The Reunion(5)

I exhale out my frustration. “If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.” Mom claps her hands. “And maybe when you’re there, you can ask her out on a date.”

And there it is . . .





CHAPTER THREE





NORA


“Okay, let me read your order back to you. Three tiers, vanilla sponge, strawberry filling, and bubblegum buttercream coat with drips of fudge along the side and two zebras on the top, but the zebras need to be realistic, not cartoon. Did I get that right?”

Mrs. Cano on the phone says, “And don’t forget the slogan on the side.”

“Ah yes.” I read the quote I put down on the order form. “‘What a man. You finally made the bed. Yay!!!’ And that’s with three exclamation points.”

“Perfect.” Pure joy rings through her voice. “After forty-five years of being married to my husband, he finally figured out how to make the bed. This is cause for celebration.”

“With a bubblegum cake, no less. You’re a good wife.”

“I believe I am to put up for so long with a man who can’t make a bed.”

“An absolute saint,” I say just as the bell at the front rings. “Mrs. Cano, this has been lovely, but a customer just came in. I’ll have this for you in two days, ready to pick up.”

“Thank you, dear. Have a lovely day.”

“You too,” I say before hanging up.

I set the phone and pen down, scoop my long black hair up into a bun on top of my head, and then head to the front, where I see a man bent at the waist, taking a look at one of the display wedding cakes I have in the front windows.

“Can I help—”

The man stands tall and spins around, pulling the breath straight from my lungs.

Cooper Chance.

Tall, with black hair and light-silver eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses, he gives off all sorts of PNW vibes with his formfitting straight-leg jeans cuffed at the ankles, showing off his faded brown Thursday Boots. His worn jeans contrast with his pressed slate-blue shirt and olive-green cardigan that just so happens to be pushed up to his elbows. If Clark Kent and L.L.Bean had a baby, it would be Cooper Chance.

A family friend for years.

A faultfinder of a man.

A man who knows how to push my buttons.

And the only guy I’ve ever had a one-night stand with.

“Cooper,” I say, my voice coming out breathless.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Hey, Nora.” His eyes scan my body, searing through me with every inch he takes in.

Gathering myself, I adjust the string of my apron. “What brings you in today?”

He looks off to the side. “I, uh . . . I need to order a cake for my parents’ wedding anniversary.”

“Oh yes, I do recall the email invite I got the other day. It was really poetic. Can’t wait to see the kind of fun you so evasively spoke about.” When he doesn’t crack a smile, I pull out an order pad from under the counter and pick up a pen. Clearing my throat, shaking off the nerves that emerged the minute I spotted him, I ask, “What can I get you?”

“A cake,” he answers simply.

When he doesn’t continue, I glance up at him. “Yeah, I figured a cake, since, you know, you’re at a bakery that exclusively makes cakes. What kind of cake would you like?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” he huffs out. “A good one.”

“Your attention to detail is really stunning.”

He drags his hand over his face, and I can’t help but notice the way his sleeves cling to his shapely arms. “I don’t have time for this. I have two biographies I have to edit today, and both have put me to sleep within the first fifty pages. Can’t you just pick flavors and be done with it?”

I set my pen down and fold my hands, making eye contact with those devastatingly silver irises. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t have time for your parents?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters before stepping up to the counter and holding out his large hand. “Where’s the menu?”

“That’s what I thought.” I offer him one of our simple menus. “Here are the sponge flavors, and to the right are all of the fillings. Now, we can also make the outside frosting to be the same as the middle if you want, but honestly, there’s no fun in that.”

He lifts a brow. “Who the hell picks bubblegum frosting?”

“You’d be surprised,” I say, trying to maintain a steady heartbeat at the sight of that one questioning brow.

Carefully examining the list, he sighs. “Knowing Ford and Palmer, they’re going to want something classy like a french silk, whatever the hell that is, because that’s their personality, but my parents are simple.”

“I would agree with that sentiment.”

I’ve known the Chance family for as long as I can remember. I grew up in Seattle, though, which to a kid may as well have been an ocean away from Marina Island, so I didn’t get to know them on a deeper level. But because our moms play bunko together, we’ve been invited to many Chance family events. And we were always those awkward kids who knew each other, saw each other at parties, but never truly mingled. I’ve known Cooper Chance from afar—well, besides that one night . . .