Saving the Cake(11)

“What?!”

“Buy fruit cake. Cover it in pre-made icing—“

My eyes widened. “We can’t do THAT! This is a royal wedding cake! The queen will be eating it! The world’s press will be eating it!”

He stood there staring at me until I’d finished. Then he said, “Do you have a better idea?”

I stood there gaping at him. I didn’t.



I swung open the garage door. “I still don’t see why you need to go,” I said.

“Everyone knows you’re making the royal wedding cake. Probably not a good idea if they see you buying this stuff.” Then he stopped, staring at the car.

“What?” I asked. “Never seen a Mini before?”

He shook his head in disbelief and squeezed himself into the driver’s seat.



Forty minutes later, he was back. I’d used the time to get dressed, make more coffee, clean up the kitchen…and, mainly, to pace. We now had less than four hours until the palace staff arrived to collect the cake.

I helped Donovan carry several huge shopping bags down to the kitchen. We upended them on the counter.

“Own-brand discount fruit cake?” I asked mournfully. “You couldn’t at least have gone for the upmarket version?”

“They had more of this sort. I bought out the entire shelf. Even so….”

I looked at the pile of individually-wrapped fruit cakes in horror. “…there’s not enough,” I finished for him.

“Yeah. The top tier’s going to have to be cherry sponge.”

“And what the hell are these?” I squeaked. There was packet after packet of grinning pink elephants, made from icing.

“For the decoration. I figure we can re-mold them into rose petals.”

I shook my head. “This is never going to work.” I could feel it all rising up inside me: the panic and the shame of failure and my own guilt at daring to have had a good time for once.

He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Because you’re the best damn cake baker in the world, as long as I can get you to calm down for once. And I have a pretty good idea how I’m going to do that.” And he kissed me, taking my breath away with the suddenness of it, pressing me back against the counter again as I melted under him.

“Better?” he asked when we finally came up for air.

I nodded, panting.

“Then let’s get to work.”





Chapter 11


I was quite proud of my curtsey. “Your royal highness,” I intoned gravely, keeping my eyes on his polished shoes.

“Jessica.” The prince kissed me lightly on the cheek. “So glad you could come.”

I hadn’t expected to get an invite to the wedding. It was the social event of the decade: heads of state, billionaires, rock stars...but apparently the prince’s new wife believed in honoring the people who’d made it happen. So there I was with Donovan on my arm.

“I keep seeing TV crew from LA,” he whispered in my ear. “The news editor said all is forgiven if I get a few exclusive interviews. You’ll do, for starters.”

“Shh!” I giggled.

He put his mouth even closer to my ear. “It’ll be probing and in-depth.”

The prime minister came over and shook my hand. “That was the best wedding cake I’d ever had!” he said. “So moist! So full of flavor!”

It had been my idea to empty an entire bottle of rum over the cake before we wrapped it in pre-made icing. Alcohol makes everything better.

“And cherry sponge for the top tier!” he said. “Such a nice change. So original!”


Donovan wound an arm around my waist and led me gently away. “So everyone wants you to make their cakes, now?”

I nodded. “I’m going to need an assistant,” I told him. “Feel like a job?”

He looked at me seriously. “I need to go back to LA, for a little while.” He put a finger under my chin and lifted my head to look at him. “But I’m coming back.”





Epilogue


One Year Later

You should never make your own wedding cake, just as you should never operate on your own family if you’re a surgeon. But the hell with that. I’m too much of a control freak to let someone else do it.

For our wedding, I’d made something along the lines of the original royal wedding cake. Only this time, it was chocolate beneath the surface—Donovan’s preference—and I had the tiers all carefully packed away in boxes to be taken to the reception. It was going to be a big wedding, too—Donovan’s entire extended family was coming over from the States.

I heard him come in behind me and wrap his arms around my waist. “Not taking any chances?” he asked.

“Nope. You can hurl shoes all you want in here. The cake is safe.” And I felt safe, too. He’d been living with me for almost a year, having quickly picked up a job as the British correspondent for a major US network. Six months ago, he’d proposed on the steps of Westminster Abbey. I’d finally stopped worrying that my life was going to repeat itself and let down my defenses. The royal wedding—and the cake incident—had been a watershed moment for me. I was a lot more relaxed, these days.