“Hello,” I say, addressing Juliana and the older woman in an apron standing with her.
“This is my matron of honor, Candi,” Jules says, introducing me to the woman, “and Candi, this is Regina. She and her husband own the bakery, but she does most of the dirty work.”
“Buongiorno,” Regina says.
“Buongiorno. So nice to meet you,” I say as Juliana wraps me in a side hug, which is actually a whole lot of physical affection from her.
My body is so tense that I know she must be able to feel it, but she doesn’t let on. Her lacy black designer dress fits her perfectly and she’s glowing with genuine happiness.
Wait a second. Is it possible that she…has genuine feelings for this guy?
I hadn’t considered it before—she’d framed it as nothing more than a marriage of convenience. But now I’m starting to wonder…
Suddenly, I take notice of the three bulky men in black suits and sunglasses who are standing around watching us. Bruno bodyguards, no doubt. One of them nods at me, and I nod back, trying to pretend that they don’t make me nervous.
“Maxim’s running late, so we’re going to just go ahead and get started without him,” Juliana says once Regina excuses herself.
My blood runs cold. “Maxim?”
“You know, Maxim? My fiancé?” Juliana says with a laugh.
“Right, I know, I just…you didn’t mention he was going to be here today.”
“He said he wanted to approve my final decision,” Juliana says with a shrug. “But don’t worry, the tasting is still on us. And there’s no way I won’t get what I want.”
She gives me a smug little smile and I try to smile back, but my heart is pounding in my chest. This isn’t exactly a welcome surprise. I wasn’t prepared to meet a Russian mobster today.
Linking her arm through mine, Juliana leads me over to a long table in the corner that has been set with a linen tablecloth, carafes of coffee and water, and a variety of cake slices. Each one is accompanied by a card stating the flavors, and there’s another card for Juliana to use to mark down her favorites.
I ease into a chair and pour cups of coffee for Juliana and myself. She’s inspecting the samples that have been set out for us, her eyes narrowed judgmentally.
“Here, let’s try this one first. It’s lemon cake with lavender frosting.”
Gross. Jules slides the slice over to me and I make a face at the gray-purple frosting dotted with dried lavender buds.
“Go on,” she says.
I take a minuscule bite, but it’s not to her satisfaction.
“Oh come on! You can’t actually taste it like that.”
“I’m not really fond of food that tastes like bath salts.”
She laughs, pushing the plate away. “Me neither. Maybe I’ll just skip this one.”
“You wench!”
“Sorry! Don’t want to traumatize my taste buds. You can pick the next slice,” she offers.
We move on to a red velvet with bourbon cream cheese frosting next, a cake that’s pure vanilla inside and out, and then an amazing chocolate with mocha caramel layers and dark chocolate ganache on top. Even though we’re taking small bites, I’m feeling very sugared-out by the time we reach the middle of the table. And sipping coffee only makes my jitters worse.
She writes on her card. “Maybethischocolate cake but withthatbourbon frosting, oh, and a sprinkle of toasted brown sugar on top for extra caramelization!”
“I like it,” I say. “Very non-traditional.”
“Not everybody likes boring white cake with buttercream,” she says with a shrug. “Besides, I think something dark on the inside suits me.”
Honestly, I can’t argue that.
