Accidental Knight: A Marriage Mistake Romance(118)

Five o’clock.

The cake was supposed to be the last thing served, the big finish. My brows inch together so hard it hurts. Think, Wendy. Think!

Okay. No time to bake a fresh one. But I could use the other still sitting in the fridge I baked this morning for that little girl’s birthday party. It's almost the right size, the same flavor, sans the unicorn shape it's supposed to have. And for the girl, there's time to bake another tonight. Just enough time to chill it before I can shape it tomorrow morning.

This could work. If I run.

Grabbing the steering wheel, I plant a foot on the van’s running board to climb in, but Papa Bear grabs my other arm. It's so swift, so smooth, the air leaves my lungs.

“Hold up,” he growls. “What’s the address? And what size cake is that?”

His grip on my arm is brazen, but gentle as he tugs me backward. Just far enough so I have to step off the running board. I'm not sure whether he's annoying or irresistible.

One thing's for sure: if I want to fix this cluster-frack, I need to get moving.

“The size you don't need to worry about,” I say, tugging my arm free. “Look, sorry, I have to go.”

“No.” A single stern word, and I'm frozen.

Then he has his phone up to his ear, looking around me to see the cake box. Stubborn bastard.

“I’m ordering you another cake. I’ll have it baked and delivered at my expense.”

He'll...what?!

“Whoa, dude, it’s not that easy,” I say.

Idiot. Kind hearted, possibly crazy idiot. Doesn't he get it?

No one in this town just has an extra sheet cake sitting around, unless it’s the bakery at a box store, where they just pipe on some cheap pre-made frosting and call it a day. You get what you pay for in this business. Their cakes can be up to a week old, and totally unacceptable for a man retiring from decades of hard work.

He's glaring, those blue eyes shining dangerously in slits. My sassy courage goes cold.

“Yeah, darling, you're wrong. It is that easy. I know the owner of Top Notch.”

The very name makes my cheeks burn.

Of course he’d know the owner of the most elite and expensive caterer in the Twin Cities. Which magically pisses me off in ways I’ve never felt before.

Ugh, I'm ending this. I grab the phone away, angrily pulling it away from his ear.

The phone barely moves. Yanking at his arm with all my might is like a mouse trying to move a mountain.

“Don't! If the Paumers wanted a cake from Top Notch, they’d have ordered one from them. They didn’t because they know my cakes are edible.”

Okay, too far. Top Notch’s cakes are more than edible, too. Damn good, as a matter of fact, but that’s hardly the point. I climb in the van. “I’m leaving now, so I can go back to my shop, decorate another cake and deliver it before the party is over. Do me a favor and let's all forget this ever happened.”

“Maybe, but then I'd have to forget five minutes ago, when you told me you didn't have time to bake up a fresh cake.”

Oh, he's a smart one. A natural smartass.

With too much money. Too many good looks. Probably thinks that’s all he has to do, throw a bit of his charm around and everything will be fine.

While I'm still contemplating how he's got me stuck in my tracks, he’s busy talking on the phone to someone and grabbing my arm, preventing me from shutting the door.

When I hear him say Byron Paumer's name, the look I shoot him changes from what the hell's happening to what the hell are you doing?

“They can have a cake there by five,” he says, turning his face away from the phone.

“So can I.” I say it loud enough so whoever's on the phone can hear. “The cake they want, baked by Wendy at Moonlight Morning, so you'd better go ahead and cancel that one. It's not a big enough party for two cakes.”

He says something else I can't quite make out, and then pauses, giving me this quiet, bearish look. At least he knows how insufferable I can be when I'm mad.

“I see,” he says coldly back into the phone. “All right. Fine. Cancel it.”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, he shrugs. “I was just trying to make this right. Can't figure out why that's such a problem.”

His demeanor is sullen, like he’s at a loss, which is almost sweet in an odd way.

Meanwhile, I'm perfectly disgusted with my own thoughts. I don’t have time to contemplate whether or not a perfect stranger's being sweet. “Listen, I don’t need you to make this right. But if you insist, the one thing you can do, is move your rig so I can back up.”

I turn the key in my ignition, so, so ready to be done.

But nothing happens.

So I try again. And again. And then one more time, twisting my wrist so hard it hurts.

“Here, let me try,” he says, grabbing my arm again.

I should tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I don’t have time for that either. This is officially ridiculous.

I need to get back to my shop, get the other cake decorated.

I need it so bad I'm actually going to shut up and let him do what he suggested.

So I grab my cell phone before climbing out of the van, then swipe through recent calls for Heather’s number while he climbs into the driver’s seat.