Saving the Cake(6)

Because of the sheer size of the cake, I had to run everything like a production line: the bottom tier alone required four batches of mixture. I glanced at the clock. Maybe I should let him help.

Donovan had been spending the time shooting me with a discreet little camera while I worked. The first time he did it, I kind of huffed and glowered but, after a while, I got used to it. It was a weird feeling, being…watched. It should have been the camera lens that bothered me, the knowledge that it was eventually going to be watched by thousands of people. But whenever I glanced up and realized he was filming, it was the face behind the camera I instantly locked eyes with.

He’s not interested in me, I told myself firmly. He’s only filming a lot because he’s trying to find an angle where I don’t look enormous. He seemed to be fond of coming right in close and focusing on my face, on my expressions as I chopped and stirred and tasted. As the morning went on, he stopped making quips and fell almost completely silent, just…watching me.

I put down my spoon. “Come on,” I said. “I have a job for you.”

I showed him how to stir, working the flour in so that there were no lumps, and he watched as solemnly and seriously as if I was demonstrating open heart surgery. I couldn’t believe this was the same man who’d been so jokey and irreverent that morning.

“You try,” I said, passing him the spoon.

He didn’t take it. “You show me again,” he said.

I closed my fingers around the spoon again and, this time, his big hand closed on top of mine, warm and gentle but oh, so huge, like a big bear’s paw enveloping mine. We started to move the spoon together, me guiding and him providing the power, rhythmically stirring as we gripped the….


…shaft.

I could feel him against my ass—I was sure of it. A hot, hard bulge under his pants. And, as I moved infinitesimally, I got a sense of the size of him and…gosh!

“You’re ready,” I squeaked. Meaning his stirring prowess.

“Um-hum,” he agreed.

I swallowed and, since I couldn’t step backward, tried to step to the side. But he let go of the spoon and held me, gently but firmly, his hands on my elbows. A delicious warm shiver radiated inward, right to my heart.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For trusting me with something. It’s been a while since someone did.”

My chest was tight. Every word suddenly felt as if it carried great weight. “I’m not sure I fully trust you,” I said.

“To stir?”

Was he really talking about something…more? Or was that just wishful thinking? Was the whole thing in my head? What if I made a total fool of myself?! “Let’s start with stirring,” I told him, a little breathlessly, “and see how we go.”

His hands lifted from my elbows and I stepped to the side. My face was red, my breath coming in huge, trembling gulps. What had that been? Everything, or nothing?

Either way, I had the horrible feeling that I’d just crushed something when I should have been nurturing it.





Chapter 6


We worked hard all afternoon, not even stopping for lunch. By the end of the day, we had all five tiers made and at various stages of being baked. “There’s nothing more for you to do, now,” I said. “I just have to get them out of the oven at the right time.”

He nodded. “Okay. I guess I’ll come back tomorrow, then, for the icing.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

We looked at each other. I could feel something tugging and aching inside my chest, begging me not to let him go. But what could I say?

“Any recommendations for somewhere to eat?” he asked.

And there it was, right in front of me: the perfect opportunity to join him for dinner. Oh, I can show you a place, a nice little Italian just out of town—

“I’ll write somewhere down for you,” I said instead, and grabbed a paper and pen. I wrote it on the corner of the page and tore it off with a vicious, jagged tear. A voice in my head was screaming at me, asking what the hell I was doing. But the calmer, colder voice--the one that had been there my whole life and had gotten even louder since my husband left me—overpowered it. Don’t make a fool of yourself. He’s way too gorgeous for you and he probably has someone in LA and the whole thing’s impossible—

“I hope I can find it,” he said, looking right into my eyes. “I’m kinda bad with directions.”

Even I could see that he was sounding me out, offering me the opportunity without being pushy about it. But I barely know the guy. “You’ll be fine,” I told him. “Turn left at the end of the main street. If you get to the garage, you’ve gone too far.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds. He was frowning at me, maybe trying to figure me out. He finally crossed his arms. “You need to eat, too,” he said. “How about you join me?”

And there it was. Now it wasn’t just an offered opportunity. Now he was actually asking me out and all I had to say was yes.

….

“No,” I said quietly. “I mean, that’s terribly kind of you, but I’m not—I don’t really—“ I couldn’t put it into words. I’m not ready? I can’t trust anyone again, after being cheated on? I stared at him desperately, begging him to understand that it wasn’t him. “I have leftovers to finish,” I said at last.