d spent months organizing it. Weeks perfecting every detail.This event raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for abused animals every single year.
And I’d just let my personal drama turn it into a cage match.
“Nana, I can explain—” I started, knowing I absolutely couldnotexplain.
“I’m sure there was no harm done.” Vixen appeared beside Ignatius as if materializing from thin air. She grabbed his arm with casual familiarity. “Just a little misunderstanding. Isn’t that right?”
Did they even know each other? As far as I knew, no, but right now, I couldn’t have cared less. I desperately needed Vixen’s particular brand of miracle.
Barnaby was doing the same thing to Brok, wrapping his hands around Brok’s massive forearm. “My brother has always been a little hotheaded.” He shot Brok a look that clearly saidplay along or I’ll murder you myself. “We’re really, really sorry. We’ll pay for everything. The table, the glasses, the flowers, medical bills, therapy for traumatized guests, whatever you need.”
Fifi chose that exact moment to wriggle free from Nana’s arms and trot over to Brok. She sniffed his shoes, then sat down at his feet. When she looked up at him, she was wagging her tiny tail. She’d clearly found her new favorite person.
The other dogs were gathering too. The three-legged beagle. The puppy that had almost eaten my shoes.A particularly insistent German Shepherd. All of them converging on Brok like he was handing out prime rib. None of them looked upset by the violence. If anything, they seemed relaxed. Happy, even.
Fifi made a small, contented sound. Brok reached down and scratched her ear.
Just like that, Nana’s expression shifted. The fury didn’t disappear, but it softened around the edges. Fifi was Nana’s most precious creature on earth. If Fifi liked someone, that carried more weight than a dozen character references.
