No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(9)

I took a few sips, swished my mouth clean, and swallowed as she grasped my free hand and led me further down the stainless steel counter. Row after frosted row, I enjoyed the impromptu cupcake tasting. In the span of fifteen minutes, I’d sampled one of every kind of cupcake she had made, from carrot cake to crème brulee. On a serious sugar high, I’d officially entered a cupcake coma.

Her eyes sparkled with pride as I moaned for the final time and let a last bite of dark chocolate salted whisky caramel melt in my mouth.

I held my hand over my stomach, groaning. “Done. Do you have a white napkin? I wave it in surrender.”

The thought occurred to me that I’d been played. We’d spelled out a list of demands, but Hannah had a secret weapon. No one made cakes like she did. She could call the shots. Demand anything she wanted. And after assaulting me with that kind of ammunition, I’d likely give her everything in my sugar-induced stupor.

When I glanced at her, though, no calculating businesswoman stared back at me. Only the smiling eyes of a young baker pleased with an enormously satisfied customer. Her ice-queen persona continued to perplex me, seeming at times to manifest in flashes during our business dealings, and yet none of it seemed as harsh as I’d remembered half a year ago.

Regardless, clearly she loved what she did. She would do well with her business, whatever her decision with our company was. We’d offered her a rare opportunity in highly influential social circles, but with her talent, she could do anything she set her mind to.

I remembered the empty display cases up front. The barren tables stacked in the corner. The bare, painted walls that made it seem like she’d just moved in. “When do you open to the public?”

“Not for another week.”

“What are you planning to do with all of this?”

She shrugged. “Toss it, I guess.”

My eyes must’ve popped out of my head because hers widened. I scanned the room at the hundreds of cupcakes. “No. You can’t.” The mere thought made my taste buds want to scream in protest. But the always-thinking business side of me hatched a plan.

“Whatever your plans for 10:00 a.m. tomorrow are, cancel them.” That would give me enough sleep after closing tonight to function. With a quad espresso.

She scoffed, narrowing her eyes as she dropped her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? Why?”

“Because this—” I gestured around me with a wave of my hands “—is not trash. It’s your investment in marketing.”

Wide eyes blinked in surprise. She opened her mouth in confusion, but nothing came out before I continued.

“Do you have any business cards?”

She shook her head.

“Make some. Nothing fancy. Just your store name, the address, phone number. Your cupcakes will do all the rest.”

I backed out the door before she could say no. I had a shitload of work to do before my shift tonight if I planned to take tomorrow morning off to help her.

And really, was it helping Hannah?

The way I saw it, she didn’t see the potential of her business the way I did. And I could easily point her in the right direction. Her gratitude would be boundless. So actually, a donation of a few hours of my time on a Saturday morning helped with Invitation Only’s goal.

Because after I gave her a glimpse of what smart business marketing could do, she’d want more. She’d want the full tour.

And that…would only come after she signed on the dotted line.





“You’re a drug dealer.”

“What?” Hannah gave an imperceptible scowl.

Those hints of her ice-queen demeanor—a brief flash of her furrowed brow and narrowed eyes—became more and more intriguing after experiencing her free-spirited Maestro side. I forced my gaze away from her face and onto the platter of cupcakes she held.

Dressed in what she called a “vintage” apron, which resembled a ruffled dress, she wore a basic black shirt beneath—but per my instructions, the top was low-cut, offering a peek at a tasteful amount of cleavage.

“Great top. Where’s the skirt?” I’d asked her to wear a short skirt, but she wore tight jeans.

She dropped me a deadpan look. “I’m a cupcake peddler, not some Betty Crocker role-playing streetwalker.”

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. But she had a point. The jeans were a good choice.

I whispered as we walked, giving her last-minute instructions before we reached the large group of people standing in line at Curio, the most popular bistro in this quaint town. “Instead of throwing these delicious cupcakes away as experimental trash, you’re giving potential customers a taste of heaven for free, and then a business card so they can pay the next time they need a hit of your drug.”

Understanding dawned in her expression. “Instantly addicted.”

I nodded. “Like me.” I’d devoured three of the red velvet numbers before leaving her store this morning. Just because I helped her, which actually helped me, didn’t mean I had to do it for free. Or on an empty stomach.

She gripped the edges of the platter, her knuckles turning white, as she gaped at the line of nearly two dozen people.

“Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be a sensation.” I hoped.

No matter how incredible those little cupcakes were, it would still be a tough sell. They were waiting to go into a dining establishment for a lunch that, unless you had a reservation, you had to wait in line for, hoping to get a table. Zagat’s rating had put them on the map. The kitchen’s world-class-chef-turned-fashionable-bistro-owner didn’t hurt.